I recently had the pleasure of The Mystic Blue Review publishing 4 of my poems for Issue 5. I was estatic of course.
You can click on the link above to be taken to their home page and from there, their magazine is free to download. My poems begin on page 85 although I highly recommend reading the entire journal.
My poems are:. Unhinged, Memory’s Cliche, Twelve Steps Ahead, and Dear Josie.
Thanks for stopping by!
It’s been awhile since I have written in my blog. Mostly due to doing everything from my cellphone instead of my laptop. Here is my take for the The Sunday Whirl. Maybe this will be the week to pick back up on my writing.
Losing you is still too fresh
to work through all my grief.
My eyes sting with tears
I cannot shed, shock I suppose.
Trying to gather my thoughts
so I can remember your smile
long after mine has faded away.
It’s almost like betrayal
to live my life in peace.
The autumn chill is setting in.
Wish I could fly South for winter
and never look back on Spring.
Train whistle blows in the distance.
I touch up my make-up for no one.
Beside a tree trunk, I pause,
waiting for my mind to remember
how to inhale and exhale.
Breathing has become tricky
these days with you gone.
@Donetta Sifford 9-2-2018
This is the link to my poem “Barefeet and Thorns” that was published today on Ink & Voices. I was very excited at the response time I received and the way my poem was lay out. Any feedback is appreciated.
Find three things to feel
grateful for today.
power is cut off.
Wait that’s not right.
- My daughters are home and safe.
- I have a home for the lights to be off.
- Health is something easy to be grateful for.
That wasn’t so hard I suppose.
I still don’t want to feel any different about my electricity or f money
so I won’t.
Time Does Not Bring Relief – Sonnet 2
“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fearo go,–so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, ‘There is no memory of him here!’
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay