Poetry

Calling All Lorain County Poets! Since the first Lilac Festival in Lorain in 1931, lilacs have symbolized perseverance for the city. Residents in the early 1930s wrote songs about these intoxicating plants for a contest hosted by the annual festival. In similar fashion, for this year’s 91st anniversary of lilacs in Lorain, we are encouraging residents of Lorain County to write and submit their own poem about “Lilacs and Lorain.” Submissions will be accepted Fri., March 18th through Fri., April 15th. Winners will be notified by e-mail no later than May 20th and will be announced to the public on

Agto Nugroho at Unsplash   Wingspan larger than a thousand years, one loose feather swirling down to Earth, stirring salt in life’s primordial soup.   Lending stealth and voice to Harriet, sheltering her in night’s fearsome grace, recognizing kindred flight for life’s sake.   Mistress of the dark domain, Owl swoops in silence, guards the sleeping soul until the dawn, sun shatters cover, piercing light shines.

Opening Pseudo-Scientific Fact: Weighing 3,712 pounds, this ball of string is 24,901.461 times lighter than the heartache currently being experienced by one single compassionate human. I tried to push the pain away it rolled down a hill. Sorrow picked up twigs and dimes, growing in diameter. I put it in a casket pushing on the lid, squeezing out the tears I hadn’t yet shed. We floated to Lake Erie, my globe of grief and me. We scooped up dying leaves, swirling in damp misery. I cried out to Atlas, asked him for some aid. I’m sorry, friend, he told me

Am I not my sisters’ keeper? As we shout when wolves crouch down, and hold back blood and tooth and claw with flimsy skirts and petticoats and when we cheer the jungle king that lies with calves in sweet green clover water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Wisdom, pain and sorrow, shame water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Am I not my sisters’ keeper as the pressures of our lives erupt? Who can calm my sister down? Bowls of water, cool fresh water wiping fevered brows with prayer. Rock of Ages, cool fresh water offering faith and love and hope

I slog through muck, a sticky mix of wrongs that reign. I protest. I carry with me no sign, only one lone woman’s heart-scream. I side-step puddles, fearful of taking on more dampness, darkness, dread, doubt, despair. And yet And yet In a stagnant pool of tomorrow’s rain I see, within its waters, reflected the howl of another woman’s rage. Despite myself, I hope.

Appreciating urban art, I see “I love you, Tara” spray painted on every other overpass in town.   A sweet, romantic story, I think Until “They Trick Me, Baby” appeared next to one of them.   A plea for mercy! So I cheered on Graffiti Boy/hoped for forgiveness but, alas, it was not to be.   “Tara” was soon crossed out in sprayed splendor, replaced by a heartfelt “I love you, Dorothy.”   Maybe this time? One can only hope.