by Elizabet Stevens

How dare the wind blow from the Southwest
And bring no boats only the mist
That curls my hair
And leaves my face unkissed
How mean of the moon
To litter the sea with glitter
And be so bold
With a dustbin of gold
How cruel of the night to summon first light
Awake the children
Who jump ropes, laugh and sing
Sounds like wasps that pierce and sting
And tease my heart about what it doth know
Of hurricanes, rain and snow.

by Elizabet Stevens

When you are dead
the smell of hyacinths
will bring you back

Remember the day
we saw otters slapping their bellies
on the ice curling and uncurling
like acrobatic commas

Remember that house
so close to the sea waves splashed
on front room windows

I slept in an attic near the moon
stars kept me awake
snow fell on my hair

I played in the rigging
of yachts skippered by cool guys
one walked tilting to starboard
then port fore and aft
sometimes he hit bottom

He taught me to play Crazy Eights
showed me the proper fork
said pronounce your t’s then
vanished like the others

When you are dead
I will plant hyacinths
blue hyacinths and
I will forgive you

by Ken Holland

My grandfather is dead and lost maybe more lost
Than dead having died when my mother was twelve
And who can say she wasn’t glad he died that’s not
Something I’d say but I’d say my mother said very little
To me and my brother and what little she said
Had little to do with any love for her father
Or love of her father for her and perhaps it was
Word enough that my brother’s middle name
Was where my mother sequestered her father
To keep him safely shackled in that rarely spoken
Space where the ghosted sound of my grandfather’s name
Lay silent and solitary wondering when next it would
Be fed if my mother would again slide a tin bowl
Of her cold distance into his cold hands
Hands she raised to hide her eyes, to cover
Her mouth from the random spillage of love.

by Ken Holland

After a Seascape
(oil on canvas, attributed William Thornley, 19th c)

A ship caught in the storm-push of surf. Canvas inexplicably
unfurled. A palette of restless oil mimics the wind.
Clouds hold thick their stark flight. A small
portal of blue-stunned sky sits in
mockery. A foundering is
imminent. The shore
is thin. There the
faceless lean,
poised for
rescue or
plunder.