THE IRIS
(with apologies to A. E. Housman)
Loveliest of blooms, the Iris now
Bedecks with blue the hill's blunt brow
And stands about my hiking path,
Inspiring this depressing math:
Now of my three score years and ten,
Seventy will not come again;
And take from seventy years the lot --
Precisely zero's what I've got;
And since before the break of summer,
The iris fades -- oh, what a bummer!
To the hillside I will run,
To greet the iris, and the sun!
--Frank Rettenberg
DIETER’S SOLILOQUY
To eat or not to eat, that is the question.
A doughnut, yeasty, airy I’ll consume;
adjust my diet later to make room,
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying, sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off, resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.
--Anne Rettenberg
A WITCH PONDERS ONLINE DATING
If only a little eye of newt,
or mandrake root, or hemlock bark,
could turn these loathsome suitors
into lovers handsome, tall and dark.
They paste their unappealing photos
next to profiles trite and silly,
send flirtations cut-and-pasted
into the ether willy nilly.
Don’t you know my time you’ve wasted?
I have no interest in your wooing.
Instead of listing your opinions
there are things you should be doing:
Learn to listen, read some books,
lose 15 lbs and learn some manners,
return emails, learn to cook,
travel widely, learn a language.
Say what you mean, do what you say,
you’ll find a date without delay.
I haven’t found the witches’ brew
that will turn boys into men.
‘til then with dating I am through,
and bitter missives I will pen.
The Tree and the Stream
You are so unlike me.
You, the stream that slips laughing over rocks
and gurgles and dances in the light;
I, the oak rooted in the earth,
my branches barely swaying in the wind.
Yet what nourishes my roots
is also your source.
I stood over you,
watching your ceaseless entertainment;
you teased me with your foam and waves.
I tried to bend my branch to touch your rushing excitement,
but I couldn’t reach you
until the storm came.
It tore through my leaves.
It broke my branch, and threw it into you--
and I lost part of myself in your swirling currents.
My branch became part of you,
and I did not regret my loss. It was the least I owed you,
for the years of enjoying your effervescence
and the cool breezes that lifted from your waves.
--Anne Rettenberg
I am Delicious
I am an Asian pear. I am delectable, sweet, and crisp.
If you've not had of my flesh, will you not sample a taste?
Notice that I’m not like other pears, all mushy and soft.
I’m firm and do not yield to you, instead forcing you to rip the juices from me.
They flow down your throat nicely, do they not?
And I’m not some sickeningly sweet thing, either.
Silly Bartletts and Anjous, they know nothing of refinement.
My flavors are delicate although my meat is not.
Let us enjoy each other now as I provide the nourishment
and you provide the completion of that which I was born to do.
Domo arigato.
--Blake Giglio
Reflection On Her Form
When I see your face illuminated by the faint glow of my last, dying lightbulb
I’ll memorize your eyes
and the lines that define your flesh--
one final rough sketch of the most important night of my life.
When I hear your name roll off my tongue
I’ll memorize the movements of my lips
and every consonant will be a kiss--
your name has become a holy hum in the temple of my vocal chords
or a whispered prayer to beauty incarnate.
Your form has inspired me to believe in God,
renewed my faith in the divine--
It’s given me a sort of hopeless hope
because I know the world will do you wrong.
There is no justice for true beauty.
Men take the pure flowers
and grind their petals into the concrete;
they hold the robin in the palms of their hands
and crush its throat to cease its song.
So I stand and observe from afar,
my hands raised in a gesture of hopelessness and inaction.
I think, “I want to give you the world!”
but then remember how ugly this world is
and what it has done
to those as beautiful as you.
Melting snow dribbles
down the backs of old buildings.
Another year gone.
Cold mists and shadow
creep down from grey April skies.
My heart waits to bloom.
--Michael Jason Halama
Dark, humid Spring night.
Humming chorus gently sings
awakening songs.
White-grey November.
Crystalline ice-shards appear;
night descends early.
Bright red-orange fox.
Nightly you hunt solitaire--
why are you alone?
Sparrow touches down;
ice-ridden branch gives no help!
Gust takes him away.
Briny rivers flow,
clashing against fresh water.
Pink fish, finding home.
About the poets in this issue
Frank Rettenberg is a retired foreign service officer who lives in Northern California. His favorite poem is Tennyson’s “Ulysses.”
Anne Rettenberg is a psychotherapist in New York City and is editor of Eat a Peach.
Blake Giglio is a Systems Administrator by day and poet by night in Columbus, Ohio. He is the proud father of two beautiful daughters, ages 10 and 7.
Jordan Walsh lives in Troy, Michigan, where he attends high school.
Michael Jason Halama was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, and currently works and lives in Chicago.
Curtis W. Irion loves to ski, read and write. He lives in Connoquenessing, Butler County, Pennsylvania. He is a New Student Advisor at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh-Online Division.