In the Dark

Going through my poems from years ago, I read this one. It was published by Jayne Jaudon Ferror on Your Daily Poem. I still get emotional when I read it.

In the Dark by Glenda Council Beall Next

I lie here in bed, my cheek against your shoulder, remembering a night, long ago, on your boat. I was afraid. I felt too much, too fast. But you were tender, and love crept over us like silver fog, silent on the lake. We were never again the same. We stepped like children through that door that led to long passages unknown, holding hands, wide-eyed, but brave. Here I am years later, listening to your soft breath and feeling your warm smooth skin. In the dark, now might as well be then. From Now Might As Well Be Then (Finishing Line Press, 2009) Used with the author's permission.

Falling in love when I was a child

Pretty Thing was my horse. Gay, my sister, created this portrait of her. This special horse lived to be 32 years old. She was two years old when she came to me. 

I fell in love with horses when I was a small child. I liked the way they looked,  they smelled, and I liked the way I felt so high on their backs.

In this poem you read about the first horse I fell in love with.

My Father's Horse  

Stickers tear my legs, bare and tan from summer sun.
Long black braids fly behind me as I sprint
like a Derby winner down the path.

 

Harnessed with hames, bridle, and blinders, Charlie plods down the farm road. Tired and wet with sweat, he's perfume to my nostrils. 

 

My father swings me up. I bury my hands in the tangled mane. My thighs stick to leather and damp white hair high above the ground. 

 

I want to sing in glorious joy,  but only croon a child's nonsensical tune, grinning for a hundred yards between field and barn. 

 

My father's arms are strong.  His hands are gentle. The horse is all we ever share. For he has sons and I am just a daughter.

                      ---Glenda Council Beall

A Couple of Special Poems

I am happy to claim Robert S. King, fabulous poet, as a friend.

I urge you to read these two poems by Robert. Click on the links below. 

The Dreamer Returns Home www.lascauxreview.com/2012/11/the-dreamer-returns-home.html 

The dreamer touches us all whether we were the one to leave or one to see another leave. The images are perfect and place us right there.

The Flight

www.thebookendsreview.com

Robert has watched his loved ones die as many of us of a certain age have done. When we do, we think about our own passing and how we want to do it. This poem is going into my End of Life directions.

What do you think about these poems? How do you want to make your last flight?

Scott Owens has a new book of poems

News from Scott Owens’ blog, Musings

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

New Book 

Shadows Trail Them Home, a continuation of the collaboration Pris Campbell and I undertook in The Nature of Attraction has just come out from Clemson University Press.

Read more here…

Joan Howard's Gift is accepted by the Aurorean

Friend and fellow poet, Joan Howard, of Athens and Hiawassee, Georgia, an active member of NCWN West, had a poem, Gifts, accepted by this prestigious New England journal for their spring 2013 issue. 

The Aurorean is a biannual poetry journal appearing in April and October each year. From 1995-2005, the journal was published quarterly and from Southeastern Massachusetts. They officially moved to Central Maine in 2005 and the expanded biannual format began in 2006. The Aurorean has been featured in Poet’s Market and several-times recommended as a “Pick” by the prestigious Small Press Review, most recently for its 10th Anniversary Issue (Fall/Winter 2010–2011). SPR has said of the Aurorean: “a journal that has both high production values and quality poetry ... perfect to elevate you from the dark night of the soul.” In January of 2011, NewPages reviewer Sima Rabinowitz said of their 15th Anniversary Issue: "This little journal will fill you up."

Congratulations, Joan. 

NEW YEAR'S EVE

New Year’s Eve



With Champagne toasts
rowdy revelers
prepare for another
bright new year.

Loved ones, dear friends,
from years gone by
appear to me
at midnight.

Nostalgia
grips me in its glove.
Auld Lang Syne
evokes my tears.

This party is a wake
for the passing of time.
Celebrating is not in me.

--------Glenda Beall, 2011