Here is the latest installment of Poet’s Corner, presented by the Edmonds-based EPIC Poetry Group.

Checking In

”Oh, Punkin, how about if we just leave it there for now, take it again
tomorrow norming . . . or not . . .”

As you can tell, Max is much better at peacemaking than his
brother Daryl,
husband of Janice. Who knows
what brought that duo together,
what force implanted the magnets that keep them
from falling terminally out. And why

does that make me think of gravity and how, all
because of it, this thing called “information loss”, that devil,
is rampant out there in space,
losing stuff we’ve been counting on
all this time,
like with the two mates trying, who knows how, to stay
one.
It’s a wonder there is anything
left to say to each other after those cosmic forces have had their way with us. Even

worse, I just heard that the moon keeps retreating from Earth by
one inch a year. The moon, I’m saying.
I myself have been betting my whole life on the moon, haven’t you?

Irene Myers

~ ~ ~ ~

Turnings

A prevailing script ends an old friend’s life.

Andrea Bocelli and Malena Ernman sing Con te Partiro —
I drop into a Mediterranean of currents, claw to get my stroke
in the prevailing swells.

Between layers of
coffee house chatter
minutiae of the 9-to-5
cleaning up after the deluge
an ancient aching pokes through, insisting

that what we know from all of time and breath
counts less than our simple kindness, our
generosity made plain, our
two-way love in this one-act life,
counts less than what our
wild heart craves with
all its heart,
its wildest-dreaming heart.

There was earlier,
when I first knew in my bones
that time would not be waiting.
There is now,
when time turns and looks me straight in the deep eye, through
the pummeling wave—
truly no
no more waiting.

Irene Myers

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Irene Myers is a life-and-career/retirement coach by vocation, a fiddler of traditional Nordic music by avocation, and a poet by gravitation. Long-time resident of Seattle, now 6 years in beautiful Edmonds. In her writing, published and unpublished, she is steadily intrigued by what is yet to be named.