Harvest Ball

By M. L. Farb

(Photo credit: Allef Vinicius)

I started writing poetry in college, when I took a one-week graduate-level poetry course. I ate, drank, and slept poetry. It seeped into my blood and still pumps through me, impacting all my writing.

My favorite lesson from the poetry course was: Poetry is a snapshot of life. Capture the senses and emotions of a moment.

The following poem is still a work in progress, capturing a moment in my early-married life.

Harvest Ball

New parents with six-week-old baby in tow,
we trudge through snow to the harvest ball.

Exhaustion from baby nursing nights
and intense school days
melts under music.

We jive and spin to the
rich brass call of Sing, Sing, Sing.

I float in his arms as we
trace the steps of Strauss’ Vienna Waltz.

We laugh our way through fast songs.
He has natural rhythm and style.
I follow in stumbling imitation.
Walk like an Egyptian and Cotton Eye Joe

I lay my head on his shoulder
to the gentle swaying of Lady in Red.

Our baby watches from her car seat,
then begs to join.
We dance, her nestled between us,
until she falls asleep.

A limbo line starts.
I try my luck and startle to find that
pregnancy limbered my joints.
I skim under the stick at waist height.
He cheers me on.

We return to our dancing.
Two become one in music and movement.

Hours later we return home,
the dance making our steps light over snow
and our hearts ready for the coming struggles.

Connect with the author: M. L. Farb

Website/Blog: https://mlfarbauthor.wordpress.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MLFarbAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/FarbMl
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/M-L-Farb/e/B07TKYDNHD

CleanWIP Magazine has obtained from the author non-exclusive right to publish or republish this content. The author retains copyright.

Close Calls of the Past

(Eighty Drops of Rain)
By Earl Chinnici

Beautiful dawn…
amazing reds…
I pray silently
thankful to see this day
Close calls of the past
warn me destruction draws near.

Outwardly brave…
inwardly weak…
this war in my mind,
threatens my sanity.
Close calls of the past
remind me I must trust.

Distant rumbles
drawing closer;
eighty drops of rain
hit a torn metal roof.
Close calls of the past
feed anxiety today.

Flashes of light
each time brighter;
moments between them
darker than day should be.
Close calls of the past
feed the fears within me.

An eerie calm…
strong gusts of wind…
seems they’re taking turns.
I pray there is more calm.
Close calls of the past
remind me to stay down.

Relentless rain…
pulses of light…
I ask forgiveness
and that I overcome.
Close calls of the past
feed today’s revival.

Deafening now…
my home trembles.
The breath escapes me.
Old trees slammed to the ground.
Close calls of the past
feed the terror within

Incessant prayers…
my soul trembles;
powerless I am.
Without HIM, I am naught.
Close calls of the past
remind me of HIS grace.

Suddenly deaf…
no… loud ringing…
turmoil around me,
but there’s now calm within.
Close calls of the past
remind me I am HIS.

Thankfully, HIS…
the great I AM.
I give thanks again—
for all of life’s moments.
Close calls of the past
feed me every day.

Poem on Poems

I think I should write a poem but wherever shall I start?
Many have written before me about matters of the heart.

Some cried tales of lost friends and loved ones, heartaches, and deep sorrow.
Others rhymed words of joy, of true love, and a bright tomorrow.

Some wrote about pirates and their shipwrecks, and buried treasures.
Still others told men’s secrets, evil schemes, or hidden pleasures.

Countless moving verses have been written throughout the ages.
Once I put the pen to paper, I’m sure to fill some pages.

~ Earl Chinnici “Poem on Poems”