The poetry recorded below is a part of an art exhibit called Presence, and is the property of Janet Morgan Stoeke. the paintings to the left accompany each poem. All rights reserved.
She doesn’t recall
her April self
out here, poking the seeds in.
Maybe she knew
that she would need
this pink outburst of happy.
Her August self decides to smile back.
The joy of this pink missive has tipped her mood,
and steered her stubborn rowboat
back to sun on gentle water.
Most of the time she avoids
thinking about her new status,
of the harsh solitude ahead of her.
Tiny sparks of good things (seeds taking root)
can unmoor that fragile scaffolding.
She would have enjoyed this more, before.
She would have shared it.
She could have been glad.
Alongside the pangs of regret
stand these insane seed pods,
flung wide like triumphant gymnasts.
So she lends them a little room.
Because yesterday would have been too soon.
But today the cleome has won.
JMS
A puff of white,
turns pink and wispy,
bruising a spot in the sky.
Yet the steady blue bowl beyond
has some tenderness for us.
We peer into its timelessness
for perspective,
and bear another throb from our wound.
In time,
without shouldering anything new,
there are small shifts.
We adjust,
cloud by cloud,
bruise by bruise.
All rights reserved.