Rhonda C. Poynter
BEDTIME STORY
for Gannon Blue, seriously ill
The stars bloom like
Silver thistle, and
Night slivers itself
Against the river.
The road we walked,
Soaked through from sudden
Winter has faith,
And waits for us, again.
The stars bloom like
Silver thistle, and
Pin your name to
Morning:
The wind does nothing.
It's a silly child,
Throwing pebbles at the
Moon.
* * *
SONNET (LUPUS AT THREE A.M.)
I have this figured out, at last:
This is because of a past life.
I no doubt stood on deck, and turned my back,
On drowning souls in dying light:
I left them to their God and prayers,
As I escaped into a small warm boat.
Midnight rocked me, moonlight smoothed my hair
While others swallowed heartless night.
I have this figured out: my bones
Were always meant to drown.
This is just a strange and different ship
And I will go down
Into the depths. I've always known
What's meant to come of me -
This will take my blood, my bones, my soul
And commit them to the sea.
Rhonda C. Poynter has been published in many magazines, journals and anthologies, most recently
Triggerfish, Blue Bear Review, Dark Matter, Wascana Review,
Minnetonka Review (which awarded her their Editor's Best and a $150 prize, for a set of three poems)
and Tipton Poetry Journal(which nominated her for a Pushcart Prize). Poynter
has one published book of poetry Start the Car (Warthog Press, 1998); she is now working on her
second collection Ghost Sickness, a reference to the genetic medical issues that she and her son
Gannon both deal with.
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