Picnic by Elga Antonsen
Like a sheet pulled over the dead
Where do they go?
Would that there could be a rush of birds and trombones to greet
A traveler over the River Styx
Through that cavernous space
We, those alive, cannot travel before it is time
What is that space after death
That void, and is there a way to talk to those gone?
Years ago, my grandmother took us on a picnic where her husband was buried
And said she’d signed up to be placed right on top of him
So now, so many years after that picnic of peanut butter and jelly ooze
I still have questions for you Grandma, I say
When we were there were you seeing that place where your bones would fall into his
Did you long for that time, want it
to take forever till you found that resting place?
As you drew us on your lap and surrounded us with your arms of love
Did you bring our Grandfather back in the room?
For I have felt his presence in the worst of moments and thought of you, and
One another with that love that goes on and on
In the grave
And spirals out to me now.
Elga Antonsen writes poetry and creative non-fiction, lives in the Hudson Valley, and loves it.
A true fan of the sunset by Nancy Headapohl
Couldn’t collect enough reminiscences
Not enough licenses for leisure
Not enough pleasure in the color and the light
Dawn is just a bright backdrop to lead us west. We’re a guest here in the big house, rocking on the porch playing our guitars
Counting the stars as they appear.
What’s that fear you’re holding on to for its fire? Like a rasp it carves you demonically starves you, forces you to flee.
You can’t see, you can’t hear.
Stick your logic in a logjam, your I am and me. Sunset at the sea, twilight in the canyons
Dusty cloudy dreams mix with radiant spikes
Riding up on our bikes to get there in time
Circling around for position on the cliff
We watch the sun drift down
Headapohl writes poetry by hand and lives amidst books.