Residents of the Bloomfield and surrounding communities are invited to submit their poetry for consideration to appear on the library’s Poetry Sharing Page! Poetry submissions (up to three one-page poems at a time) are accepted on a monthly basis and are due by the 15th of each month. (Some slight reformatting of your poem may appear due to technical constraints).
Please note: For all questions or submissions contact Tom Nicotera at 860-243-9721. Soon:a new email address will appear here for your use in submitting poems for consideration.
So many readings/open mics blooming all over Connecticut! Get involved! Check out our “Wintonbury Poetry Series” schedule. Also checkout the following website for upcoming events, state-wide: Ctpoetry.net/events.
When Eleanor Comes
I dust once a summer, when Eleanor comes.
The rest is a revolt from the oughts of winter
and the rigidities of fall
when we clean out the fridge,
load up the car with cans we didn’t eat all summer.
When my husband gently asks if the cobwebs
will make a permanent home for spiders, I say
Just before Eleanor comes,
I’ll give the house a good cleaning.
Or when I see the mould creeping not so insidiously across the baseboards
in our bathroom, I’m tempted to grab some cleanser and whisk it off
there and then, except I know that when Eleanor comes,
I must have the house smelling sweet,
so not too sadly I promise myself not to forget the baseboards
when I clean –– when Eleanor comes.
When we heave that flare gun we bought
for the sailboat we sold in ’86! ––
We never did fire it; let’s try it in mid-August––
it’s famous for meteor showers––
folks will think they’ve seen a shooting star,
when Eleanor comes.
– by Kathy Carle
Smooth Shiny Satin Candy Flowers
Starvation thin the wispy stems pea-smooth.
Buddings all pinkest pink.
Still more sweet than the hue’s once upon label, shocking pink.
So wraith-like, can barely remain upright, bending, swaying.
Yet too bright-hued to be frail.
Consumptive out on the town one last time.
– by Nancee Cheffet
I Remember Our Be-coated Bodies Hugging
I remember our be-coated bodies hugging,
then myself snuggling down in the back seat
of the too small auto.
In the early years the cars we trekked to uncle Art’s in
were unusually small.
But so much in that big white ranch house is remembered as big.
As big as any of us might have wished or dreamed it to be!
The first encounter was with uncle Art
and his beaming grin of welcome as he flung open the door.
On a particularly chilly night there might already be
the brightness, the warmth of a fire he’d lit in the living room fireplace.
In the middle years little children, a new generation,
joined aunts and uncles, and one spinster.
Some of the warmth was evoked by cocktails we sipped.
But then again the star of the event was familial affection, steady, year after year.
It propelled our ship, even as our numbers grew smaller with the years.
How could we have imagined then these later years,
with their haunting memories of olden days:
of bigger trees, of family so ample it filled every corner,
so many large boxes for us, now the sparse survivors.
The lone spinster digs into her treasure trove of memories.
She attempts to capture the bright lit memories,
as we kids once caught fireflies in the summer.
– by Nancee Cheffet
The Eternal Push and Pull
The poet so tender wants to disown the mad lady
spouting ugly curses, foul raucous loudness.
But how is it possible?
For she is one and the same:
bizarre filth meshed in with the chiffon fabric.
And how the male must despise his fears,
his bluster, the posturing he affects.
Seeing it reflected back to him, he wants to shut his eyes.
But how can he? The world’s madness is his own.
His madness is part of the earth’s burgeoning insanity.
And yes, this life with its thorns that cause the blood to spurt
is also the red, red roses.
She can’t bear the world as it struts and poses
with its hype on the magic box. But it’s either
take it or leave it. There is no other for her to fly to,
and no wings for her with which to soar!
It’s the push and pull – you love him.
Even despoiled though he might be, he is dearly familiar.
– by Nancee Cheffet
Bloomfield Tobacco Plants
We were here when the earliest European settlers arrived
The Indians had farmed us, but we survived
We were harvested, dried, sometimes chewed, or turned into smoke
And not just by natives of the Indian Band
But by newcomers from Europe who came to our land
We became a commodity they turned into smoke
But that is not enough, and this is no joke
We were stuffed
into boxes or pipes and seldom rebuffed
But we helped the farmers who sold us for money
A great deal for them, but for us, not so funny
Now centuries later we are called Nicotiana
From the Gulf Coast to the forests of Indiana
And everywhere in between
Where you can still see the same scene
Connecticut discovered us, early in the last century
and we did quite well for Bloomfield farmer’s treasury
We blanketed her north fields each spring with covers white,
Were succored, watered, cut, and harvested without a fight
Today there is but a hint of what we once were
But we are proud of our past and glad we were here
–by Frederick A. Hesketh, Historian Wintonbury Historical Society
The leaf floats
A mountain stream
And through a mountain town
To a crystal lake
Where it stops awhile
On the water top
Ready to travel a mile
And it does
Down a rapid river
through and around rocks
The fast water will deliver
The leaf to Sunset BayTo the ocean blue
The leaf came a long way
To give this message to you
-by Robert Regnier
The Sailing Ship
On the sea
Tosses the sailing ship
And hunker down
Is wearing a frown
But the sails are set
And the ship is strong
Down below deck
They are singing a joyous song
“Carry me master” “Over the wave”
“The ship is our savior”
“And we are all salty and brave”
by Robert Regnier
Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder
It’s been said…and it’s true
But beauty lies, more importantly, deep in the “I” of the beholder
The Source, the Ocean, the Wellspring
So turn to that Center, simply, without tension or pretension
Allow this “I” and eye (and ear, perhaps) to open to this loveliness
Then it will flow like a river, grow as high tide in the sea
Bring that experience of life as spring…
Ever-new, ever-returning, ever-green
So very, very beautiful, so necessary, so true
by Howard Banow
I said goodbye
To blue birds on my window
And started to cry
They flew away
Through the trees
With the wind
On an autumn breeze
We’ll see you in the spring
Nature and the heavens
Will make you sing
To us when you come back
To our house on the hill
Yes I see the blue birds
On my window sill
by Robert Regnier
He pounces on his prey
Like a stone
Eyes like lightning
Claws like steel
Secure in his self
The eagle will feel
An ever changing world
With his feet in the door
Above the calm waters
The eagle will soar
Higher and higher
Across the sky
Encouraged to live
Fully, and never cry
by Robert Regnier
In My Room
I’m going to my room
About alligators and panthers
And flower box seed
The ones that I’m afraid of
And many that I’m not
Young girls with color in their hair
Baseball players who strikeout a lot
It’s hard to decide
Which book is the one
That will open my world to adventure and beauty
And all things dear under the sun
So I open my book
And read thrilling chapters only I can see
Page after page keeps me looking for more
So in my room is the place for me
by Robert Regnier
What Is Hope
Hope is rubbing two sticks together
when you’re a solitary survivor.
And you’ve created warmth
for your chilled, damp body.
Light to read any book, heat to cook up
that which will nourish your body.
And if you’re watching your piece of earth
become not only
but also a glowing thing: a hopeful one.
by Nancee Cheffet
Finding My Way
Standing at the top of the stairs
I hear the noise.
I feel the vast emptiness.
The loss of all that could have been and never was.
What are the reasons?
There are no explanations.
So many questions.
Where are the answers?
I am overwhelmed.
There is no denying the sadness I feel
as darkness rolls in around me.
I look for tomorrow when peace will prevail.
Hoping I find the light and my way to happiness.
Where at the end of the road all will be forgiven.
I believe love fuels our will to survive.
Being the healer that allows us to fall into favor with our past.
Giving us space to search
for that special moment
that defines who we are.
by David Mello
Treasure in Vacant Space
He stoops for an earring in the parking garage space.
It dislodged from its wearer’s rightful base,
With length, glittering even in the half-gloomy place.
His stretching mind’s eye sees its owner take a seat
And order a martini to wait for and meet
A man with whom she will perform a wondrous feat.
As she sips, others give her the inquiring eye
‘Til he enters and asks if he may sit at her side,
And with talk and smiles closer to her he slides.
In time, he rises, pays, and provides her his arm,
The couple walking, bedecked with dazzling charm.
To the strobe-lit dance floor they proudly proceed,
Touching, holding, squeezing—tighter in warmth and need.
Later, as one, they sweep through the elevator door
And clinging together, descend to the lowest floor.
He, facing her, hurriedly clutches his car keys
And she, vixen-like, tosses her flowing hair to tease.
They hungrily eye each other across the car’s top,
Both engrossed, oblivious to the earring’s drop.
Joyful and anxious, they accelerate their flight,
Married mates moving toward morning’s approaching light.
The earring retrieved, a momento to keep or sell?
Its sparkle slowly casts aside fantasy’s spell.
But in hand, the gem’s reality is hard to dispel.
by John P. Kneal