October 19-25, 2020: Poetry from Diane Webster and Howie Good

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Diane Webster

Diane Webster enjoys the challenge of transforming images into words to fit her poems. Diane’s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase and to write. Her work has appeared in “Old Red Kimono,” “Home Planet News Online,” “Toasted Cheese Literary Journal,” and other literary magazines.

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Diane Webster and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Family Reunion

I sit in a lawn chair
with strangers birthed
from cousins we remember.
Cousins only seen at Christmas
or family gatherings when I
played with the other cousins.

I sit in the lawn chair awed
that dad’s brother was related,
that these people are related,
a branch flourishing,
a branch that must have been
grafted from a gnarled tree
grateful for deep roots.

I sit in a lawn chair
wondering if I belong,
if my last name is real,
if I was adopted, if my uncle
came to Grandpa and Grandma’s
table and stayed with the family
where I am the stranger guest.

Howie Good

Howie Good of Hyannis, MA, and Highland, NY, is the author most recently of The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020).

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Howie Good and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Lyric Mode

My wife and I are sitting having
a roll and coffee. From the way
she’s looking across the table at me,
kind of annoyed, almost cross,
I can guess what she’s thinking.
She’s thinking the sun comes
in our bedroom window much too early
every morning. But how is that
my fault? Love is infinitely shining.

 

I Dream of Covid

The billboard of the sky says,
Everybody Sees Billboards.
There’s only me. Who knows
whose hands or breath harbors
the virus? Belief systems have
collapsed, seemingly overnight.
Please, oh please, preserve me
from people who eat the same
lunch every day. More often
than not, autumn looms, fine,
black cracks etched all over.

 

Statistic

A boy lies sprawled
by the edge of the road,

his chest torn open
by a chunk of shrapnel.

You could see his heart beating
if you bothered to look.