with Lawrence Spiro
June is the traditional bridal month. It is Spring at its best. The sun which is not too hot, shines on the love between our hopeful couple. This poem is written in an “ottava Rima” format. There is no better way to express the highest point of relationship then in this Italian form of poetry. This poem has had its share of applause, so I present it to you once more.
Bride
Lawrence Spiro
Love lays ready her gallant heart to him.
He approaches with care and touches her,
both now and forever in light or dim.
Quondam visions yield to her beauty pure,
waifing warmly past over ageless streams.
Two to be one under G-d each demur.
Nature eventuates her lifelong dreams.
They move together, all is as it seems.
He looks up to her, he echoes his plea.
His time moves quickly from winter to Spring
yearning that she will now set his heart free.
In his moist hand is love’s eternal ring,
as the rose bud nods for the dancing bee.
She answers the question to all these things
with hand extended, excited for this,
she says yes. He laughs, they embrace and kiss.
Cleaved as one, they exchange words worth singing.
With beating heart, he trembles with dripped joy.
She smiles long of this new beginning
knowing now stands a man erstwhile a boy.
He thinks many countless thoughts not thinking
about summer applause fall leaving doer.
She was taught about all of the seasons
all the promises and all the reasons
The second poem was written at a dinner party hosted by Chirstine Sullivan in the beautiful Wavecrest on 170 Old Montauk Highway. Phillip Chang cooked a gourmet dinner that was delicious and so appreciated by everyone. He also suggested “Lets write a poem” and so we did.
The following poem is written in a collaborative format. Janet Spiro, Lawrence Spiro, Philipe Chang, Christine Sullivan and others contributed to the poem.
I offered the opening line: “The sand mixed with the moonlight means:”
The sand mixed with the moonlight means: (LS)
A melody both sweet and profound (JS)
and I wander in between the seams (PC)
only to ponder the meaning of these dreams. ()
Over time I am more fond of relaxing in the waves. ()
The waves and the sound of the ocean make me appreciate what I have, and I will always work to make it the best it can be. (CS)
On the sand mixed with moonlight the night comforts me. (LS)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Take a Trip by Ethan Bell
After Long Days Spent Standing Still
The Open Sky Bend to My Will
The Plane is Wide the Air Feels New
Each Step a Thrill Each Scene a View
The Joy Returns in Quiet Ways
A Sunrise Laughter and Winding Days
I’m moving Breathing Light & Free
the World Again Belongs to Me
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
An Ode to the Number Five by Willow DuBrovin
Oh quinate,
I light a match in your honor.
For the ash curls that upward, a ribbon of time,
as you flicker between blossom and burn
in the concept of wartime.
You, five,
are an odd, lopsided star,
a pentagon of balance hiding in chaos afar.
I meet you at the hour,
when my fingers twitch to write,
and each digit on your crown,
the morning dawn shines its light.
A four to five, a fickle in fight,
a myth in motion, a number of plight.
A symbol to protect
and blasphemy. A finger to point
at catastrophe.
Only half of what you could be
half of what should have been.
The lesser interval, a mortal sin.
You matter because you are
never quite even, never quite whole,
but always enough to make something proal.
A chord, a question, a structure that sways
to whom I condole and with it I pray.
And when the night blooms with fear of five,
a beginners touch, you collide with sky.
The rhythm beneath it,
that odd-step beat,
that crack in the wall
where meanings cheat.
So here’s to you,
oh quinate force,
an ode to your creation
of unknown source.
A soft hand I raise, sore with love
from writing all your hour,
for five, I dream of.