September 14-20, 2020: Poetry from Sean Lause and Patricia Godwin Dunleavy

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on pinterest
Share on tumblr
Share on email
Send us your poetry. Click here for submission guidelines.

Sean Lause

Sean Lause is a professor of English at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio. His poems have appeared in The Minnesota Review, The Alaska Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Illuminations and Poetry International.

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

Journey with no sound

A hand throws open
a library window
to release the silence.

Freed from words,
it hovers
between drops of rain.

It predicts the dance of leaves,
and it is the patience
the grass keeps.

It comprehends a massacre,
Yet the dover, fading to sleep,
folds it in her cloak.

Between light and darkness
it expands.
It exceeds the hidden wound.

Entering your house,
it inhabits your furniture
and mocks your personal philosophy.

It knows the end
of longing and misery,
and awaits your final breath of surrender.

Patricia Godwin Dunleavy

Patricia Godwin Dunleavy is primarily a nonfiction writer buts tries her pen at poetry. She is the author of several newspaper and magazine articles and columns as well as numerous newsletters. She self-published Landscape Lessons: A Practical and Inspirational Primer for the Southern Soil and Soul (Terratype Press, 2009), and she co-authored a self-help legal book (Sphinx Publishing, 1993 and 1995). She has also had a few of her poems published online with Poetry Super Highway and Haikuniverse. She resides in Ila, GA, spends a great deal of time in the western North Carolina mountains, and travels throughout the United States regularly. Understanding and enjoying Nature is a passion that inspires her writing.

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

February Deluge


In late light and rain
I plod to the lake—
from soaked grass
to slippery red mud
to sodden mulch—
a maze of cushions
under my feet,
the gravel road submerged

the pungent odor
of our resident skunk
competes with the
acrid chickens up the road,
the sweet smell of Edgeworthia

my rubber shoes
not quite tall enough,
my pants too long

the lake overflows its banks,
it overflows the spillway,
the drain pipe gulps and burps,
the down stream rushes white

feeder creeks bulge,
rush over footbridges,
cover tree feet,
lay down ferns

sticks, mud, and cane
of the beaver dam
fan open in the middle,
water pools on the sides

without my walking stick,
saw briars rip across my pants
scratch my thigh
cut my hand

Up slope, in the woods,
the earthy smelling detritus
absorbed the torrent—
no standing water to dodge
no thinking a course of travel


Three days later
I walk against
cold wind
to the lake,
gravel firm

pools receded,
mulch and limbs
scattered on
muddy roadside,
magnolia leaves
block drain pipe

whiff of
stinky skunk
crisp air

ditches grooved wider, deeper,
fluvial rows of
leaves stacked on edge—
bundles of flattened cardboard

yesterday’s snowfall
splats icy on my head,
white icing spreads
over fallen trees

rivulets trickle through cane
into creeks
water seeps through grass
into lake—
all calm within their banks

beaver-cut log
smoothed with age
lies on grass
at high water mark

northern flicker
drums white oak,
hundreds of robins
sing Spring