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The only things I ever made

were words on paper, neatly laid

in rhyming phrases, sentence-songs

that I believed could right all wrongs.

I wrote from deep inside a place

that had no name, no form, no face

but gave life to my child’s heart

for changing things (it was a start)

I’d say in secret,  Here’s the deal:

my voice is loud, my voice is real.

But rolled the poems, tucked them away

in drawers and cubbies where they’d stay

until a poet (his poems unfurled)

said, Once you write, they belong to the world.

So I took a chance and sent them out

and the courage came later: I learned to shout.

©    Carol Coven Grannick 2018

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In a city yard

there lived a universe–

It lived in a shallow

cobalt blue box,

raised just the right height.

From this box rivers rose,

trees grew, and streams

traveled … meandering slowly
which ever way they chose.

Castles appeared with flags–moats,
and drawbridges. Boats
traveled through the waters
and animals roamed peacefully.

In the evening a grand cover

would suspend over the universe
protecting all inside.

Sometimes there were many
architects constructing the
universe, sometimes only one or two.

Imagination had no limit, time

traveled forward and back upon
request in the cobalt blue box.

Hands were inventors
following a sea of ideas–
Ingenuity reigned our
cobalt blue box,
now long gone–

But, it still lives in the
hearts, hands, and
creations of the
original crew
so many
childhoods
ago.

© 2018 Michelle Kogan

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From my void of early memories Effie Bender pushes through

daily donning her white bonnet and a dress some shade of blue.

Just how long our friendship lasted, recollection won’t attest,

but I know our dispositions made us standout from the rest.

Past the clothing and the bonding, there’s the gift her grandma made –

the only present I remember offered me in any grade.

She gave to me a velvet teddy, brown, with paws and ears of white,

dressed up with a satin ribbon, hand-sized width and crayon height.

A rare display of affirmation, one I still have sensing of.

At sixty, as I try to grasp,

I think the bear,

to me,

meant love.

Colleen Murphy

© 2018

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Cherry blossum origami squares

Wait expectantly

I fold each delicate piece,

Watch them emerge

Two identical cranes

On chains of gold

Spreading their wings

To fly

©Kirstine Call 2018

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My big, big box is a plane,

A boat, a store, or a home.

My big, big box is a cave,

Secret place where I hide, all alone!

Copyright, 2018, Dianne Moritz

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Gramma plucked some Hollyhocks,

fashioned flower dolls -

With tiny heads, filmy skirts,

Perfect for princess balls.

They danced, swirled, pranced, and twirled,

Until set aside.

Next day Gramma’s flower dolls

Had wrinkled, wilted, died.

Copyright, 2018, Dianne Moritz

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Long ago sewing class,

Yikes!

I have to wear it?

A pink-flowered skirt:

I straight-stitched a seam,

gathered threads at the waist,

hand-stitched the hem.

Done!

I remember

twirling in that skirt,

compliments from Mom,

wearing it again and again.

Whew, I did it!

What’s next?

Linda Baie © All Rights