Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
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Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Richard Baldo
One Lake Day
The boat had old waterlogged floorboards
saved with decades of tarnished ochre caulk.
Clear water held us several feet above
a green forest beneath the hull’s blue paint.
My father rowed his three young sons
across the calm Jersey lake named Cedar.
This day, his strong biceps pulled the oars
at his long remembered trolling speed.
Our lines spread out behind the soft wake,
mine towing that grey plastic lure
with the red bill, silver back
and black dots of skyward facing eyes.
A pickerel, waiting in the weeds
was also young in fish years,
and hit the lure hard, bent my rod
and brought the boat to attention.
It rose in the writhing whiplash
of its head above water,
splashing white as you see
in mighty marlin movies.
The fish saved its life shaking
my silver lure loose and launched
it into the air to catch a hook
in the left pocket of my madras shirt.
The closest thing to a catch that day
plays now, a memory of my father
lighting the wilderness of our lives.
A moment of a day, the way
it was supposed to be. He lured us
into nature, into a taste of a father
sharing something he had to offer,
his childhood boat, time with us
on the safety of the placid lake
and a lively pickerel fish.
It was the kindest he would come
to us in all his moments.
Can we call it love?
It shines its light through the trees
of our childhood’s dark forest.
Last Lesson
At two, you, with your water wings
learned to splash into my arms.
In time, you launched wingless
across to the pool’s far side.
Four years later, I showed you how
the row of pawns lines up in front
of the castle to the queen on her color.
Now others teach you classic openings
beyond my chess horizon.
When you said you would instead push your bike,
I named you fearful until your angry denial
made you prove me wrong for our five mile ride.
Life lessons are varied, at times—harsh.
If I must also be the one to teach you
a last lesson,
about death,
I will not do it gladly. I would never
choose to leave you, but life
comes with its written conclusion.
I hope to keep my wits as I slip away,
to leave you my
appreciation for who you are.
If we have time, I will teach you to visit coral
and white-tip reef sharks, to breathe bubbles
while we listen to the whales’ melodic greetings.
If I must be that teacher, I ask to be
a good example, showing courage,
keeping fear from between us
as I depart.
My loss will be over in that last moment.
I hope your loss will be softened
by the love left to linger with you.
Autumn Warmth
Drifting through shadows as fall leaves flutter,
late morning light is sensed through night crew fog.
A slow warmth awakens my awareness as softness
invites me into the presence of an early afternoon.
Somewhere in the day, she decided to share this gift,
make a surprise of herself and travel to my room’s soft light.
She quietly let her clothes fall away, to slide under
my pale blue comforter to touch my still form.
No longer only her first, I have become her familiar lover.
She reaches under my arm to palm my beating heart.
Some courage of her desire proves a growing newness, and moves me
to wordlessness as we grow together, skin welcoming skin.
Broad branch shadows spread across her arm onto my lean chest.
Twinkling sun tickles and tastes the touch being taught under our skin.
She closes the distance between us as leaf-danced light
plays on our bodies’ offered gifts.
Through these decades, she rests against me,
in that shared skin-lit moment.
Carry On Caretaker
The man she has loved
for the last 43 years
fades into the wallpaper
of their Manhattan co-op.
Patches of darkness deepen
to accent the shafts of sun,
the direct or reflected arrows
from the frames of city glass,
the buildings’ eyes watching.
This petite caretaker carries their cares
moving about her constant business.
He is leaving her, going nowhere.
She manages the daunting tasks
as best she can—fighting a battle
to stay the loss,
for another day, month, or year,
preserving an hour of partnership,
adding a codicil to life’s contract.
Motes of dust in the light beams
tell their story—parts of their bodies
have already left this life.
As the sun so gradually fades to night,
she stumbles over memories
that light her way with love’s grief.
Decisions must be made.
Carry on caretaker, with the words
of doctors who come and go.
Stay or go, home or hospital,
she navigates the rocky shoals
of medicine and prayer.
Carry on, give your care,
respite will come soon enough.
Give all your gifts while he remains.
Last Walk to the Canine Orchard
The apple trees are past bloom, young fruit growing,
not yet the right size for boys to fit into their throwing hands.
My throwing days are past, but today’s job has always been mine.
As the oldest, I have carried each canine friend to earth.
My father can no longer stand to make the trip.
His legs will still carry him, but the weight of grief is too great.
I proceed to the familiar tree, last before the field,
passing the McIntosh, whose branches once held our fort.
And there is the Red Delicious, where the hammock hung
and wrapped me under summer and winter night skies. Here,
I gazed through those ancient limbs to the stars of my future,
trying to divine a path to adulthood.
In reverie, with reverence, I arrive at the unmarked plots.
This tree’s surviving two trunks split as fingers to reach a hand
wide toward heaven. Over four decades, I made resting places
under the canopy of this elderly Winesap. I dig now.
This white-furred shepherd, my father’s last, wrapped
in another old green army blanket, I did not know her well.
I lift the body, returned to puppy suppleness,
lay her gently to rest, and replace the earth and grass clogs.
The occasion calls for a father’s words, but none come to me,
while he waits alone in the remains of the house.
There sounds a witnessing breeze through the tree’s leaves
releasing me to walk back up the hill.
Richard Baldo
is a recently retired clinical psychologist. That experience informs much of his poetry. He has been writing poetry off and on since college and began more serious study about twelve years ago. He won the UNR English Department’s Award for Best Poem in Spring 2020 and has poems published in The Meadow 2021, 2022, and Sixfold in 2022. He is currently a first-year MFA student at the University of Nevada, Reno.