Kenneth Godoy: The Road to Sinjar

The road runs parallel to the stricken earth;
it’s a strip the stars forgot;
they fled with those that survived Sinjar. The hatred of the sun bakes this land where women were
sold for a farthing or more.

And beside it, on every light pole strung to the tops
are the head shots of those who gave their bodies
to be sacrificed
and riddled and rotted.

And only the highway remembers them,
and the scrub weeds
and the occasional dusty Nissan with men inside clutching their AKs and cigarette butts or otherwise drown.


kennyOf his writing, Mr. Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”

Conrad Martin: I Wandered Through a Land of Silent Hills

I wandered through a land of silent hills.
(The land is lost—nor where, nor name, nor why)
A grass-blown emptiness of wind-soft silences—
An endless prairie swept into an endless sky.

The rounding summits flowed into the falling sun,
And slopes leaned long into the dying light.
The sky was lifting, falling out into the sky,
The darkness opened in upon the night.

There was, alone upon a hill, a tree—
Stark standing in that sweeping, empty land.
Into the dark his cragging branches rose—
Into the far—an empty, reaching hand.

The land is lost—I cannot tell you more—
And yet I beg you, show me what it meant;
That upward, outward reach— what was that tree?
That worshipping—that ceaseless discontent?

All night the stars flowed through those fingertips.
All night, a shimmering ecstasy of pain
Burned cold upon the reverent edge of impudence
Along those branches, spreadingly insane.

Struck deep into the black of stars clawed forth
A blacker silhouette of empty space.
Stretched forth a desperate, drawing grasp—
wild lines flung wildly into heaven’s face.

Bent down unbending heights and snapped
The lines of thought, hurled back the reach of sight
Furled through the night, toward the soul
rushed fury of an unapproaching light.

Release at dawn, by violence.
A wound—a limp—within the thought, a rent.
A blessing wrenched from peace—an aching joy.
The silence of a ceaseless discontent.


portrait on brickMr. Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.

Obi Martin: Morning Poem

Raise me free like summer breezes
wrenched from off the lawn.
Lift me like evaporation
break me like the dawn.

Wick me with your wind strokes,
daylight feathers dust my day.
Stream me with your sunshine;
braze me with your ray.

Paint me torrid like the morning,
bristling brilliant on the rise.
Beat me with your wingspan;
brush me broad across the skies.

Obi_ProfileMr. Martin’s values of vitality and expression inform and influence his interests and use of language and literature.

Julie Atkinson: Fern Poem

In these forests,
the fern fields
flow onward in green waves.
You step carefully,
not knowing what is hidden
beneath the fronds.
Vines grab your ankles
wrapping around to keep you here.
I will most likely not struggle
to free myself,
but will, firmly held by the green,
grow roots.

20160309_175723Miss Atkinson is a wanderer, who likes quiet green things, and silent forests carpeted with moss. The inspiration for “Fern Poem” was born in such a forest.

Gloria Kurtz: A Child of Wonder

A Child of Wonder

by Gloria Kurtz

A child of wonder, here I stand, my Lord,
Inside a pink-rimmed dawning sky of light.
Assign my feet an unfamiliar way,
Not gratifying to my coddled sight.
My goal, I pray, be high. Unreachable,
Except by faith beyond the height of sky.
The sinew of conviction; sustenance
In sweetness of a purple clover, smally by.
Pour burning light and blinding heat on me,
Until my crying thirst cries out to You
For peace, and I drink deeply depth of trust,
Be caught and drowned in all that’s true.
At evening, may my wearied strength long spent
Ascend to meet the evening moonrise song—
An altar sacrifice of gratitude
To Him with whom I’ve journeyed this day long.
For here I stand, a child of wonder, stars
Exploding tiny lights of joy. And why
I’m shocked by love inside this mystic night?
By who nor what I am, but Whose am I.

IMG_0621 (2)

Miss Kurtz finds joy expressed best in teaching first and second grade, and delights in writing the poetry of life found cupped in the beauty of her Upstate NY home.