Poetry Archive
This page features an archived collection of poetry appearing in the paper from 2019-2021.
Artists who lived together, first at the Red Rose Inn in Villanova and later in Chestnut Hill, Pennsylvania, and who vowed to stay together their whole lives – though Green married at age 40 and left the ménage. Each achieved acclaim in the early 1900s, Smith and Green as illustrators, Oakley as muralist. For more information, consult – as I did – Alice A. Carter’s The Red Rose Girls: An Uncommon Story of Art and Love, 2000.
Like lightning, bolting from the sky —
A flash of inner sight consigned to words
That rip the page or heart.
Somehow I’ve always planned to visit you
in whatever is your off season, to wander
your back ways and appreciate sea level,
where I have lingered but never lived.
What if all
this time
crimson is the color
they’ve been waiting to be?
We revered their perfect green, and
as we mourn their death
red arrives.
This billowing pink sunrise
this festival
brings no weeping
only springing
joy
I observe this wonder, and am comforted to think
that she and her daughters, and theirs,
Will be doing this long after I am gone.
Diving, like a small, feathered seal
Into the pachysandra sea,
Bobbing, weaving,
Then the sharp jab
Of beak, a spear
To catch the prize.
Prone to quitting. Daydreams
about others and
a sense of closeness.
I Love You — you, the visceral armies
You, the beloved protectors of soul
You, the creative living
The cellular brilliance
I don’t read poetry! I read my dog.
But sometimes a poem draws me in.
I used to keep fresh beans around
and grind them on demand.
But not for me: I’m bigger on tea.
Here, parked with the hard cider:
a can and a bottle of pre-made brew,
cold pour and so on. What was I
thinking in late summer?
Dreaming of guests who never came.
First remember and enter the meadow, then follow the blaze of color
Medwo, metwa, to cut down, a mown field
Meadowlary, meadowy shadow
To flower is to be vigorous, prosper and thrive
Plant, bud, adorn, cover with flowers, blossom
I made my mask of many charmed doors
Of sunlight and folded song
Fomentations of linden
Of night, of silence dipped
A subtle concentration
As lilacs contemplate opening
Lids extend, down, dawn
They lie in faded rows, ten cents apiece –
today half price, tomorrow knifed, fine shred
recycled to wipe counters, noses – cease
as books whose authors are no longer read.
Women of a certain age
(Or born at a certain time
In a certain era, milieu, set of expectations...)
Can find their way around other women’s kitchens.
The photos appear, rectangles growing smaller
As more and more of us sign in.
We are in the kitchen, the den, the office—
“At home,” no calling cards needed.
I walk endless circles through the neighborhoods,
Trying to find new streets, new paths,
because at least when I’m moving I’m going somewhere
Even if I always end up back home.
Maniacal movement, watch my step
Trip over the line
Can’t be helped
Inconsequential minutiae stay on my mind
I reckon that we’ve just ran out of time
To address the slow motion
Tick tock, cinematic grains or the vine?
My dad was diagnosed with COVID. My brother has a fever today. My mom is considered essential. I can’t do math. Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day. Today, I exist in limbo. Maybe I’ve been here for awhile. How long? Time has fallen away.
Sometimes I crumple up like bedsheets
only smelling lavender and three-day-worn sweaters
A few months ago, I knocked the clock off my nightstand
I haven’t picked it up. I’m waiting
for the right time, I think
The Lyft driver called his wife twice. The first time,
she said their nephew had gone. Taken all his stuff
and gone. The driver coughed; when we asked,
he said smoker’s cough.
Your skin is stubble
which leaves a granular wake
I spoke with Mother Nature yesterday
I asked her about those bleached reefs
I asked her about our felled forests
I asked her about her hurricane program
New Year’s Eve rain turned ice in the dark.
Morning comes; rising low, sun appears.
Smooth curves, elegant grain
where bark has peeled away,
to be sawn into perfect lengths.
I know what I intend for all of you.
In the midst of this Corona crisis
I sip a cup of tea.
Free as I can be
I sip a cup of tea.
Trapped I am in
this six by seven cell,
a living hell for some.
My summer pieces are stored away
So I’m down to this turtleneck with rolled-up sleeves
Pale sunlight lounging along houses all day
Gives me hope of stretching it in both directions
Like saltwater taffy
1. Succulents
a. Fuzzy, or
b. Crowded in a pot, or
c. Shaped like rosettes
Banditry – face-mask bandanas at the Co-op
Money laundering – washing dresser-top coins, with lots of suds
Shooting up in the parking lot – drive to the doctor’s office, phone, and wait.
The nurse injects you in your car.
On the eleventh, I was sent home from work.
Now it’s been ten days of distance,
Zoom conferences, no rubbing shoulders
with colleagues and friends.
This is an internal dialogue. It goes like this: Why do you want to stay safe? What a stupid and insulting question!
Google Maps won’t tell you to make that first right at the Presbyterian church
Then go two stops past the nail salon, not that nail salon
Oh, it’s a vaping place now. Quick turn here. Pardon
Cherry blossoms
pushback
waves of cold
We try to wield our way home. Wend and yield a lane less alone. At the end of one telling I came across another’s labyrinth, detached like a discarded chrysalis — and was finally able to wander.
Now I understand
this is not a time
that we have seen before and
this is a time we may never see again
and what is unfolding
passeth my (current) understandment
Sometimes in life we are asked to stay Right where
we are, around loved ones and friends. This time of
pause allows for reflection and may, Unite the
United, until it ends.
When it comes to doing the right thing,
I’m fifty-fifty.
Louise Coffin, a former high school English teacher in Atlanta, revels in her Swarthmore retirement.
Alexis Young is a Swarthmore resident, an English teacher, and (till now) an unpublished writer.
Louise Coffin, a former high school English teacher in Atlanta, revels in her Swarthmore retirement.
Louise Coffin, a former high school English teacher in Atlanta, revels in her Swarthmore retirement.
Mary Reindorp lives in Swarthmore. Inspired by her days writing poems with her students at Strath Haven Middle School, she continues to enjoy capturing moments in words.
Linda M. Fischer’s poetry is widely published in the small press. Active for many years with the Mad Poets Society and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, she has published two collections of her work, Raccoon Afternoons and Glory. She lives in Swarthmore.
Sibelan Forrester is a Professor of Russian in the Department of Modern Languages and Literatures at Swarthmore College. She is a translator, a poet and a member of the Mad Poets Society.
Judith Trustone is author of The Global Kindness Revolution: How Together We Can Heal Violence, Racism and Meanness, where this poem was originally published. She lives in Swarthmore.
Linda M. Fischer’s poetry is widely published in the small press. Active for many years with the Mad Poets Society and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, she has published two collections of her work, Raccoon Afternoons and Glory. She lives in Swarthmore.
Linda M. Fischer’s poetry is widely published in the small press. Active for many years with the Mad Poets Society and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, she has published two collections of her work, Raccoon Afternoons and Glory. She lives in Swarthmore.
Sibelan Forrester is a Professor of Russian in the Department of Modern Languages and Literatures at Swarthmore College. She is a translator, a poet and a member of the Mad Poets Society.
Bob Small is a long time resident of Swarthmore living with his wife, and their cats, dogs, and chickens.
Kathy Barham lives in Rose Valley, Pa., and received an MFA degree from Warren Wilson Graduate Program for Writers.
Bob Small is a long time resident of Swarthmore living with his wife, and their cats, dogs, and chickens.
Bob Small is a long time resident of Swarthmore living with his wife, and their cats, dogs, and chickens.
Bob Small is a long time resident of Swarthmore living with his wife, and their cats, dogs, and chickens.
Kathy Barham lives in Rose Valley, Pa., and received an MFA degree from Warren Wilson Graduate Program for Writers.
Ed Krizek is a former Swarthmorean correspondent, and a former Swarthmorean who now lives in Ambler. His forthcoming book of poetry is The Pure Land.
Ed Krizek is a former Swarthmorean correspondent, and a former Swarthmorean who now lives in Ambler. His forthcoming book of poetry is The Pure Land.
Karen Brandow enjoys living in Swarthmore, jotting down random thoughts and musings on life.
Ed Krizek is a former Swarthmorean correspondent, and a former Swarthmorean who now lives in Ambler. His forthcoming book of poetry is The Pure Land.