Poetry

How I Slice It

The pears on my counter are blushing, ripening.
Picking one up, I imagine their journey and all the hands 
that cradled them before they made their way here

They were grown, quite likely, nearby in Kelseyville—
lauded as the pear capital of the world
But unless I venture from Kelseyville’s Main Street 
I won’t see thriving pear orchards planted generations ago
I won’t see beyond the fruits’ alluring shapes and colors…

The delivery truck driver who unloaded 
an impressive haul of pears at the grocery store 
produce department employees who unpacked 
arranged an inviting selection

Pear sheds where thousands of these stemmed jewels 
were sorted, packed, readied for shipping

Hands efficiently plucked one after another, row after row 
farmers, laborers who nurtured, tended each tree
families whose toil preceded tractors
who married pear seeds and saplings to rich soil

I consider further back still, centuries and millennia 
the earliest stewards of these lands…

In a day or two I will savor and share 
these pears I didn’t grow.

Moonrise, Return

You are Sunrise.
Dawn whispering 
Against windowshades,
Brushing night from the sky,

Lifting like a smile 
Arching across ridgelines
Of cedar, pine and fir
Glowing in glory,
A crown of delight.

You are Moonrise.
A susurrus ascending
Into softness, etching
Cream against
Fall leaves still
Clinging to August,

Filling the last shades
Of sunset with indigo
And silence.

You hold me in my sleep,
Quilt me in your arms,
Whisper a soft promise
In my drowsing ears

To look for you in 
The gentle lift
Of morning's curtains.

Singing Through the End
after Christina Gosnay

When two dead languages can meet, they sing.
They find, describe, all that’s sweet. They sing.

Let’s offer them our lungs, complete the choir.
Through wilted spine and sure defeat, we sing.

Across all continents and boulevards
let’s dig and build a new drumbeat, we sing.

The clocks tick tock but some new buds still bloom.
By want and wander we retreat, we sing.

When all our words have burned and turned to Ash
we might still find the time to greet—we sing.

About the Authors: This poem was a collaboration between two poets. Ash Kemp drafted it during the Tupelo Press Poetry Marathon, and Lauren Oertel revised it (including turning the free verse draft into a ghazal) through techniques shared in her Poetry Revision Workshop Summer Series.

The Worth of an Ordinary Life

Today we chase a life that seems great
and fear that our own lives are falling behind.
We measure ourselves by the lives of others
and forget the quiet joy within our own.
Yet there is beauty in a life
that asks for little
and gives with care –
in daily work,
in faithful hands,
in simply being present.
Not every life is meant to shine
with what the world calls grand or bright. Some lives find their meaning quietly,
in small things,
in doing what is right.
A family held together by patient love,
a neighbor helped,
a promise kept –
these, too, are lives of consequence,
even when few people see
the seeds we have left behind. And when the years have quietly passed,
when our footprints fade beneath the dawn,
it is not riches,
or fame,
or a name
that gives a life its lasting light.
It is the hearts we touched along the way,
the little acts
that made someone’s day brighter. For every life,
though it may seem small,
is woven into another’s dreams.
A helping hand,
a sincere word,
a moment of kindness
may give someone else
strength and hope.
And so, in the quiet life we lead,
we leave our mark
through every deed.
Perhaps a life does not need to be great
to be true
and well-lived. Perhaps the peace
we spend our days searching for
was waiting all along
in the life
we already knew.

Dr. Rishikesh Upadhyay is an Indian writer, professor, and researcher. He was born, grew up, and lives in Bhanjang Basti, Haflong, a small Nepalis’ hamlet in the district headquarters of Dima Hasao (formerly North Cachar Hills), in the Indian state of Assam. He holds a PhD, MPhil, and an MSc from Assam University, Silchar, and a BSc Hons from Haflong Government College. Dr. Upadhyay’s creative and academic writings have appeared in many literary publications both online and in print. He is also a member of Scholars Academic and Scientific Society of India, and Society for Advancement of Human and Nature. He is currently an Assistant Professor at Assam University-affiliated Haflong Government College, India.

LinkedIn https://in.linkedin.com/in/rishikesh-upadhyay-814a8a1a
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What Is Joy but Small Kindnesses

        a golden shovel after “Small Kindnesses” by Danusha Laméris

I panic-rush with my package from my car to the door only 
to find that while it’s already 5 o’clock, it’s unlocked. These 
post office workers know the jams of our traffic. Brief 
openings, strict deadline flexibility, offer moments 
of relief, of getting what we need. Grace in the face of 
the headlines we endure, the tired smiles we exchange. 

Waxing

The waxing moon
Spreads her halo 
To the treeline
Encircling the evening star

And even as she stretches
She remembers
Gently wraps
Her arms around me

Whispering a soft
Goodnight

Moonrise, Return

You are Sunrise.
Dawn whispering 
Against windowshades,
Brushing night from the sky,

Lifting like a smile 
Arching across ridgelines
Of cedar, pine and fir
Glowing in glory,
A crown of delight.

You are Moonrise.
A susurrus ascending
Into softness, etching
Cream against
Fall leaves still
Clinging to August,

Filling the last shades
Of sunset with indigo
And silence.

You hold me in my sleep,
Quilt me in your arms,
Whisper a soft promise
In my drowsing ears

To look for you in 
The gentle lift
Of morning's curtains.

               Wet
It's astonishing, the slipperiness
Of spirit, how August afternoons
Become January mornings
Clouded so thickly a foot could be a mile,
How it is possible to walk a day
Between moonset and sunrise
Where the spirits live,
Both evil and benevolent, each pushing
An agenda like snake oil salesmen.
For soul dwells in places we've never
Seen, like Tuesdays, tomorrows and
Drips from hundred year old pines,
In the intraarticular space between
Cartilage and bursa where the magic
Of movement dwells,
In the moment between breath and words
Where each idea births, or the stretch of
A candle when lit.
An ankle is as good as a breast
When you've never seen skin
And dusk seems pale when
Superimposed on midnight
The feeling of wetness between fingertips
Belies something separate gliding
Across the loops, whorls and arches of
Thumb and index finger.
The slide of the mind along old paths
Is the same slip into new
And dawn seems pale when
Superimposed on noon
Baby, let's run.

February 10th

A good poem doesn't need to rhyme.
It writes itself quietly and easily
Like the present tense of place, time
And immediacy, for each word allows

The truth, because time is how
We balance the halves and
Have nots of love. It is the now
That the past begs to understand

And hold in the way I touch your hand
With a slip of the fingers as we 
Walk in the rainwet street, like sand
In an hourglass writing itself anew

Just like this poem writes itself, blue
Upon green, earth and sky
And your smile breathes itself to
Me in the restaurant, in the bar,

In the ice cream parlor. I am yours,
That cannot be denied, for each
Of my rough edges contours
Around you, easing into smoothness.

There is nowhere you cannot find me.

Encapsulation

She encapsulates sunrise.

She is a time lapse photo redacted
Minute by minute, reversing 
The birth of dawn.

She pulls herself back, back, back,
Pulling until the sun
Slides beneath the mountains,
Hides its rays in 
Pre-dawn darkness.

She then closes the shutter,
Leaving only the blackness
And the full-bodied camera.

When, with one click,
She opens the gates,
The shutter dissolves in light
And the sun rises again.

And by she, I mean you.
You are She.

You are the camera.
You are the shutter.
You are the sunrise.

You encapsulate it all.

Thread

There is a thread
You pull from your soul

And wind around me
As you bind us together

With each turn you
Place one small stitch

That pieces together
The broken parts of my heart