“Lengthening Shadows” Post #3: “Five Falls Ago” by Shams Aldwake

SHAMS ALDWAKE

Five Falls Ago

Five falls ago, beneath bright skies,  
I found your light in candle lit eyes.
I walked where olive branches swayed, 
And heard the songs the soft wind played.

I knew your name before I knew 
How deeply I would long for you. 
Your sun lay warm upon my face, 
Your sea called out, a soft embrace.

I’ve written of you through countless days, 
Yet still can’t capture all your ways.
Your winding streets, your golden light, 
Your quiet mornings, stars at night.

Five falls ago, the leaves turned gold, 
With every breeze, a story was told. 
My feet struck hard upon the ground, 
Still chasing after your sacred sound.

But seasons changed, and time moved fast, 
And now I search for what has passed.
I’m forced to stop; the truth is clear,
Ive come too late—youve dissappeared

Where are you now, my voice, my faith? 
How could so much be swept away?
I search for you in autumn air, 
In every street, in every prayer.

Leaves fall softly from each tree, 
Like snipppets of memory.
Yet olive roots stay buried deep, 
Holding the promises they keep.

When will your honor be restored? 
When will your pain not be ignored? 
The stars bend low across the night, 
As if ashamed to shine so bright.

And here I stand as seasons turn,
With memories that forever burn.
A longing time cannot erase,
Still searching for your familiar face.

You are my grief, and you’re my pride,
A living pulse I keep inside.
Though autumn leaves may fall and fade, 
My love for you will never change.

Five falls have passed, yet still I know 
Some roots grow deeper as seasons go. 
Though branches bend beneath the sky, 
Their roots hold strong and never die.

So if one day you fade from view, 
My heart will still remember you.
Through every fall, through every year,
Your name will always linger near.

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #2: Three Poems by KD Williams

KD WILLIAMS

Musings from a Wannabe Vampire 

The blood thumping in my skull 
is like a siren song 
is never ending 
is going to stop 
suddenly, one day, inevitably, 
unless I am successful 
at catching my shadow
lengthening itself across the kitchen floor,

for now, I eat pasta with red sauce, 
I drink Merlot out of a goblet, 
I grow my nails long and sharpen them to a point, 
the easier to snatch, 
the better to forget, 
the more the scarier…
Years gather together like droplets becoming one puddle on the sidewalk. 

A vampire gives up the day 
to gain the night—
the sun has never been my friend, 
but, like a lover who I cannot help but love,
even when it burns, 
I persist,
and as a vampire I’m sure I will learn lessons akin to 
the sun is worth the burn 
and 
when the stakes are laid low,
Immortality does not shield you
from Death, 

it only makes you a witness 
to more loss and more time, 
while you technically remain intact,
you will outdo yourself,
undo yourself, 
losing so much, 
dying so long 
living becomes meaningless. 


---


How can it be the weekend,
when you’re not here?

You used to whine at my feet 
while I tapped at keys,
asking me to lie down next to you instead. 

I have things to do, I’d say.
There are emails waiting,
and deadlines,
and a thousand little things
that always seemed so urgent.
And you would look at me
with those old, foggy eyes
as if you knew better.

So I would, sometimes,
lie down midday with a sigh,
and you would settle against me
like you had been waiting all day
for the simple miracle
of us being still.

I thought I was giving you what you wanted.
I didn't know
you were giving me what I needed.

Now I understand.
You were here to teach me
a lesson I was too busy living
to learn:
Slow down.
Get horizontal once in a while.
Let the world wait.
Let the messages go unanswered
for another hour.
Let the dishes stay in the sink.
Let the laundry remain unfolded.
Notice the afternoon light
lengthening shadows across the floor.
Notice how warm the blankets are.
Notice the sound of breathing.
Shush, shush.

I would give anything now
for one more interruption.
One more insistence
that I stop what I'm doing.
I would put everything aside.
I would lie beside you
for as long as you wanted,
my hand resting on your fur,
remembering the shape of you
again with my fingertips.

But wishing we had more time 
is not the point. 
The point is that 
the time we have is enough
if I remember 
to be there for it.

---

Season of the Demon 

This is the season of the demon who lengthens a shadow 
in your peripheral vision. He stands in the doorway of your sleep,
listening, more patient than a father, watching your furrowed brow. 

My child, he will say, if you wake up, if you see him, if you look him
square in the eyes. 
Maybe it’s better that way, seeing him full-on, 
not reflected in the corner of your bathroom mirror. 
Once you do, you’ll start searching for him in every face. 
You won’t mean to, but the mind demands faces from shapes,
the actor who looks like another actor who looks like your old therapist,
collecting faces until one fits the mood.
His suitcase is full of looks he can try on for any occasion. 
Yours is next. 

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #1: “September 2nd — 31 Years Old” by Josiah Jackson

“Growing Season” Post #21: “There Is a Time” by Wanda Kay Sanders

WANDA KAY SANDERS

There Is a Time 

In every life there is a Time – for everything, 
     Mostly a mystery till it happens. 

So often we want to know ahead of Time, the impatience 
      We humans have, but – 
       It never happens till it happens. 

We can Not control Time –  
       Not even our own. 

The Master of the Universe controls that intangible, 
        And we Must submit to Him. 

I wonder how much of Time we waste 
        Trying to be in charge of something 
         Beyond our ability. 

If we focus on our own part 
          In the moment, 

Maybe we would appreciate life more, 
          And Time would not seem so intangible. 

Just something to consider. 

---

“Growing Season” Post #20: “Slow Blink with an Old Cat” by Zach Braun

ZACH BRAUN

Slow Blink with an Old Cat

He was more like a weird hyena in a storm when we found him and took him in. 

Although his irises are twinged with that Halloween green, his pupils take up most of his eyes. Years ago he chased down crumpled receipts like butterflies.

Now his eyes are calm and clouded over.

The poet said, "My thoughts // are as fast // as clouds."  

Looking at each other, we close our eyes, trusting. In that darkness daisies bloom because they’re up to here with the ground and — just like that — they’re over it.

Then we open our eyes again.

---

“Growing Season” Post #19: “The Growing Season” by Brian W. Ball

BRIAN W. BALL

The Growing Season

I grow. The seasons come with me. I stretch the President’s face around the pale bones of my skull. Everything feels new.

I’m a dripping mess. I will clean myself later, if I have time. The President’s skin is soft and puffy. It’s a tight fit, but the change is welcome.

I came in through the open window of his chamber. The night was still. He bolted up with a start and tried to fight me off. His arms were like bent blades of summer grass, thick and lush. I ate them first. My lower jaw worked around his soft body. He tasted like fear, like warm death.

Now, full and content, I rest and grow. Goop drips from my mouth. I hear his protectors talking and smoking outside. They did not seen me come. I’m fast, a summer breeze, welcome and unseen.

The seasons on this planet change. That I know. The air is clean and made for life. I sleep and dream of nothing but hunger.  

I wake later as a woman enters the residence. She wears large dark glasses and carries many bags. She puts her things away and says hello. I am waiting. She takes her glasses off and stands near me. I am ready. I open my dark eyes.

Her neck bends back into a curve, the skin stretches there. She watches. I have grown. The President’s skin over my body is cracking but holding for now.

I try and speak. All that comes from my mouth are writhing, screeching tongues soaked in malice. My fingers are snakes and twist around her arms. Her face is blank, like the sky before snow. I do not smell her terror.

She goes limp. She has perhaps fallen asleep. Her fear is less in this state. I drop her with a thud.

Many of the President’s protectors enter quickly. They carry weapons of a fashion. As they attack. I consume them. Their muscles and tendons are lean and tough, difficult to chew. My jaw is made for the work. It breaks apart and reforms. I rest again.

When I wake, the woman is standing over me. She smiles.

My body has grown, again. I can feel it. I am still hungry. There is a knock at the door. She answers it. Her face is a season of a smile.

Some enter. They are soft and fleshy. They carry papers and serious expressions. They look confused, worried. I can smell them as I rise. Their faces grow from concern to horror.

My head touches the high vaulted ceiling. They are panicking now, trying to run, to escape. The rest of the President’s skin falls away. They turn to the woman for help, for succor.

She stares at them a moment, her face still and empty. Her mouth opens and out comes the whipping venomous tongues of hunger.

We consume them together. This is the growing season.

---

“Growing Season” Post #18: Four Poems by Diane M. Laboda

DIANE M. LABODA

Strawberry Gardens Forever

Playing in the garden with John Lennon
is a psychedelic dream of the later 1960s—
“Let me take you down” where living is easy 
and nothing is real, as long as you close your eyes.

It’s not much different today—
we’re out in our gardens, we’re taken away
by the music we pipe into our ears, we’re
attending to the political rhetoric and Cyclospora
symptoms and numbers, and sometimes
we just have to close our eyes to the world, 
because nothing seems real.

Nothing seems real. We’ve never been here 
before and we’re winging it. Scientists
and doctors speak truth to us, as do “pillow” guys
and medicine women who conjure alternate/crazy
theories. It’s enough to write a Sci-fi novel.

I myself believe only in the garden, the 
Strawberry garden where nature speaks in ever
reliable cycles—tomatoes grow to plumpness,
bean stalks grow tall and gravid. All creatures
live in harmony there without conventions
or banners or straw poles.

Rainstorms are always welcome.

---
 
Listen 

It’s spring and we all sprung forward
while listening for bluebirds’ twitter, 
peepers’ peeps and skunk cabbage
yawning and stretching skyward.

I listen for the sound of rain drumming
on the roof instead of the insidious
softness of snow’s whisper.

I listen to the wind carrying winter
away and dropping it on emperor penguins
and unsuspecting Argentinians.

I listen for the whisper of the woods
saying we are one, you are one—
one and one make harmony.

I listen for crocuses to croak, 
daffodils to laugh and tulips
to whistle their tune.

I try to be quiet and listen for the sound
of grass screwing up its courage to leap
out of the ground and become a meadow.

I listen for the brook to gain strength
and tumble instead of babble along
like a babe in the woods.

I listen for soft voices of the spirits of the woods, 
telling stories about vernal ponds, salamander dances, 
meadow mash-ups and bursting buds.

I listen to my heartbeat to make sure I’m still 
viable, upright and mobile—all I can muster
until the sun charges my photocells and puts 
a glint in my eyes again.

I listen for anything that will override 
the chaos in my head, calm my nerves 
and soothe the beast that overtakes my soul.

---

Raindrops

Listen, open your ears. Don’t run, don’t run away.
The footfalls you hear are raindrops that patter
among the pebbles, light of foot, blending
air and earth, running away.

The damp smell started minutes ago
foretelling this shower. Now the rumble signals
the faraway thunderhead—persistent, 
powerful, but nothing to fear.

The ground around you has turned into 
a shallow pond with raindrops rippling
and pocking the surface. In places it flows,
not away, but into the woods.

Every branch, every leaf is pelted into
bobbing around comically to this forest
percussion. They dance a slow jig, unafraid.
unselfconscious. They dance.

Light comes in dim patches, punctuated
by flashes of sheet lightning—just enough
to silhouette every tree, every bush, every
structure of man, your eyes.

It is then I let the patter take me into 
meditative joy, that I am here on my log
and you are dancing in the shadows, showing me
you’re strong and nimble and watching over me too.

---
 
Time is a Garden

I look forward to planting a garden,
opening the earth and nurturing 
the smallest seed into a verdant plant,
one that bears fruit, that will one day 
be my lunch, sustain me.

At first the going is slow, growth takes
time, effort, water, love. As with all
youth, I think there’s all the time
in the world for this growth to happen.
And so it goes for days and days,

One day I’ll notice that plants seem to
have spurted up overnight. They’re now
mature, flowering, talking among themselves. 
And I’m no longer in their conversation.
I’m no longer the growth master.

At that point, time seems to speed up,
just as it does for adults of a certain age, 
a certain ripeness. Next thing I know
blossoms have turned to fruit. The fruit becomes
the color of age and wants harvesting.

As the sun beats down, as clouds gather
and rain, as I grow past bearing age,
as my garden matures and fruits time slows
again. I feel like the tasty green beans, just
past prime,  past my best taste and color. 

I’m ready, brave enough to be plowed under,
feed the earth, no longer needing more time.

---

“Growing Season” Post #17: “Echinacea Says” by Jamie Berlin

JAMIE BERLIN

Echinacea Says--

Echinacea says,
Lift your face dear one,
Keep facing your horizon,
      Keep facing the sky,
            Keep facing what nourishes you.

I grow
strong stem,
heart-shaped leaves, 
ever upward 
to the sun.
Glorify me.

I pop 
spikes,
pollen cells;
bees—belles—
precious, perch
on orange spots,
plunder dark crevasses,
into the heart
from where 
my future 
passes. 

---

“Growing Season” Post #16: “all heart” by Dave Goodrich

DAVE GOODRICH

all heart

after practice
my little league coach
called my dad and me over.

he said,

if Dave had as much talent
as he has heart,
he’d be one of my best players.

i think

it was supposed
to be a compliment.

my dad stood there.

i stood there,

trying to understand
how i had just been praised
and cut from the team
in the same sentence.

the strange thing is,
he was right.

i have never been
the smartest,

the best performer,

or the person
everyone watches
and says,

there goes
a remarkable man.

except maybe in music.

music is the one place
where my heart and talent
occasionally agreed
to play for the same team.

but whenever something matters,
i give it everything.

i run toward it
like a ground ball
i have no business fielding.

sometimes i miss.

sometimes it rolls
right between my legs.

sometimes i throw
my whole heart
past the cutoff man.

i care too much.

i speak too soon.

i hold on
long after sensible people
have gone home.

but i keep showing up.

it turns out

heart cannot make you
one of the best players.

it can only keep you
coming back to practice,

chasing what gets past you,

and believing
the next one
might stay in your glove.

i have built
most of my life
that way.

not always talented.

not often remarkable.

but standing there,

ready again,

with all my heart.

---

“Growing Season” Post #15: “Time to Grow” by Mary Oches

MARY OCHES

Time to Grow

I’ve never gardened or studied botany, 
but seeds amaze me.  Even the tiniest  
seed has within it all it needs to grow
once it has water, warmth, air, and dirt.
Then the magic begins, and plants emerge:
a root pushes down, and a shoot reaches up.

And what about that single word, image, 
feeling, or thought – that seed of poetry?  
It too has all it needs awaiting the artistry
of imagination and emotional intensity.
Then the magic begins, and poems emerge:
a root pushes down, and a shoot reaches up.

---