A silent requiem

for a funeral procession,

A silver hearse and a single car.

My tears puddled. 

What happened in that life?

A sole survivor, a lineage ended?

Obstinate and alienated? 

Family not informed?

No bride ever good enough

for Mama's approval?

Or caretaker for Daddy, 

until no good men were left?


For our family requiems,

countless cars with police escort. 

We gather, share our grief, 

celebrate joys, mourn the dead.

We laugh more than we cry, 

full of joyful memories.

We count our blessings, 

too many to number, 

family grown too large to count,

friends and kin 

scattered all over the world.

Our dead are well-loved,

memorialized with care. 

But what of this lonely person? 

What in the world could have gone

so terribly wrong?


My silent requiem

for something terribly wrong.

Sherry Howard



In the summer of our lives

when eternity stretched

before us like a lazy cat

and fall stayed hidden

in the dark corners

of bureau drawers


Housewives were just

something our mothers became ...

Never those of us who played ball,

spent months perfecting our pitch,

felt the sting in the palm

of a well-worn glove


Choosing to remain ignorant

for as long as possible,

subtracting years ahead

from the now of it...

We spurned the future,

chewed the rind of a bitter lemon.



11/10/17 November Journey—A  Tankavillananka


Had a dream vision,

Visceral, not logical,

Make my decision,

Choose the biological,

Move to deal with collision.


Flickering lights in dead of night we ride through,

We got such a nice ride, go where we will,

The wind blows gently, a beautiful view.


Leaves changing color, we do what we do,

And all that we do, we do with much skill,

Flickering lights in dead of night we ride through.


We fly, we flew, everywhere much ado,

Midnight, street light, flying higher, slight chill,

The wind blows gently, a beautiful view.


North Star in the night, bright light burning blue,

Don't be tight with your money, don't get ill,

Flickering lights in dead of night we ride through.


No enemy mine, we share magic brew,

Live simple life with not even one frill,

The wind blows gently, a beautiful view.


To be home again, to be next to you,

Such a beautiful woman from Brazil,

Flickering lights in dead of night we ride through.

The wind blows gently, a beautiful view.


Grey brick house he goes,

Stops at the door, picks a rose,

Nervous, gonna meet,

This woman, this girl so sweet,

This is not a game, he knows.

Cristofer Lentsch

Abundance of things


There are ages of acquisition

and ages that want


Things proliferate,

wire coat hangers

in a closet, multiply, entangle,

won’t go away in case

you need them some day


when you’d rather they,

like socks in a dryer

disappear one at a time,

without fuss

blessing all

with the freedom

of their quiet



Holly York writes most of her poems in Atlanta, Georgia, USA.



Shopping in a store,

I work in a store,

But don’t buy there.


I live in a room,

Ten per floor,

The building a tenement,

Among tenements.


I pray much to the sky,

Myself blue.

Joshua M Séguin