Since last posting poems, here are a few I was brave enough to share with others. The first three were printed in the literary magazine of the community college I go to. The fourth one did not make it in, and the fifth one was written well after submissions were closed. In Print Living again in print: A couple, middle aged, Faces caked with soil, stern. They seem aware of me As I gaze upon them. Their footpaths are weathered, And the bright sun is thin. Their rich field has poppies, Cowslip and cornflowers, Spread out from balustrade To the lustrous, cool lake. The husband is seated. The wife feels his arm snug Round her waist, and she stands Clutching a fat satchel Filled to the brim with seed: The cash crop, labor fruit – And record of their strength. The footpaths are restored.The sun thickens with warmth,Inhales the lustrous lake,The field of wildflowers,The wife’s waist, husband’s arm,Before coolness returns, And I put the print down. Thick Paper Teachers An enclosure of sandstone walls Border triple hung mahogany windows. Trembling saplings, bowing and yielding to breeze, Are but silhouettes through the glass, And early light like white rivulets Stream onto girls in delicate Victorian dresses As they confiscate Dickens, Shelley, and Gaskell From fretwork shelves, rummage them, And so too the Brontë sisters, whose rough leather Bindings they cling to like angel statues in embrace. A devoted father gazes worryingly As the thick paper teachers whisper into Once maidenly ears, and his smile curdles. Turbulent Path Islanded by life’s narrow vale, the blind youth still follow the asphalt path; oh, resigned youth. Stop, smell the zinnias, scrape the knee and bleed, and by a turbulent path be defined, youth. Freely seek the learning of Yeats’ “starry men,” but not only do well, do good: be kind, youth. Unaccustomed pilgrims meekly drag their chains – split them; loose the tragedy of confined youth! Without heart, nothing warm is in the flowers, and truths sit in empty vessels. Stay, pined youth! Unexplored joys: Trying wolfish cadenzas on faded ivories, fate is unkind, youth. Even elders fear a dreamy earth, renewed; inner churches mature in maligned youth. Lifelong trained slaves to mechanic value, die pure as blank paper: lost, undefined youth. Beneath shade where peaches fall, a butterfly; future, frailty, fuss is forgotten. Unwind, youth. Sculpted History Statues tall with not-quite-truth paper over Fragmented pasts with a sculpted history; Too-pristine stone figures as visual script An amnesiac public chooses to toe. And richly textured people volunteer to Sink into matting like matching canvases. A Crumbling Pedestal Plump birds sit upon a crumbling pedestal, Contentedly ruffle their feathers, and briefly Ruminate on the pretention of their fellows, Perched as high and proudly guarding flax And amaranth seeds (an admirable catch!) Before taking, with sport and zest, to the Blue vista vast as their pride, unobstructed By anything round them, whether the well Manicured lawns or the trucks carrying Tree trunks from forgettable lands where Lean birds, through no fault within, are Denied sight of Demeter nestling in full Flush, though they would trade the heavens For a glimpse beyond sated, passive avian Eyes cast any which way from green aeries.