ISSN 2371-350X






Forgotten Playgrounds Lay Waiting


Elizabeth Stelling


‘No more looking back, faded epitaphs’ Laura Veirs, Wide-eyed; Legless

Initial meanings still scratched
on per-fabricated wood beams
crossing paths with rubber and screws
and small fragile hands; going up and down
sliding, gravity onto their backs

an aging man sitting on a bench
waiting at a bus stop, watching
a boy sails paper boats
they fill up with water, fall over
and move quickly down a drainage ditch

Any shelter, of plastic and sand
is almost a graveyard after dark, where
comrades once ran aground
ships within their vessels
looking for treasure islands’
dreams sailing long ago

Grownups still play, steam pumping
hard pressed arms spread out wide, possess
wings of low flying planes speeding past
smoke trails leaving messages
taking shapeless forms like empty ghosts

Marveling at the shades of white
and gray, fractures of secrets
in every marble seam
running over freshly laid grass, where
no one ever grows older

side stepping thoughts, will forever play
among un-marked and fading tombs
afraid to touch what has already broken
swarms of stones begin to rearrange
the day the heart decides to sleep.



Whenever There Is Water and A Bridge


Elizabeth Stelling


I am not looking at what was missed on the other side of a river, nor care what is going on around in reality. If the sun is out, and the wave caps are mild; then my father hooks up the boat, while mom gets busy packing bologna sandwiches, sodas, and cake. Little sister is stuffing her dolls in a suitcase, and big brother has dragged out every rod and reel on the driveway. Chaos comes on the clouds of doubt. Fighting always ensues for a very brief moment. The middle daughter has been sitting in the back seat of old blue goose anticipating this journey. Wishing all would hit the road so windows can roll, cooling us down. It might be a long drive fromTexastoNew York, but we will all work as a team as the car hits the dock. People are sure to smile when they see this happy family unloading a vessel on the Hudson. 































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17 Responses to “FEBRUARY POETS”

  1. Doesn’t it seem there’s a revivial in poetry? Not so much with the poets, but with the readers and the listeners? It seems to me that there’s a greater audience now in place to appreciate the art.

  2. Selma says:

    Hi Elizabeth. I really like your use of water and colour. Your poetry has a vividness that makes the emotion contained in it come to life. Terrific!

  3. Selma says:

    Hi Feltsensejunkie. I really like your use of colour. There is a poignancy to your work that is quite moving. Very well done!

  4. Selma says:

    Hi Jennifer. An exquisite piece. Delicate, almost ethereal imagery. The sparrow thin wrists provide such a striking image!

  5. Selma says:

    Hi Marsha. You have just covered two of my favourite subjects – sitting in a tinny and watching a crane. Love both poems. I love the image of the village scurrying at the back of the seabird. That is fantastic!

  6. Selma says:

    Hi Steve. You present very powerful images. Your poetry has a great impact. Really like the line – ‘the Dove has hope encased in his thin black collar.’ Oh, yes.

  7. Selma says:

    Hi Jessica. Beautiful work. ‘And Speak of Shadows’ is just glorious. And I can relate to your ‘Occupy’ poem…

  8. Selma says:

    Hi, Guy. I really like your poetry. Your image of the turquoise water between exposed rocks is just gorgeous. Very, very nice!

  9. swichman says:

    Lovely words……….for me they create paintings. Great to read your work here!

  10. […] can now read on-line two of my poems in TUCK Magazine‘s February […]

  11. […] poem is now in Tuck Magazine A crane stretches up from a foundation pit, a constructivist diagonal beyond gardens in the sky […]

  12. […] This poem is in Tuck Magazine […]

  13. […] BOOK REVIEWS and of course POETRY. Please pop over and have a look, this is where my poems are TUCK MAGAZINE but when you’ve had a look at my work, please spend some time there and have a look at other […]

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