Rose Styron
It’s warm, not cold. / I’m not still old! / A childish rhyme / wakes me in time / to greet the sun: / sweet dreams have won!
In early April, a date came up for the celebration of the 25th anniversary of the signing at the Northern Ireland peace treaty.
Remarks delivered by the author at the nationally broadcast Peoples’ Filibuster for Gun Safety (24-7).
This winter the cold settled in my bones, and so with no poetry in my head I accepted invitations to the warmer West and South from Vineyard summer pals.
Our landmarks gone.
Rough violent winter
gouged the golden sandhills
collapsed the grassy lookouts
from the top, the wooden benches
Glued to the television during the last quarter of 2012 as events unfolded, the senatorial and presidential debates and triumphs, Hurricane Sandy, the northeaster, and then the tragedy and long mourning in Newtown, Conn., I had a mid-course emotional reaction, a sadness which now seems rather trivial. At the height of Sandy, while watching the boardwalk at Atlantic City break up piece by piece and float out to sea, memories of childhood summers spent there visiting my grandmother floated in on a tide of nostalgia