Category Archives: Poetry

Sunday Stew: On Aging

Aging courtesy Robert Nelson
Aging courtesy Robert Nelson

 

by Lola Peters

All my grapes have turned to raisins
All my plums are shriveled prunes
A four-lane highway lines my forehead
Bumps and pocks turn me to ruins

It’s not death that I find daunting
Not the end that looms ahead
It’s this daily dehydration
Sagging face and arms I dread

They don’t tell you when you’re thirty
As heads turn when you arrive
It won’t matter when you’re sixty
Some things you just can’t revive

The beauty and the ugly girl
Will wake up to betrayal
The genius and the brainless twit
Will have their projects fail

So glad I didn’t hesitate
To do what gave me joy
But now comes the adjustment
Like that gorgeous gift from Troy

I’m not the grand dame some envision
I’m not the vixen I still see
One of these days I’ll figure out
Who I’m now going to be

But in the here and now time
I’ll do all that I can
To be the woman I enjoy
While I carve out a plan.

Not the end.

Sunday Stew: The Nap

by Drew Sutherland

I woke myself this morning, wound me good and tight,
I wound myself this morning lookin’ for a fight,
I had some things to clear up, some things I had to say,
I was going to stir the pot- make things right my way.

Slippers on, caffeine in hand, I went to the back door,
I do it every morning, to think of peace not war,
and as I opened up the door, saw the sparkling dew,
I felt your presence all around, and then I entered you.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

And as I sat by naked trees, the early buds of Spring,
It hit me like a bolt of truth, “I do not know a thing.”
A wash of peace fell on me then unfurrowing my brow,
My plans, my wrath melted away, I remembered an old vow.

I’d spent a year in solace, meditation, and some grace
I spent that time in silence, thoughts slowing in their race.
I’d figured out that being wound was causing misery,
Enslaving all I thought I loved, I caged what should be free.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

I went and taught a class at school, forgot about my fight,
I said, “Hello?”, “How are you?” and noticed the sunlight.
I trundled to my office and shed my teaching gear,
My tummy was on “Grumble” and a sandwich shop was near.

Friend in tow I ventured forth to forage for my food,
I needed me a gyro for I was “in the mood”.
As I ate I wondered at springtime on the fringe.
My little gyro sandwich felt like such a binge.

Then back to home at 5:00, my knitting in my lap,
My eyes were dry and my bed called for a little kitty nap.
Up narrow stairs to my large bed, cloaked in downy white,
Window open, snuggled up, a slice of daytime night.

I slept a half an hour and dreamt 100 years,
The changing of the seasons, happiness and tears.

In 30 minutes I had gone across a vast landscape,
Surveying all the beauty, confused by all the hate,
I woke from this extended trip sure I’d overslept,
A half an hour’s all that passed, my cheeks were damp- I’d wept.

Slippers on, caffeine in hand, I went to the back door,
This time it wasn’t morning, evening just off-shore,
And as I opened up the door, I thought of what was true,
Without my seated happiness, I can’t share me with you.

 

 

Sunday Stew: Pondering Sky

Skyby Matt Aspin

The sky
Don’t look like it should

At night the light blocks out the scenes of the fight
Between the dark and light
The wrong and the right
Steals away the wonder and the might

Replaced with safe and secure
Hypnotized sparkling nothing allure of the quick and easy obscure.

So empty
Void of the pure

We need a new goal
The soul

A wonder serene
A new scene with questions that mean
We can still wonder at the sky with a few more secrets to share
Unaware with no care of the here and the there
And the why and the where
And the why out there
And the why do we care?

To wonder
To dare
To question unknown
The point of it all
Still not clear
Back to ponder
All night at the sky with just enough light to wonder

And dream
And to write

Matt Aspin is an amiable gent who has made a second home out of South Seattle ale houses.