Bio of Lynda La Rocca

Lynda La Rocca is a New York City-born poet and freelance writer who has also worked as a reporter for the Asbury Park (NJ) Press and a teaching assistant at Colorado Mountain College in Leadville, Colorado.

Her four poetry chapbooks include The Stillness Between (2009, Pudding House Publications), Spiral (2012, Liquid Light Press), and Unbroken (2023, Kelsay Books); her individual poems have appeared in such publications as The New York Quarterly; THINK: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Essays; Stone Gathering: A Reader; and Encore (National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Inc.).  

Lynda was the 2020 winner in the poetry category of the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition, a National League of American Pen Women arts-outreach program, and a “Top-Four” winner in the 2021 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest. 

She lives in Salida, Colorado, with her writer-photographer husband Steve Voynick.

The Visiting Hour

He is vanishing before my eyes.
Muscle, tissue, sinew, skin
melting away like a thaw
that knows no hope of spring.
Today, his own hands surprise him—
flesh not of his body,
he cannot remember
what illness caused this pain,
nor whose fingers these are
that have curled and cramped
against his own dry palm.
Circling the room,
he paces without purpose,
this captive who has forgotten
the feel of sun,
the look of sky and moon and star,
who has forgotten the names of days,
afraid of his reflection
when they come to shave him,
the mirror gleaming on his bony skull.

“This is the newest model.
I can get it up to 90 in less than a minute, and it runs so smooth,”
he declares, mistaking his own steel-railed bed
for the sports car that he only drove for show one afternoon,
pretending to the ladies it was his.
He cannot remember his favorite color,
why he raged at the untrimmed hedge,
how he took his coffee,
if his wife had ever loved him.
But this dark chocolate ice cream on the tongue,
now this is something.
Sweet and smooth
smooth and sweet,
it stirs a strange awakening.
Two spoonfuls and his throat is closed again.
“Here,” he whispers, pushing the dish to me.
“I’m getting so bad.”
Chin drooping to chest,
he stares at the floor,
seeing ants where none are crawling.
I kiss his one good hand.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s take a walk.”

In the hall, floor tiles shiny, disinfectant,
metal cart clustered
with plastic cups of applesauce and powdered pills.
“Look there,” he suddenly shouts,
pointing with that one good hand to a flowered window curtain.
“The crocuses, they’re early this year.”

And for an instant then, he smiles.

This poem won the 2007 Writers’ Studio Award for poetry.  It was originally published in Progenitor 2007, the literary magazine of Arapahoe Community College, Littleton, Colorado, which sponsored the contest.  It also appears online on the Colorado Poets Center website.

Inscription in Stone: New England Cemetery

“It is a fearful thing to love what Death can touch.”

And so it is.
I know, for I love you
through all our restless days,
waves crashing blue-black, frothy white,
against our spilling sands,
so rich, so sweet, so deep
and fine it is, it was,
to know your skin,
to taste your tongue, your salty lips.

They say that you are with me still.
In which closed chamber of my closed heart?
Tell me, whisper,
“I am here,”
and I will tear, with my own hands,
that throbbing heart,
and press it to my open breast
to hold you one small moment more.

It is, indeed, a fearful thing, this love,
this dance into the light.
The fingers snap,
the partners change,
the music patters on again,
unheeding, uninvited, unaware.

This poem was the third-place winner in the Robert Penn Warren Award contest co-judged by John Ashbery (1,255 individual poems submitted); it was originally published in The Anthology of New England Writers 2002.  The New England Writers was the contest sponsor.

Bio of Erin O’Bryen

Erin O’Bryen hails from Mississippi. Since returning to Chicago in 2018 after eight years in San Francisco, she’s enjoyed attending poetry workshops to write and learn with other poets. Erin participates in GeNarrations storytelling sessions at the Goodman Theatre and has presented at Fillet of Solo. Erin sings, plays piano, and takes ballet, all of which delight and inspire her.

Waltz in Two Summers

It had rained for days
jetties and breakwaters barely visible
Head down searching for sea glass
I found instead a pair of stained glass wings
caught in the wet sand
At first it seemed a mere carcass
but bending down I caught
the faint struggle
and pried him gently from his trap

The perfect feet clinging to my fingertips
in unexpected trust
stuck with me for the walk through the dunes
to a fuchsia tree or something like it
Nudging him to a twig
his antennae now mimicking
the stamens’ spright
I left him to live out his day
And I mine

Do you know about this
the way a thing that flies feels
the grasp of a June bug’s claw
Come go with me
to the dark windowed night
the popping screens
ecstatic with beetles
holding hands
salted in summer

At one time we rode bikes
behind the bug man
Found a bottle for a rocket
Red rover
Ate sour lemons on the stoop
Drank from an iron spigot
Picked off the red dot mites
just like that
one two three

Bio of Jill Angel Langlois

Jill Angel Langlois’s poems and short stories have appeared in literary magazines, anthologies and newspapers in Chicagoland, nationally and internationally. She holds a B.A. in English & American Literature from Governors State University, University Park, IL.

As a judge for the Florida State Poetry Society, she feels the beauty of a poem is written with truth in the poet’s heart.

Scattered Petals, her first collection of poetry, explores the healing power of nature. Whiskey Nights, her second poetry collection, in progress, is inspired by both whiskey and music. Excerpts from these collections can be found at www.illinoispoets.org

Before the snow flies

Before the snow flies
And covers the unsuspecting grass
Before the cold bears down
And destroys the fragile flowers
Before the frost bites into my thoughts
And the ache of dead-end winter
Settles in my mind and bones
Before the ice freezes over land
And captures random beauty
Holding her in an amber moment
Before I pray for warmth
Amidst the crystallizing breath
That hangs mid-air as it escapes
In a scream
Before the night calls to end
The long orange and yellow days
I will watch the sugar maples
Caramelize in the dying summer sun

Vivaldi in the Snow

I have come to this place so many times.
This day with the choir I come to sing the Gloria;
To sigh or sing Baroque and royal notes.
December in Mississippi we awake with surprise to snow;
Its rare romance keeps the faithful in bed.
The director says in Vivaldi’s day musicians played for each other
And not to worry who listens today or how many.
The violist, who plays fiddle on Saturday nights,
Stands and stares at the tall windows before we start.
Small innuendos of light glance off the pine bowed drifts.
Today is Sunday and we are joined together
And the sundry business of church begins:
As the organ settles its score,
The stops grow and open and vibrate in the body.
As the pastor obviates all but eloquence,
The sanctuary soars with radiance.
And altar flowers tremble in the cold
And hours later echo Et in terra pax.

They vibrate, these grand cadenzas,
Translate the century the composer’s pen has passed
Along to us. The organ, its burden made light,
Strikes its bargain with the congregation
Singing “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.”
Tall windows longing backlit by the snowfall
As the Advent season’s tallow glows.
And altar flowers, attentive always,
And the weather-altered arbors
To the sermon and the eloquence
Of the cadence from the rustling choir.
Singing, singing, higher.
The musicians shuffle praise for the soprano and the tenor,
Glorious as fully stocked traditions,
As if to knock real snow from off their boots.
The obligato lifts from the score like a gift from a fancy box.
My sister says a poem is a package of words that you can give away.
It’s Sunday and Christmas is close at hand -
Then sing, laudamus te.

The Athenian Housewife’s Lament

As dainty spring moves fast to ruddy summer,
Now I this household nudge to life again,
The good mechanicals to call to arms,
Yet find them other places occupied.
A play, they say, for Theseus, the duke,
A steady man, and yea, for all his guests,
While I am left to wring my hands and sigh
For all the ragged want of cottage fey.
Quince, the roof, the shingles’ wagging tongues,
The canted frames, Snug, put them back to right,
Bottom, you ass, for new frocks set your loom,
Robin, these coats do fix, then put away,
Francis, mend, for fires need baking bread,
Snout, the pans and pots beg well your hand.
The play, the thing, can wait, for urgent parts
Your friendly band for kern-bards clamor thus
And need we too the balm of laughter’s sun
Flute, to play. ‘Tis almost dinnertime.

My Daddy Knows How to Drink

My Daddy knows how to drink,
barreling down the boulevard,
eyelids drooping behind the wheel,
a half smile and a nod to those passing by.

Christian music blaring on the radio,
escaping through the windows,
rolled down to catch the breeze;
to catch the wondering stares.

His white T-shirt blowing in the hot air,
he throws back another swig of hooch.
Checking the rear view mirror for the police,
no one is following. He sneaks another gulp.

In full dark he steers around the culvert
and honks the horn for a joke.
Oh, he’s a joker, my drunken Daddy;
just wish he could find his way home.

At home we wait. His dinner is cold.
I’m in bed when the back door flies open.
Angry are the words my Mother hurls
as he shatters his plate, and leaves.
She is crying again.

I peek out the window to see him staggering
back to his car. He starts the engine.
He looks up at me in my window,
Catches my wide eyes with his
and drops his head, shaking it slowly.

He takes a deep breath, then another gulp,
the brown bag crinkling around the bottle.
It’s empty so he tosses it out the window.
He peels out of the dirt strip in the grass
that we call a driveway.

I don’t know when I will see him again;
all I know is I’ve made him angry.
I crinkle up my little face and tears stream down.
I crawl back in bed, my head under the covers
so Mother doesn’t hear me crying again.

Chaotic Beauty

Two pianos,
haunting brilliance,
wonder on the vine.

In the vineyard,
in the glass,
tasting notes of worth.

Sing the song of chaos
mounting in despair.
Yet a sort of hope prevails,
leading me to the end note.

The binding, crushing madness.
Smashed grapes,
macerated winter fruit, dancing,
like Jack Frost on the pines.

The relentless notes
of cherry, ice and sadness,
a beauty to behold.

On the vine,
in the glass,
fading away.

Grown

I am a packet
Of wildflower seeds
Someone gifted you
On Earth Day
Before there was an Earth Day
Ransomed to the purpling soil
Who knows what to expect
Milkweed makes sense
If you want someone to care
For you in your old age
Sunflowers are loyal but
Take up a lot of room
Is that why
Though you loved it
You chopped down the four o’clock?

I would prefer to
Be the empty can ecstatic
On the garage roof across the alley
Stuffing itself with
Prairie wind whilst I
Fingerpaint tolerable memories
Of Queen Anne’s lace and
The rattle of mini-blinds
In that cheap apartment
Like someone’s stealing a bicycle
These rooms are way too full
Of sticky paraphernalia
Busted tires please
Don’t let me be left on the side of the road
Face-planted in the primroses.

I Walked to the Lake Tonight

I walked to the lake tonight,
casting the first footprints in the snow.
Out of breath from the cold,
and from my grief,
I sit on the bench and gaze at the lake,
now frozen, like my heart.
You are not here to comfort me.
The cold wind laps around my face,
and I am a tiny boat tossed about in the sea.
I welcome the cold.
It is sobering.
I know death is forever,
but you never died before.
How do I fill this massive void?
I wear your red coat and it warms me
as the bitter wind whispers your name,
and calls me back to an emptier home.
I must go now.
Trudging back home I think of God.
I do not blame Him.
Death is hardest on those still living.

I Have Never Cut My Hair

(For David Crosby)

I have never cut my hair.
The tip of the tail is made of birth hair
still wet from the womb.
Farther up is the blonde of toddlerhood,
the golden trusses of childhood,
a bird’s nest growing in the matted part.
The light brown of the teen years,
the treasures stolen from the cute boy,
embedded into safe keeping.
The brown of young aduthood,
flipped to and fro as if I didn’ care.
The dark brown of marriage.
My hair was longer than my train,
flowing over rock and pebble.
The brunette trails had to be rolled up like a tape measure
so the baby wouldn’t get tangled in them.
The pepper and salt of middle age,
the salt and pepper of the advancing years,
the salt and dry split ends of old age.
My newest hair is brittle and white.
I have never cut my hair;
now I am ready to die.
My hair will grow even after I am dead.
It will be my death hair, still living,
attached to the end of my birth hair.
At my funeral
they will see photos of me:
Dragging my hair through sand from the sandbox,
sporting a ribbon, a crown, a veil, a hat, a bathing cap, a tiara.
Sun shining through it,
painting a dry stone wet with the tip.
Birds taking refuge there.
Braids of young lovers coming together.
Lengthy hair in tie-dyed colors,
dangling over the Grand Canyon,
trailing through the Bad Lands,
rushing over Niagara Falls.
Many people across the land had to assist in its washing,
the long strands being brushed daily
and put on top of my head,
a bun as big as an elephant
weighing me down.
Then the adventure of its unraveling.
The enormous blanket of comfort surrounding me.
The mass of children twirling and jumping rope;
mustaches they crafted and laughed behind.
The clothesline to dry their clothes in the summer.
The dog’s leash.
A tug of war.
Hair flowing over the Sierra Mountains,
then dipping into the sea.
In a meadow, dancing with white daisies
atop my head as a crown.
A feather duster used on Fridays.
I felt it growing year by year,
slowly forming cell by cell,
as cells divided and produced new,
older looking, hair.
I made a hammock to sleep in,
and I rocked myself, singing peacefully.
I pulled my woven blanket again around me,
the colors blending into each other.
It was my turban when I became ill
with the advancement of life.
The last photo:
My hair lining my coffin
and the dress I wear to present myself.

Jill Angel Langlois