Poems for Persons of Interest

  Summer from winter Never has a winter seemed so long. I walk in darkness when I walk outside and trees are hung with wet instead of leaves. I can only think of little winds that slide across the floor of orchards full of daisies, trailing threads like the shimmer of a snail. I think of foot-hot soil along field edges and speedwell shedding all its lovely frail blue butterflies of flowers in the grass. I think of stirring leaves that bring the light back and forth like an eye that stares and shuts. I think of scarlet poppies, and the sight of sea, a faint mirage beyond the corn, and larks that melt away into their song. But summer draws no nearer for my thoughts. Let me be patient; let me only long for the nearer daffodil and celandine; and let my dreams have other shades than green.

  So this was where he stood So this was where he stood, this where he sat, my piano felt his touch, my books his gaze; that painting had his comment, this his praise, he trod my garden and he stroked my cat. No thing has value, now, except in that he saw or did not see it in those days which have, themselves, dissolved into the haze of Past, unlike the feelings they begat. They say, to comfort lovers left alone, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I am not sure. Do ostriches miss flight, not having flown? Deprived, would they not mourn the loss for ever? He showed me Paradise, and locked the door!

Glory Be to Mullet-Headed Thunder Gods The lines were down but that didn’t stop me.  I called a hundred times and no one  answered. I reached out to the gospel singer  who reached out to the proud boys who said they were fed up and ready for revolution.  She said people get hurt in revolutions.  They didn’t care. They were tried and found  guilty of their ancestors’ crimes so why  not own it. We’d all be hurting soon.  The wind whistled through its missing teeth.  It whistled in the undergrowth. Misled us  with its ninety days of summer. We knew  it wouldn’t last –though we never  thought we’d be hanging on the margins.  Did we think they wouldn’t find us? I was ankle-deep in chloroplast hanging on the margins pretending I was Huck  Finn’s dog, digging for a bone I didn’t bury.

  The Training Ran Long It made time stand still then  move back and forth.  They said we had to tough it  out or hit bottom and maybe breathe gas. We didn’t  say a word. You could hear  sniffles and throat clearings. The rattle and hum of  the air conditioner. The sun  poured in. Somebody  whispered. Someone crinkled  cellophane and coughed.   Someone moved a muscle.  We could almost see  the boredom bead like sweat  on one another’s brows.  When the whistle blew we  made a run for it.  You didn’t need eyes at that stage. You’d stagger  from window to window  and slosh from the dry side  to where it was wet.

  Editor’s Note Dear Readers, Welcome to the December 2025 issue of Poems for Persons of Interest! I am proud and pleased to offer you poems of love, memory, family, history and contemplation from the 27 wonderful poets who share their work in this issue, including:    J.S. Absher , whose “Life List” takes us into an experience of problem-solving, family memory, beauty, and guilt.  Abiodun Peter Ekundayo, who with “ In This Poem, Love Wears a Mask,” paints a portrait of yearning, desire, and hope. Kate Bluett , who teaches both the reader and her son how to face the things we’re afraid of in “To My Son, On Fear.” Idinye Eweha Favour , a new voice to watch for. “A pen that loves" takes us into the beauty and power of art. I could go on, but it’s my hope that you’ll read the poems in this issue yourself, walking through their landscapes of nostalgia, pain, and everything in between.  Thank you to all our past and present contributors for...