June 10-16, 2019: Poetry from Luna Maluna Gri and Paula Weld-Cary

Luna Lang and Paula Weld-Cary

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Luna Maluna Gri
maluna.gri@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Luna Maluna Gri, I’m nineteen and from Austria. I’ve graduated high school in May last year and am now planning on establishing my work as a writer and artist. Through my artwork I express my feelings, emotions, myself. It’s a way of healing, finding the way back to myself, finding my voice and spreading my messages to the world.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Luna Lang and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Honey

I have been
eating honey
every day
so that all
the sweetness
keeps my heart
from breaking

 

– after you left

 


Paula Weld-Cary
pcary@frontiernet.net

Bio (auto)

Paula Weld-Cary’s poetry and essays have appeared in many journals in the United States and abroad, including Nimrod, Atlanta Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Southern Humanities Review, Portland Review, and The Aurorean. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Paula is the author of the children’s book Maddie Mulligan and the Monarch Butterfly. She lives and writes in Rochester, New York..

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Paula Weld-Cary and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Bay of Fundy

We were on Campobello Island—
where winds rattle windows and slam doors shut,
where beaches are filled with stones—millions
of years in the making, folded squeezed,
transformed by time.

I am looking for a black and white stone
to use as a doorstop, I told my son who was at my side—
a stone to keep doors open, my voice rose like a song
above the churning Campobello waves.

We came upon a plover wading on stilt legs,
miles to go, fishing her August way south,
and when we veered away, so she could eat
I spied the gem I had been searching for:

Two-toned, perfectly formed
black like a whale’s wet skin
white like an eagle’s curved crown,
round and heavy, smoothed by tides,
a doorstop to keep doors open.

We are like stones, rising, falling,
transformed by tides and like plover
briefly here, fishing, fishing,
and some days I am like a door blown shut
as if Neptune’s winds had stolen me away
and some days I am a door wide open
shouting above the wind, singing to the sea.



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