Gretchen Venters

For J.

Your sweet words

taste like

cream swirling in a

warm vanilla chai

in a stoneware mug

that I’m hugging with

both hands

to warm my spirits

at that downtown coffee shop

on a rainy autumn day,

watching the town

walk by the raindrop-

splattered windows.

They buzz and hum

like New York City

at Christmas,

in my veins

like an endless

bridge of that Sinatra song

on an old vinyl

that inspires newfound hope.

Your embrace felt like

a mix of vintage velvet

and my grandmother’s pearls,

dressing the parts of my heart

that have forgotten

what it feels like to be chosen.

It felt like a heart squeeze—

a reminder of who I am

and the reverence of our faith,

because you mirror

mercy back to me

in such tangible ways

that remind me of His grace,

that paints over the past

like the new canvas offered

after a long-awaited snowfall.

For dVersePoets

For years I could sit very still

beside quiet glacial water,

as it slowly moved over tumbled stones,

with hardly a whispering of a sound-

But my thoughts rumbled like thunder

and crackled like lightning // opening my mind

like a category five hurricane.

& then just like it began- the storm finally passed

as storms often do- this time

with a judicial swish of a pen and

a thud of a gavel- it. stopped.

The howling winds hushed-

My thoughts that once swirled

and stuttered like a question within a question

Slowed to a whisper and then

like the end of a midnight ink flourish –

bled into closure like none other-

As they stilled to a long awaited silence.

For DVerse Poets’ prompt about Alma Thomas’s Arboretum Presents White Dogwood, (1972), acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum.

I remember that dogwood-

as if it was an old friend of mine,

After all, we did grow up together.

On days with fair weather-

I loved to lean

Just past grandma’s

pale pink reading chair,

After grandfather hung up Old Glory,

To peek at the quiet tall tree-

with a wild blanket of blossoms for hair,

It’s still what Spring looks &

smells like for me.

Sometimes I wonder why we never took family photos around that tree.

Perhaps a reunion with that silly old dogwood is overdue.

I can just see it now.

My old faded suitcase in hand &

Slowly breathing in //

the scent of a million memories.

The country air was cool that night.

Lightly tapping my worn ballet flats,

against old creaking planks of

this wrap around porch.

The sound of ice softly crackling in

a small tumbler as I crunch on bits of

slightly frozen lavender lemonade.

Listening to jazz again – never knowing the composer,

I wove a blanket of the night sky, square by square inch,

as it draped across my lap, brushing against goosebumps on my naked knees-

Soft crushed velvet tumbling about –

For those wondering where I find such a believable moon-

Would you believe me if I told you //

That my father gave it to me?

(Well, he surely did.)

I run my slender fingers over the grey and cream stitching and sigh //

As I pack up my sewing kit for the night.

My nose is running just the slightest bit

& I can feel the taste of burning wood at the back of my throat.

Autumn is nearly here.