Page 65 - Wallingford Magazine Issue 46 Winter 2024

under Tuscan skies, Friendly Words If you listen, the silence is deafen-
ing
I breathe the air,
Our Poetic Town of the Renaissance, as words come and surround me and nature-mother-space
Composing a poem
helps me feel less alone
deep in my lungs,
shouts her silence
forever in my heart.
like genuine friends
by John J. DeDominicis We form our own little world from the hearts of all.
by Nancy Jarrold
Twice a month, our poetry group, Saturday Mornings with Poetry (SMwP) meets at the Wallingford Public Library Sharing space on one page
to share poems with the group. The range of talent and poetry styles is remarkable and fun. We also welcome Wild Flowers And, of course, we also grow sad Dreaming Instead
newcomers to be with us and to share their poems. The first poem below is by Bobbie Borne, who writes for this This world is too complex once such times draw to end There used to be a river
magazine on a regular basis, including the story of Clare Newell in this issue with an amazing poem by Clare from for me—AI is writing poetry
many years ago. We will open with a poem by Bobbie, below. Enjoy! In the back of my yard
and yet I know no circuitry But while we’re working together I could still see it
Tarn Granucci, Editor that can explain this mystery: for several hours each day But it’s dried out now
How does the mountain laurel and, quite often,
Walking a Dog on Nose pressed to storm door. the others found out know well into the night,
the Fourth of July that now is the time, the exact time we share a sense of commitment I used to see the sunrise
Walking a dog on the 4th of July. A drink of water, a crunchy snack, a but like my spirit to bloom? Or the wild azalea, which toward both our work and the world From the back of my porch
Her nose picks up a smorgasbord cozy couch and the sun I just tucked behind my ear to create a new work of art I could still see it
of aromas Heavy lids and rabbit dreams on and the sparkle in my lover’s eyes signaling I am single, or upon a page of pure white. But most of it is gone
Grass wet with dew — and stale dog fleecy blanket. it asked nothing in return is it married? I forget. But God by Richard Carr
pee or Nature, does not forget, adjusts Now all that is left
Blue jay feather Walking a dog on the 4th of July. Knowing the blooming with the weather Cat Walk of these things in my head
Soggy taco shell Mundane memory, nothing special it’s enough makes it happen right on time. I took my aging cat Wish I could still see them
Acrid scent of exploded fireworks But like her wet lick on my face, to exist A mystery, a miracle worth pon- for a walk today, But I’m dreaming instead
for the joy of sharing.
Delicious waft of expired rodent Joy exists in the ordinary. by Nancy Jarrold dering, let her tip toe cautiously on the soft
Twitchy nose, stopping for a taste. by Bobbie Borne I sit here wondering at the beauty, grass, An image of my father
Umbria
From under a hedge a rabbit hops, Two Honeymoon Under Tuscan skies the complexity of Nature. Of Life. I know she felt the earth as her When he stood by my side
Of April surprises like bloodroot
other mother
I could still see him
slowly, tauntingly Moments Haiku nestled by the Adriatic Sea blooming bravely through the supplying her, feeding her, for the rest of my life
Settling down, staring, daring Lina Idyllic lake front hugged by the River Tiver, snow being that stable rock of with-love
to attack Sailboat meandering on rolling hills lined with of Dutchman’s Breeches on a line that a cat can feel. And all that is real
Somehow knowing her leashed Gulls fly in tandem. Olive trees, in brown New England woodland. She found a spot to sit. Is here in my head
limits. Cypress and Fig, Signaling that time to sleep is All the birds watched quietly—
Instincts afire, Lina rears up toward Sunset glow, wine blush The green heart of Italy done. not a peep. Wish I could still see it
her prey The peace of wild things imbues softly sways to the rhythmic How do they know when to bloom? an ocean of silence. But I’m dreaming instead
Only to be reigned in, disappointed. A deep dontentment. wafts of warm breezes And who gave this name to such by Michael A. DeMusis
by Lynne Ford that whisper the story a tine wild flower? Someone The language of the mother is
Bulldog appears across the street, of the Umbri, reading Hans BRninke’s Silver silent Nauset Light, Cape Cod
rabbit forgotten. Golden Mica of the Etruscans, Skates full of orange leaves A bright beacon
Brief barked greetings. We move on. Loping down a country road of Roman Soldiers to his little child at bedrime next to the baby bright sky. stabbing repeatedly
I faltered over a patch of marching for conquest Something I think a robot into darkness
Nose plunged into tall grass disturbs mica, yet, would not know how to do. Her silence speaks through as it revolves tirelessly;
a bumblebee glistening wildly like a known as the city of peace, Say he could find a perfect rhythm a flutter o moth wings; a guide
Jaws snapping frantically, head cluster of pulsating stars where Saint Francis prayed To tie this all together— the stillness os deep dark for ships at sea
swiveling. shining and golden where Diotto painted snuggling on the pillow expanse of stars, seeking a sanctuary.
Dangerous hors d’oeuvre! the Basilica ceiling and drowsing with your son the quiet of my cat sleeping by Alfred Mueller
Not being able to turn away of the crossing vault. is just a human sort of thing twitching on her down bed.
Turning the corner, picking up speed I reached down to steal John DeDominicis a pleasure derly won
Familiar scent of home beckons. the buttery stone flaked and soft We walk along the as fleeting as a wildflower
and precious as its bloom
Singleminded trotting, ears flopping. to cash it in before cobbled stone streets,
by Lois Reed

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