Patrice M. Wilson is a retired Associate Professor of Hawaii Pacific University. From 2014-2019 she lived in a monastery in Kaneohe, HI studying to become a Carmelite nun. She has had several publications of individual poems (including Poetry Super Highway, August 22–28, 2011); has published 3 chapbooks with Finishing Line Press; and one full-length poetry collection, Hues of Darkness, Hues of Light, with eLectio Publishing (2013). She has won some awards and honorable mentions (including Academy of American Poets U of Hawaii competitions), and has read her poetry in Maryland, Washington DC (including the Folger Shakespeare Library), and in Honolulu, HI, where she won Hawaii Literary Arts Council Award 2018 for contributing to the literary community in Hawaii. She now lives in Mililani, a pleasant suburban neighborhood in central Oahu.
The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Patrice Wilson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Street Preacher, Downtown Honolulu
Given the bread
we ask for daily;
given the strength
for our frail lives,
to walk, to run
through fragrant meadow
or on worldly road;
Given the delirium tremens
of men who drink too much liquor,
the loud crying out
of madmen on bleak streets—
But, given the earthen chalices
filled with sacrificial wine,
given all over the world
in the same covenant for all,
should not holy words be said,
even in this stark wilderness?
Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE, and volunteers with a non-profit organization as a Donor Ambassador on their blood drives. He has had poems published in The Pangolin Review, Fine Lines, The Sea Letter, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, Poesis Literary Journal and several other publications.
The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Duane Anderson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Am I My Mother’s Husband?
The day after Thanksgiving,
a few might call it Black Friday,
but I call it hell because I was
one of the fools waiting
in one of the many long lines
with my mother loaded
with the items we wanted to purchase.
As we waited, my mother talked to various
people also waiting in hell with us,
trying, as she said, if that is possible,
to make the wait go by faster.
It didn’t work for me,
but maybe it did for her.
The man she was talking to asked how long
my mother and I had been married,
thinking that we were husband and wife
rather than mother and son.
He went into mute mode,
quiet as could be,
after finding out our relationship
of mother and son,
and I started thinking,
knowing I just learned one thing from this moment,
that I have more of my father’s genes than I thought,
the one that ages skin faster than a speeding bullet.