Poetry soothes our soul, captivates our imagination, and makes us think. Check out the February poems from our wonderful poets.
Is What I Have Enough?
What does it mean to have enough, Is it a home filled with so much stuff, Or that you have a really large family, With many branches on that particular tree? For me, you see, It means unexpectedly, Hearing from a good friend, A little laughter at the conversation's end, Being able to see the joy through pain, A note from someone thinking you'd never see again, The surprise of finding a long lost object, Or hearing from an old boyfriend you'd never suspect, Was now single and asks you on a date, Who looks so handsome you might consider as a mate, This, my dear friends you may appreciate, As the simple life is really the best, Although I do have yet another request, To have a great meal and don't forget bed rest, As I am not looking for fame and fortune anymore, Living a full life means being satisfied for sure, With just getting up in the morning to saying hello to the cat, Believe me right now, that's where it's at. I am so happy just to be alive!!! ~Carol Ostrow, author of Poems from My Pandemic Pen
Set it free and yourself
Don't cry because its over Smile because it happened No matter the loss of a dear one or something else Don't just let it go set it free Keep the memory in your heart The ache has to subside It is in its place You can move on and set it free and yourself ~Madlyn Epstein Steinhart, author of Put Your Boots on and Dance in the Rain
How many times in my life have I tied my shoes? I remember how it started with 2 bunny ear loops pulled through very small grommets on a very small shoe and that first feeling of independence. How many red lights have I waited at for change? How many did I cross anyway, after the flashing stopped? How many times should I not have raced against traffic and to go where? How many boxes of tissues have I bought? How many were used for colds, allergies, tears? How many orange boxes of Wheaties have I carefully opened and poured out to hear the sound of hard dry flakes hitting a porcelain curve? How many tips have I left? How many times did I miscalculate, in either direction? How many times did I ascend the Met steps? How many pieces of art have I seen very high, very low and most right in between? How many doorbells have I rung? Answered? Ignored? How many texts have I sent versus how many I have read? Who is keeping track of everything and letting it get too routinized and yet still so out of control? How many stanzas of the National Anthem have I sung? How many times was I standing? How many breaths did I miss while laughing so hard it dug crevices into my face? I know how many times I have moved. mourned, married and given birth. How many hours have I spent daydreaming, twisting reality into neat tight braids? How many 2am dreams have been forgotten even after they felt like truth? How much time have I wasted and how much time do I have left? I will live each day until I can no longer count and leave the rest to the statisticians.
~ Nicole Freezer Rubens, author of The Long Pause and the Short Breath…Poems & Photos & Reflections on New York City’s Pandemic