A Poem by Michael Estabrook
Suddenly a hawk drops out of the sky onto
the baby rabbit nibbling grass in our backyard
its talons digging in as it tosses
the baby about like a proverbial ragdoll.
I run downstairs and out the back door yelling
scaring the startled hawk back up
into the trees leaving his limp prey behind.
I hold the little creature in my hands
so helpless, so soft and warm, but no blood
nothing broken that I can tell
and he’s breathing but barely.
I place him carefully beneath some vines
and weeds when suddenly
he bursts into the underbrush – gone in a flash!
Must’ve been in shock or playing dead
but now back where he belongs.
Hope he learned his lesson and stays out of sight
from the demon beast spying from the treetops.
A Poem Letter by Michael Estabrook
But seriously, do I have to write a poem every time
there’s a space in my day: at the doctor’s office, the airport, the DMV,
during the kids’ basketball practice, soccer and softball.
Pull out my notebook, push on my glasses, click my pen into action.
(I’m old-fashioned, no fancy-schmancy electronic recording gadgetry for me.)
No doubt the literary world will be fine
if I simply sit and do nothing other than stare into the space around me.
But the Muse, it’s her fault I tell you, she’s always crowding around me
sticking her nose in my business, nudging me hissing in my ear:
“Come on man move it I got things to say.”
A Poem by Chris Butler
I’m just the fall
that’s hoping for a spring.
A Poem by Seymour Brownstein
Little lady climbing all over me,
One would believe I’m a ramp,
Grand hugger would be more appropriate, maybe,
I love her the little scamp.
Reaching heights of delight I never could reach,
Her kiss on my cheek like morning dew wine,
all made possible with one little screech,
Little Pami, at four years old, mine.