word hive: a space for poets

Our NEW DIGITAL HOME

2022-06-18T14:16:00.004-07:00

Go TO: wordhive.org for our new home on the web

Richard T. Beck

2022-03-02T10:54:00.003-08:00

One of our Readers from the Saturday Night ALL KINDS OF CRAZY LOVE - POEMS ON LOVE shared these poem of his. Thank you for your gift, Richard.

To my wife as I grow older

Because I favor you amongst all others

I can pick you out amongst the crowd.

Sense the direction to turn to find you

know which room to search that hides you.

When asleep I am awakened by your absence.

My need to have you closest to me

even when the noblest glow of rapture rings

in celebration of all my doings and things;

I am nothing by measure without you.

It's a cultivated presence over the years

that has made me so tentative and residual.

When we are not together I feel ashamed.

Feel unwholesome and strange

as if an unattached appendage claims

it should be through severed nerve reclaimed.

That my every conscious moment is missing

its definition and affirmation;

if you are not witness to its confirmation.

Time is fleeting when I am with you.

No pursuit is worthy to forego you.

How strange it is to upstage the man

as the pendulum swing slows in demands;

that my love for you would gain momentum

even until the very last diminution of sand

falls from the speeding hour glass.

*******************************************

Turn as the Seasons are Changing

Standing still on a snowy hill

crying tears on an empty ocean.

They fall like stones but never reach bottom

for they are weightless and their need is to travel.

Traveling in circles, seeking a shelter,

they drift on the waves and the currents.

But they'll never see sunset only horizon,

for their visions can never arrest them.

Standing still on a snowy hill

reaching for the eye of heaven.

My touch is stung by a thorn of time

bleeding for the dying of the season.

Earth gape and swallow my heart

to wait for" the day of harvest.

To wait and to wonder on the step of my lover,

the step that can never be taken.

Standing still on a snowy hill

whispering my words to the winds.

I leave my mark to flee and turn,

turn as the seasons are changing.

I curse lost days and time-full night

measured sleepless by a tapestry unfinished.

For my love has no borders, no threads to be woven,

woven to blanket the oceans.

Standing still on a snowy hill

watching the flickering sun hide.

The clouds it draws are the smoke of dreams

that vanish to dew in the dawning.

The weather impatiently stirs the darkness

like a dreamer caught between waking.

Waking too early, for the morning is raining,

raining on an empty tomorrow.

3/19/79

*************************************************

when i have fifteen minutes

when i have fifteen minutes

there are a few things I like to do

finish my cup of coffee

lie down next to you

ripple your skin at the hairline

but not go too deep

just deep enough to arouse you

from your morning sleep

if I have fifteen minutes

before I go to work

I like to lift your nightshirt

and put your breasts to work

you cuddle in the blanket

pull cover to your neck

go go go you say half sleeping

one kiss upon your lips

in my last fifteen minutes

before I depart the world

this is what I plan to do

to show my love for you

Richard Beck was born in Coatesville, PA. He has a BA '77 from Villanova; an MA from West Chester '80. He did postgraduate work at Temple University in Horticulture and Landscape Design, Urban Education, and Education Psychology. In 1979, he received his Pennsylvania teacher certification at Immaculata. Beck retired from teaching in 2012. Since 2012, he has self-published three books of poetry and a book of short stories. Beck resided in the Coatesville area for 65 years before moving to Marietta, PA in 2021 where he now resides with his wife Maria.

Maria Thompson Corley

2022-03-02T02:45:00.008-08:00

One of our Readers from the Saturday Night ALL KINDS OF CRAZY LOVE - POEMS ON LOVE shared these poem of hers. Thank you for your gift, Maria.

Malcolm

Malcolm is mysterious.

Autism does that

when the “cures” don't work.

He talks

to himself

a lot,

to me,

only occasionally.

He answers

where, what, when,

not why or how.

His smile,

luminous;

his laugh,

irresistible;

reasons for his hilarity

(in bed each night

or randomly, inappropriately)

obscure:

“What's so funny, Malcolm?”

He won't say.

Or can't.

I pray.

Malcolm is bound

by misunderstandings.

Autism does that

when the “cures” don't work.

How to explain

not waving at men

when he's been taught

to greet everyone?
“It doesn't make sense, but...”

So he doesn't listen.

Will he get a job?

Will he fall in love?

I pray he has the chance

for willing surrender,

to a woman.

I pray the police never ask

for his unwilling surrender

or mistake his autistic behavior

for noncompliance.

I pray.

Malcolm is free.

Autism does that, too.

Free

to immerse

in his favorite virtual reality,

no glasses needed.

Free

to like

any music at all

without worrying

if he's cool enough

or black enough.

Free

to do

zumba and tap,

no matter who sees.

Free

to be

gentle.

Free

to be

sweet.

Free

from having to impress

with a. stone cold, rigid mask

of masculinity.

Free

to be

Malcolm.

And because

Malcolm

feels free,

I pray.

Maria Thompson

************************************************

Archeology

You surveyed my

terrain and staked my

perimeter, undaunted that

the parched sediment had long

withstood excavation.

You penetrated my

crust, then gingerly

pick-axed congealed fury,

metamorphed to

marble indifference by

leaden disillusion.

You scraped away

layers of resistance then

sifted through grimy particles

of fear, seeking fragments

of surrender.

Deep beneath, a bolted door.

You broke the seal, inching

through snarled, darkened

corridors, shedding

warm, amber beams

of lamplight on

long-forgotten walls.

You found, within

the labyrinth,

bone-dry bones.

Can your empathetic ear

lay sinew on the dusty

skeleton of my desire?

Can your phosphorescent smile

bring flesh and skin?

Can the delicate brush

of your fingertips tickle

and tease until I

awake, imbibing your

prophecy, gasping for

life-giving breath?

Can your lips remind me of

things I’ve forgotten how

to miss?

Dr. Maria Thompson Corley, a Juilliard-trained pianist, composer/arranger and voice actor, was born in Savanna-la-Mar, Jamaica, and raised in Canada. A contributor to Broad Street Review, she blogged for Huffington Post. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Chaleur, Kaleidoscope, Fledgling Rag, The Write Launch, and Midnight and Indigo. Her novels were published by Kensington (Choices), Createspace (Letting Go) and Kindle Vella (More Than Enough).

ALL KINDS OF CRAZY LOVE - Poems on Love

2022-02-03T16:06:00.002-08:00

Join us for a poetry reading of poems about love. Love of love, of people, places, things, love of nature or of the Divine.

We are looking for local poets to read 2 – 3 of their own poems for our spotlight on poems LOVE – in honor of LOVE and National Heart Month.

26 February 2022 – Virtual Reading – LOCAL POETS WORKS - 7:00 pm - 8:00 pm

If you are interested in reading, send copies of the poems you wish to read and a short poet’s bio. Deadline for submission is 22 February 2022. If you don’t have any, get out your pen!!!

Email them to: wordhive.poets@gmail.com

Link for EVENT: https://meet.google.com/osv-wpwn-yqf

Kids Making Poems

2022-02-03T14:53:00.001-08:00

From our Executive Director at word hive: a space for poets Glinda Johnson-Medland

“Because kids have stuff to say! Boy runs up to me, excited says...”Is this a poem Miss Glinda?”

Yes, my love it is indeed!

Kids playing with magnetic boards and word play - GROWING POETS AND OUR FUTURE!!!

From our sessions with The Boys and Girls Club of America, Columbia, PA.

Save the Date - SUSANNA WRIGHT'S BIRTHDAY - 4 August 2022

2022-02-03T13:52:00.004-08:00

Join us for cake and a poetry reading of Susanna Wright’s poetry.

Thursday 4 August 2022 from 6:00 pm – 7:30 pm at the Columbia Crossing River Trails Center, 41 Walnut Street, Columbia, PA (OUTSIDE Pavilion).

We will read poems written by one of the founding Mother’s here in Columbia, PA – what was then Wright’s Ferry. Susanna Wright was born in England on 4 August 1697 and contributed 30 some poems to our local and national poetic archives. Come on out and hear what she had to say (and for cake, too).

glinda@wordhive.org or tom@wordhive.org

We are a local 501 c3 organization in Columbia, PA

www.wordhivepoets.blogspot.com

April Poetry Workshop in Columbia, PA - CELEBRATE NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

2022-02-03T13:19:00.005-08:00

Join us for a poetry workshop.

Saturday 23 April 2022 from 9:00 am – 12:00 pm at the Columbia Crossing River Trails Center, 41 Walnut Street, Columbia, PA (INSIDE).

We will delve into the art and the craft of writing poetry with some readings and discussion around a handful of modern poets.

We will also explore writing your own pieces in a series of writing activities; working with each other to help develop our technique and skill as poets.

TICKETS AT: https://ticketstripe.com/tickets/20228

glinda@wordhive.org or tom@wordhive.org

We are a local 501 c3 organization in Columbia, PA

www.wordhivepoets.blogspot.com

Richard T. Beck

2022-01-21T03:27:00.001-08:00

Another one of our Readers from the Monday Night POEMS FROM THE MOUNTAINTOP shared these poem of his. Thank you for your craft, Richard!

“The River”

You are a River to your People

To a friend for his imprisoned son and all the Black Brothers who wade the draining tide

You are a river to your people;

counted amongst the names

of those dead or alive,

incarcerated;

stirring the alluvial carnage

of a tentacled past;

Hung like Christmas ham

as homage for our harvest;

Up the Route 66 corridor

you fled and leapt

‘cross snake soiled banks

where cottonmouths

spurned your holy step

and drowned your dream in whimpers.

From Canaanite hills

to Babylon dreams,

they deferred your Sargassian truth.

We know their dream;

their excess of love.

The rod and the staff give comfort.

The red rain

stings a porous page

of diluted history.

The spiked word

vaults ‘cross your indigenous waves

where sunlit whispers

baptized under a whipping moon.

A half eaten peach

rides a naked current

and will not return.

The belly of Eve is bloated.

Her diasporian sin

brings us to the river

and invites us get in,

and we, like Eve

weep salty tears

on brackish waters

and wade the draining tide.

Rage, curse, and bless us now;

beat hell out on the binding bar.

You are a river to your people;

paid tribute for our sin,

defiled by the cuffs

that hold you back

they have replaced

the stripes that bore your back

rage, curse, and bless us now;

Mother Jones’ cookie jar is hidden

and our belated, sugar-coated

Mr. Goodbar consciousness

oddly, sadly… bedridden.

used with permission

***********

“the last civil right”

we know their promise kept

god’s half or forty-acres

six feet of earth the equal measure met

our last civil right laid to rest

the dream deferred

on marbled stone

one color fits all our bones

used with permission

Maria Thompson Corley

2022-01-20T14:37:00.005-08:00

One of our Readers from the Monday Night POEMS FROM THE MOUNTAINTOP shared these poem of hers. Thank you for your gift, Maria.

"Big Yellow Taxi"

by, Maria Thompson Corley

The world paused as

Notre Dame burned, mourning

its grandeur, crumbling

like shards of spun glass, forgetting

the toppled spires pointed

towards a God they had

long ago dismissed.

Parisians and tourists stood

in solemn worship of stone

and ancient wood.

“Our Lady,” monument to

white male creativity:

though neither, her

damaged beauty left

me bereft as they.

My cathedral burns like

candle wax, each new

ache and wrinkle a

shortening of the

wick, while my fragrance

wafts then dissipates.

Democracy had no

assumed expiration.

Lit by careless

matches, ancient timbers and lofty

towers fall to ash behind a

facade of stone.

Shared with permission

**************************************************

"I am not an Angry Black Woman"