Do You Enjoy poetrywatch?
Want to see it continue? Then please, send your poems to us and let the Whatcom Watch share them with our readership! Seriously, we really do want your roughly 25-line poems (though length is by no means a deal-breaker; it’s how you use those lines.) featuring or specific to Whatcom County and issues addressed by Whatcom Watch like government, the environment and media. Send your poems to: email@example.com and let’s make magic happen.
“When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” — John F. Kennedy
Poetry has a voice in our community, and the Whatcom Watch is adding to its chorus. You all love poetry, right? Well, here you go! Subject matter is unlimited, but poetry featuring or specific to Whatcom County and issues addressed by Whatcom Watch (government, the environment and media) will likely get first preference. Please keep it to around 25 lines; otherwise, we might have to edit your work to fit. Don’t make yourself unprintable.
Send poems and your short, two- or three-sentence bios as a word document attachment to firstname.lastname@example.org. The deadline is the first day of the month. Please understand that acceptance and final appearance of pieces are subject to space constraints and editorial requirements. By submitting, authors give Whatcom Watch express permission for first-time publication rights in paper and electronic editions of current or future volumes of Whatcom Watch.
Last night’s rain
shrouds my view
with eerie mist.
Arboreal ghosts slowly
shed this flimsy film
to reveal their green flesh.
Pine needles dangle
rhinestones from each diamond
tip. Jewels on loan,
until the sun’s fingers
cache them away.
Karen Moulton is a seasoned international teacher who spends the school year in Taipei, Taiwan, and summers in Bellingham, Washington. She has had a home in Sudden Valley for the past 15 years.
“A Princess, you say?” the tourist asks while observing
The old ragpicker lady roaming the streets.
“Daughter of an Indian chief?”
he again said in great surprise.
For indeed she looked like the other poor and homeless
Struggling on the streets of the city named for her father —
The name of the proud warrior chief, a mighty eagle,
Master of the skies.
She sits in her abandoned glory doing her modest work
Regal duties left behind in an ancient plumed past.
Her wings are folded, atrophied, without use when her life was tossed
Into the rubble of oblivion, now a forgotten relic.
“My, how far down she has fallen!” judged again
The white visitor.
Is that true? Is it not the white man’s religion that says
The first shall be last and the least shall be first?
Perhaps her eagle spirit remains undefiled to soar far above
The cruel neglect, ignorant power, vicious acts
Leaving those far below on bended knee or just face down
In the dirt they have made.
As she rises high into the spirits of eternity
What does she know of those bogged down below
With the burdens they thought she carried?
Sharon Robinson is a local poet who says she loves being surprised by beauty in unexpected places. This is often in Native American space for her.