How do I love thee?

I F YOU COULD HARNESS MUSIC TO A MUSCLED HORSE AND PLOW A FIELD OF fragrance with it; if you could seed and grow the truth and crop its fruit with carbon steel; if you could drink the four winds whole and raw— the juice and flesh, the pulp and blood, the

skin and rind and heart of life — then you could be a poet.

But if you couldn't — though you can read with appetite and pleasure, like any epicure eats — then join us for a moment here.

Here, we celebrate the poets of Southwest Florida.

Often their work is slow and painful, as Oscar Wilde noted: "I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."

Often their muse is drowned by some imposter, as A.E. Houseman suggested: "And malt does more than Milton can/ To justify God's ways to man./ Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink/For fellows whom it hurts to think."

Yet they persist, facing a river of resistance from a noisy world and the endless threat of obscurity.

Here, then, is what our poets give.

My Nightmare

Hot
Wet, hot, hot
Hot, wet, hot, hot, hot
Wet, hot, wet, hot, hot, hot
Hot, wet, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, wet
Wet, hot, hot, wet, hot, wet
Hot, hot, hot, wet, hot
Wet, hot, hot, hot
Florida summer
Hot
— Otis Firefly

Extant at the Same Time

A moon sliver radiance
in my curtain of dusk,
highlights the edge
of the subtle darkness.
Not enough luster
to light the way.
The brightness diminishes
away from the source.
Poised on the edge
of consciousness,
seeing profound and mundane
simultaneously.
Knowledge that both
are momentous,
hastens my death
by dread.
— Susan Sokol

Black Sheep In The Fold

Black sheep in the fold,
What on earth does your future hold?
Years have come and years have gone
Yet here you are, standing all alone.
Is it the dark color of your skin,
Why other sheep won't take you in?
Or maybe it's that you've grown too old,
You've lost your value and can't be sold.
Black sheep in the fold,
How long have you been left out in the cold?
How does it really make you feel,
To know you're losing your appeal?
Have you ever wondered why,
You were born to live but long to die?
Now you're limping, maimed and bruised,
And wonder if you could still be used.
Black sheep in the fold,
You've been made from a different mold.
Your Creator specifically had this done,
So you'd be special like His Son.
See, He was rejected and beaten too,
But He died to prove His love for you.
The Lamb of God, a Good Shepherd is He,
Who paid a dear price to set all His sheep free.
Black sheep in the fold,
Don't live in fear, let your story be told.
Let others know of your unique skill,
Which your Creator gave you at His will.
Don't allow others to put you down,
Or let negative circumstances make you frown.
You're here today as God had planned,
So arise, Black sheep, and take your stand!
— Michelle Antoinette James

Life is Fair

Answer badness with badness,
Easy to do
Answer kindness with kindness,
Easy too
Answer unkindness with kindness,
Now that takes insight
Call it action and you're right
Call it karma with no fright
Not about wrong or right
What we send around comes around
It applies to all of us while earthbound
If we take responsibility for our thoughts and actions
It's we who decide how others' words cause our reactions
Blaming and judging others
May be our druthers
Y
If that's what we believe
It's what we receive
So be aware,
Life is fair.
— David Hauenstein

Dejection on a Florida Summer Afternoon

On this ominous afternoon
I've had my fill of Florida,
My fill of alligator-friendly heat,
Of red weather
Bursting from the TV screen
Into a dark angry clot
Over our fail-safe houses
And alien lawns — my fill
Of violent venereal rain
Fueling the overgrowth
And overbuilding, the excess
Of Paradise paved over.
On this ominous afternoon
Lightning flashes
In diabolical sync
With the signs on Tamiami.
Inside my conditioned
Condo cocoon, outages blink
Off and on, off and on,
Urging me to evacuate
Before the unborn mosquitoes
Get to beat their wings
And the mouth of red weather
Swallows me whole.
— Joe Pacheco

A Lamp of Love

A baby girl with reddish hair
Stopped crying hard and loud -
Held in the arms of her loving mom,
Her dad stood mighty proud.
The years rolled by - how fast she grew -
A precious family prize -
Perfect till the day she had
A problem with her eyes.
The doctors tried but all in vain
To help the child to see,
And when the parents heard the news,
Their tears flowed endlessly.
Confined, confused and wondering why,
She groped to find her way,
Till darkness fell upon her world
And took her light away.
Learning to accept the change
Was brutal and unfair -
Her parents, how they bore the pain,
Yet gave their best of care.
Then someone of compassion came
Seeking out the child -
A teacher with a noble heart -
Tender, kind and mild.
Said she studied with a man
Whose method proved to find
There was a way that light again
Could shine for the blind.
A special school she did attend,
And there her mind explored
Knowledge filled with hopeful dreams
Once held behind closed doors.
Wise but gentle, humble grace,
With prominence she grew.
The child became a model of
The one who taught her too.
No matter what the circumstance -
No matter what the fight -
Somewhere there's a lamp of love
To light the darkest night.
— Carmine Lombardo

The Captain's Sanctuary

©
Berthed now the old sailor - 'home' from the seas,
His faithful brave, vessel, wounded
brought to her knees
his last voyage over, his purpose gonestranded
lost ashore, doomed to question each dawn
but his soul is at sea as it always will be
with a fresh breeze to redeem
and dolphins playing abeam -
white sails full & by and black velvet night sky.
Yes, the old ghosts were there,
'lost' sailors- kindred spirits aware,
forever part of this ocean,
they sailed with great devotion
-by his side at the helm
when the storms overwhelmed -
thru endless storm nights
wind & wave slamming frights
& when that first peaceful star smiling thru the storm's sky
promised blessed relief and peace from on high
yes his comrades were near
his silent thanksgiving to hear
They smiled with him too when the sea's azure calm met sunset's crimson balm.
That transcendental union
of sunset & sea in communion.
In harmony three, wind sea sail & Thee ,
the triune waltz that set him free.
The cleansing timeless living sea -
Just, wind, sail, sky, Lord, & Thee
- yes these were the things that set him free,
these things were his sanctuary"-
but 'home' now the old sailor — for e're from his sea
— Capt John Hodes Ret.

The Fall of Camelot

There once was a time our nation has now forgot,
when American's stood proud and shining bright.
It later was christened an American Camelot.
A time when our nation shimmered with light.
An Irish Lad from Boston rose like a shooting star
Became President, led us to fight for right.
We knew it more when we lost this young tar,
Our shining day had become an awful night.
A single bullet, fired in Dallas at Dealy Square
shattered the dreams of a hopeful nation.
No one knew how we should prepare
we but knew now we had lost a generation.
A lone assassin or a careful plot carried out,
It didn't really matter what had caused the fall.
For we knew that it really mattered not,
Nothing would remedy the tragedy of it all.
A Nation alive, alive in light and thunder,
as proud of each other as we could be
and now we were torn forever asunder
By men of purpose we could not see.
Later in the 60's they shot a few more,
Martin and Bobby, a loss of wonder,
two more of our leaders dead on the floor
and a nation again felt torn asunder.
After that, we never trusted again.
we knew that something had gone awry.
and knew there had fallen three great men
Our nation expelled a heartfelt sigh.
Men and women in public wept
wracked with anguish and fear
It affected us, we wounded crept
a nation shattered, our course unclear.
Never again did we blindly trust
those slick lipped pols of yore
for they smelled of compliant must
of the blood and shared young gore.
Martin and Bobby and John
Three stars shining, a heroic set.
They left us in sad abandon
their sun no longer the day met.
For it was a cause, that we firmly believed
an idealism which hoped and dreamed
A people united and ready to conceive
an agenda that idealistically beamed.

At one time we were proud to be,
Americans, all of us every one.
And now we wondered meekly
If we would ever again see the sun.
Camelot, Camelot it is a wispy dream.
Of knights and ladies and chivalry
of a nations hopes, now a mournful scream
and faced now with an empty reality.
It's not true that dreams don't matter
Or nations can only hope to be good.
For it's individual men that ideas scatter
and manifest evil that must be withstood.
I say this now to hopefully inform
those younger and claiming not to know
That a nation's hope is a thirsting norm
which we all have the right to bestow.
America once stood tall and proud
A nation with shining moral code
That blared her trumpets loud
and offered one hope to bode
There once was a time that mattered
of shining promise in nationhood
and now it lays forever spattered
in a young man's untimely spilt blood.
Camelot, Camelot, where are you now?
For it is hard for a nation to remember
The promise of a generation's shining brow
as we reach now a time of our December
What we learn from this, I do not know
except that we are men and women alone.
And we have but to seek ideas for us to grow
Up and Away from the evil lying prone.
Dream, dream of all that may yet come,
For it is only you that can make it occur,
The idea of a collective, thoughtful sum
That can erase a painful murderous slur.
Camelot, Camelot, where are you now?
We wonder what might and could have been,
had the shooter from Dallas known not how
nor the festering evil wasted these men.
Light the lamp, burn it bright and hot,
A national flame for all to remember
That there once was a time like Camelot
Before the flame withers to forgotten ember.
— Joseph Martin

There Are Days of Quiet

There are days of quiet
when the hours crawl past
without a tic or toc
and the sun moves begrudgingly
creeping through its arc.
Clock hands move erratically,
jumping ahead only to stop
then refusing to budge
despite my pleading gazes,
relenting only by clicking back.
Even the heart grows weary
waiting for the night's advance
and the company of stars
to seize the taunting lone sun
and cast it below my horizon.
There are days of quiet
when I embrace solitude
like a friendly phantom
wrapped in its disguise
in the armor of surrender.
I keep the world at bay
with shuttered windows
and pulled up drawbridges
shouting "stay away"
from dark stares brooding.
Overshadowing anguish
and crushing desire under
vain bulwarks of self-preservation,
I bear arms of anger
against an enemy that ignores me.
There are days of quiet
when my head is haunted
like abandoned cathedrals.
Possessed with unanswered prayers
echoing in the desolation,
Memories fall out of me
into the blasphemous silence
crumbling to dust clouds,
coating my collapsing ruin
with bittersweet arsenic.
No angels call out my name
and silence dams my ears
as if a sudden vacuum
empties my world of air
deadening my loneliness.
There are days of quiet
when I celebrate solitude,
a fete for the fortitude,
for the strength of my soul
under its millstone of melancholy.
With proud tenacity
I deceive my longing soul
and push further into exile
dancing to the echoing beat
of my solitary heart.
I salute what I do not need,
raise a toast to myself
and drown the pain
in goblets of stubbornness
and a chalice of denial.
— Chuck Manson

Until We Meet Again

There are days I still can't believe you're gone
forever absent from me
It seems forever since your thick curly coat brushed against my hands
If I close my eyes for but a second I can see your intense gaze watching me watch you
For just that fraction of infinity I can feel your hot breath and wet nose dampen my skin

I can still hear your single bark above the choruses of neighborhood dogs — the same dogs you would have wagged at in a show of canine cameraderie
My days though busy and full of smiles, chatter, kisses and even woofs, are yet lonely and incomplete
Who can put up with this willful soul but you?
Who will see through my veil of mirrors and screens if not you?
Perhaps we are sent but one perfect soul to love and know us
But a gift for a fleeting second
Only to go back to the giver
On loan like one of those special library books that we have a short stint to read and learn before it must be given back
Oh where are you dear dog of mine?
Come back to me

Mend this spirit back into wholeness
Lap my tears away with your pink kisses and swooshing black tail
Though you now hang on walls and grace covers
It is you that I need
And I shall wait for the day that a girl and her dog shall meet again
— E. I. Rottersman