poetry

to a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and the love of the other birds.” – Sharon Olds

The beauty of words, rhythm, and meaning are perfectly displayed in a well-crafted poem. Here we invite you to dig deep and pour forth a magical concoction that will make our hearts sing.

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Lover, and The Haloed Crone, by Shirley Rhoads

Shirley Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado.  She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms but has published only articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology.  She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona.  She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family.  She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

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LOVER

I am not alone this evening

A companion is by my side

Not the lover of choice

His name is Fatigue

No romantic is he

Nor gentle, nor sweet

But faithful? Ah, yes

He cannot be tempted

Away from my side

Still, if fortune smiles

He will caress me to sleep

Yet be gone in the morning

His touch tonight

Not requiring

That I fix breakfast

THE HALOED CRONE

Perhaps she was not a crone

But only looked that way

Bent and wrinkled

With stiff gray hair

Sticking at odd angles

And

Wearing a halo

Crusted with sequins

And sparkly stars

As a child would wear

With a Princess dress

He was tall and thin

With crepe-y arms

He looked lovingly at her

As she flitted around

In sneakers and silver halo

Alzheimers?

Or did she perhaps

Just perhaps

Have a spirit so free

She could wear a silver halo

And love wearing it

To Safeway?

poems by shirley rhoads, all rights reserved

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Open Letter to Breast Cancer, by Stacy Schaffer

Stacy Schaffer is a counselor no longer living in Chandler, Arizona with her adorable golden retriever, Rusty Brown. She moved to Colorado last summer to be a part of the crazy little Refuge community, and to pursue a career in childrens’ bereavement counseling. She is thrilled to learn how to ski, explore all of the doggy parks with Rusty, and for all of the ups & downs of the adventures to come.

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Open Letter to Breast Cancer

at  15

I first learned of the absolute evil that is breast cancer

They said that you would win within 6 months, that you were so aggressive; it was inevitable

My mom, she fought you with utter vigor despite your constant mutations and strength.

Everything from positive thinking, to test drugs, to constant chemotherapy and radiation, to miracle tea, and even a surgically implanted morphine pump.

Yet, you kill, steal, and destroy

Which is weird, as I vaguely remember reading about a similar force that does the same. SO unoriginal.

17

Brutal and invasive surgeries that you put her through continually hacked away at her spirit.

Breast cancer rips at the dignity of the woman; a symbol of her femininity.

The damage after a mastectomy is not only skin deep; it carves and whispers venom into the soul.

Even as a teenager, it was so very clear that your main role was the tearing down of the female spirit.

p.s, I also hate that pink is your definitive ribbon color. Pink reminds me of happy little girls, spring blossoms; puppy tongues.

Not and accurate depiction of the real, behind the scenes story, and ravages that you are capable of.

I despise you.

at 22

I received the phone call announcing, after a seven year war, you finally stole my mom’s last breath.

Not sure what* your* real victory is, as you extinguished the life of an amazing woman, destroyed the love of her life, and killed my mom.

Sure, 8 years later, I can walk in the races, honor her memory; advocate for awareness; campaign for a cure.

Until it gets personal again.

Here’s the real deal:

I have decided to get the test to determine if, in fact, I do have the same genetic time bomb.

Soo, if you are coming after me, I feel that it is only fair (despite the fact that is not the way YOU play.), that you are warned..

I will kick your ass.

It is not a matter of better technology and more funding in the movement, although I am deeply grateful for those things.

I will not, cannot, let my mother’s legacy be in vain, and therefore, you can’t have me.

Let it be known, that it you come after me and my girls, that ooh, I am, in fact, the most determined person I know.

While I am so angry at how powerfully you changed the course of my history; know that I am a fighter. (And a kicker and a screamer.)

If you choose to come after me, be prepared for your disease to face a whole new challenge in avoiding obliteration.

Not only as a tribute to my mom, but all of the others that you have senselessly executed, I will seek your demise.

I am so not afraid.

You

should be afraid of

me.

poetry by stacy schaffer, all rights reserved

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Bold Irreverent Women, by Vibeke Brant

Over the last few years, I have blossomed into discovering the Writer within. I am Vibeke Brant, 39, Danish redheaded eccentric. My life’s calling is to stir your soul, lift your heart and challenge your status quo!

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Bold, Irreverent Women

Life is full of

bold irreverent women

who rise up to challenge convention

Bold women who

do not play into

conventional wisdom

or ideas of beauty, but

raise the bar to

a brand new level

Bold women who say

what they want

wen they want to say it

Beautiful women, both inside

and out, but in an unconventional

and non-standard way

Bold irreverent women

Above the standard and

Ahead of their time

poem by vibeke brant, all rights reserved

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Bones, by Delta Donohue

Delta Donohue, who lives in Littleton, Colorado, spent 14 years working in corporate America before looking up and realizing that life was calling her! She now co-directs a non-profit working with street Children in India, runs a social business helping to economically empower rural women in India, co-hosts a radio show for Metropolitan State College called Engaging the Ostrich and is an increasingly active poet.

Delta believes strongly in the transformative power of words; those we think internally, those we process through reading and writing, and those we speak to our world.

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Bones

Walking among bones
Shadows curtsy in deep invitation
Look
Within
Hold dankness and dearth
As longing for sunshine
This sojourn demands attention
Intention
Absorbing stories, bygone
Of the me, before I was me
Discerning the pause cannot linger long
Lest it build a bed of hollowness
A prison of memory and half-thoughts
I step forward
Circling, then spiraling
Into a melting
Of knowing

poem by delta donohue, all rights reserved

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Ode to a Second Marriage, by Donna Wise Coombs

Donna Wise Coombs is the author of a poetry book titled “River Beneath the River” by Turkey Buzzard Press.  Proud mother of two grown daughters, Emily and Julia, she is now in the process of figuring out what she wants to do for her second act.  In the meantime, she is busy enjoying new life and love in Oregon with her husband Mac.

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Ode to a Second Marriage

To kiss throat, remote as cloud

is to say               You are surprise

ruining my once proud

eye and all to lie

soft, frog on a rock

willing self and soul a curving

into blue depths, sliding into

slag heaps of downed tamarack,

jumble of pick up sticks, in this,

the second chance.  Hugging mud

leathered skin is so much importance.

Swinging along, a dog’s tail

of day after curious day,

is our happiness.  Who wouldn’t

want our soft belief?  Who

wouldn’t want to catch tribal scent,

follow it into wind?

poem by donna wise coombs, all rights reserved

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Dad’s Hands, by Bobbie Jo Morrell

Bobbie Jo Morrell is a mountain woman, poet, writer, leathercrafter, rustic furniture builder, cat owner, technical writer, website designer. She says, “Colorado’s Front Range, with the smell of pine trees in the cool air of morning, is my home.” Her blog address: http://soulscompass.blogspot.com/.

___________________________________________________________________________________________I I wrote this for my dad, and sent it to him for his 80th birthday…

Dad’s Hands

His hands greased black
from taking the engine apart
and making it whole
again, running smoothly.

Hands softened by the oak dust
flying hotly from the whirring blade,
guiding the wood with
loving determination.

Hands darkened by the sun
shining on the bulldozer seat,
the long straight rows of sugar beets,
the lush vegetables of his garden.

Hands strong from heaving hay bales
and tending sheep–
hands gentle pulling cactus
spines out of my butt,
cradling ripe red tomatoes
under the outdoor spigot,
cleaning wounds of another’s surgery.

Hands gnarled and knuckled now,
still swinging free
along wilderness trails,
still loving the wood
through the saw,
still gently caring
for his beloved.

poem by bobbie jo morrell, all rights reserved

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Invitation, by Delta Donohue

Delta Donohue, who lives in Littleton, Colorado, spent 14 years working in corporate America before looking up and realizing that life was calling her! She now co-directs a non-profit working with street Children in India, runs a social business helping to economically empower rural women in India, co-hosts a radio show for Metropolitan State College called Engaging the Ostrich and is an increasingly active poet.

Delta believes strongly in the transformative power of words; those we think internally, those we process through reading and writing, and those we speak to our world.

_________________________________________________________________________________________Invitation

Invitation

Bird song beckons
Calling the day
As if,
Just outside my window
Chorused, only for me

In the moment
of sacred pause
When I listen deeply
From that still point of
Wholeness
I find the invitation
Radiant in possibilities

This day is here
Come join
Come play
Come dance
Come love
Come live

poem by delta donohue, all rights reserved

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Proposition, by Francine Phillips

Francine Phillips is a woman of faith, author, and poet. She has raised seven kids, two husbands, and nine books. She lives and works in southern California.

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Proposition

Lawfully wedded wife.
Awfully wedded.
Fully wedded.

Marriage is awfully lawful these days.
Such a waste of words and time and prayer to
Hate the unlawfully wed.
While children are crying for bread.

White veils and vows
Veiling the real source of holy outrage.
$10,000 for a dress.
$1,000 for cake.
While naked children are crying for bread.

poem by Francine Phillips, all rights reserved

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Doldrums: Almost Sestina, by Emma Gazley

Emma Gazley is a 17 year old writer, living with her parents, her brother, and her cat Sebastian, in Arvada, Colorado. Emma has been cracking open books since she could hold them, and writing since she could hold a pen steady. She likes obscure and well-known bands of every genre, and her favorite word to say is antidisestablishmentarianism. She spends a dangerous amount of money in used movie, book, and CD stores. Don’t ask her what her favorite anything is, because she will not be able to make up her mind.

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Sestina: “song of sixes,” a medieval verse form of six six-line stanzas, in which the poet repeats six end-words in a prescribed order, reintroducing the six repeated words (in any order) in a closing three line envoy.

Doldrums: Almost Sestina

As if we weren’t desperate for
Longing, and ever-present daydreams.
Something unexpected always seems to
Break into the love-ly-ness, and grin,
Hoping for something large and fantastic…
Existentiality always broke my heart.

Somehow the time never seems right for
Entering the haywire doldrums I’m accustomed to.
Breathe in the fragments of thought, so fantastic.
And no matter how hard I face your grin,
I find something aching inside my heart.

Those stupid clouds with their beauty, causing my daydreams.

These silly, omnipresent daydreams
Stick like glue, making it harder to
Open myself; harder then a flower, with its fantastic
Blooming seasons; always hurting for
No good reason. Even though there’s cracks in my heart
I still hug, embrace, “How are you?” and grin.

I’m lugging my baggage across the airport for
The fiftieth time, getting ready to take off to
A land of filthy, brightly built daydreams.
There’s lovely turbulent fluttering in my heart:
I grip the seat and grin.
Flying is always so fantastic.

I clasp my hands slowly, and bow to those daydreams,
The ones that spark with colors plentiful; fantastic.
I hope that someday I will aspire to
The same kind of life as those glittering spirits, for
Who could argue against this stoic heart?
Just thinking of it makes me grin.

I don’t wish to claim these daydreams-
Wanderings- as my own; for
Surely every person in their right mind and heart
Hears the same shadow-cresented whispers, to
Me, from ghosts with wild grins
That are oh, so fantastic.

poetry by emma gazley, all rights reserved

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Arise, by Stacy Schaffer

Stacy Schaffer is a counselor currently living in Chandler, Arizona with her adorable golden retriever, Rusty Brown. She is moving to Colorado this summer to be a part of the crazy little refuge community, and to pursue a career in childrens’ bereavement counseling. She is thrilled to learn how to ski, explore all of the doggy parks with Rusty, and for all of the ups & downs of the adventures to come.

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Arise

Fleeing an unhealthy situation brings with it doubt as an unwelcome carry-on

What if this is really the end of my journey, as I don’t want to ever feel again?

Doubling as heart defibulators, friends attempt to revive the damaged vessel

Maybe, I do have a new story, being crafted out of need and joy and faith and love?

Listening to the One greater than I whisper real hope into the broken places

Slowly waking up to opportunity to live again in a beautiful & passionate way

Choosing to believe that there can be another beginning for my veteran spirit

Girl, you are way stronger than you give yourself credit for….

redemption of pain means that hope is not a dirty word

and that

dreaming with eyes wide open offers more than the nightmares of the past.

poetry by stacy schaffer, all rights reserved

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