Poetry Sharing Page

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). For all questions or submissions contact Tom Nicotera at tnicotera@libraryconnection.info.

 

Who Am I?

I am flesh, blood and bones and full of life,
but I continue to deal with hatred and strife.
I am human just like everyone else you see,
but for some strange reason you ignore me.

Who am I, I wonder out loud with a bit of pain?
Am I that invisible? It is driving me insane.
Who am I, I often ask myself with a bit of shame?
Can someone tell me? Is this just a sick game?

I breathe, I love, I hurt, but I still feel the hate,
I see and feel it, I want to be equal, don’t make me wait.
I am visible to the naked eye, I am not a blur,
So when you do see me, don’t call me a racial slur.

Who am I? I am human just like you – created by God,
who made us all from the same cold earthly sod,
So I know who am I, I also know who you are,
So see me for what I am, a gifted and mighty shining star.

by Woodrow Dixon

 

Untitled

You have stood me
up and made me know
a heavy truth that
when with grace I
gasp and say
We cannot breathe
what you hear me
say is grace;
you bow your head
and reach out for the
hands of others yet
do not pass sustenance
or even water to
an other as you say
“Ahhhmen” before me;
and when with anger
— heavy because
pain has been carried for
so long — I
gasp and say
We cannot breathe
what you hear me
say is anger and so
you shake your head
and step away and
say you see no other
and deny me grace
to be both and
.

by Deidra Riggs

 

Voices in the Night

Sometimes the weather is good and other times it is bad,
living on the streets in these conditions can drive you mad,
but still you have to move on and continue to live life,
no one is going to praise you for living or dying in strife.

There are so many sounds to be heard on every street,
some are good, some are bad, not too many are sweet,
some people talk, some people whisper, some express fright,
but those are the sounds of the many voices in the night.

Many people want to break free from the jail called the street,
but they are like prisoners handcuffed and shackled at the feet,
but even if they fall, they know the only choice is to rise again,
because if they don’t, they will be committing a moral sin.

There are so many crying aloud at night on any given street,
some are praying, some are cursing, some even trying to tweet,
some people talk, some people whisper, some express fright,
but those are the sounds of the many voices in the night.

by Woodrow Dixon

 

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

The leaf floats
Down
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

Roaring wind
On the sea
Tosses the sailing ship
Carrying tea
Sailors beware
And hunker down
King Neptune
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

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

 

Blue Birds

Last night
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
Goodbye birds
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