The Word Ocean

Angela Marie Carter

Angela Carter comes to us through my friend Annmarie Lockhart over at  Vox Poetica. Angela has her own website where you can read more about her. Here is what she told me:

Since eight-years-old, I’ve been a writer. It has always been natural to me.

Born and raised in a Virginia farming town of less than 280 country-folk, I moved abroad to England for nearly five years, only to find memories followed me. I returned to sweet Virginia with a new-found confidence, and voice, to speak of the hidden life that I have experienced, and how it has followed me through every moment I’ve lived since those times.

My first full-length collection of poetry will be published in 2014.  The book speaks of all the delicate moments that I have experienced in poetry/prose form.

I live in the Shenandoah Valley with my husband, James, of 11 years, two daughters (Eve & Nori), and dogs, Rosey and Winston.

You can find more information about the book at www.angelacarterpoetry.com.

Angela M. Carter

Poet, Motivational Speaker, Blogger, Freelance Writer

www.angelacarterpoetry.com
https://www.facebook.com/angelacarterpoetry
https://twitter.com/amcarterpoetry

 

Southern Drought

The children are always lost
but never said to be missing
as long as they return with clean hands
at the neighbor's barbeque
before the charcoal fully burns.
They are wild
like the summer azalea mornings
and oblivious like the gathering bee;
death does not linger here,
life does not explore further land.
The children thrive in a way
only the wind of a southern drought
can understand.

Hunting Season

 

Grass stained knees,

prickled fingers,

bleeding from waking the sleeping thorn bush--

I meddled with the wonders

of the woods

where the beasts roamed
and the men showcased orange
flags of betrayal

along their mortal torsos.

The men are in a patient herd,

while a deer looks up to the sound of

clicking branches below

a hunter's anxious foot.

I cry at the sight of its limp body
but smile as my father seeks my face
for a look of pride.

Clinton Van Inman

Clinton Van Inman was born in Walton-on-Thames, England in 1945, grew up in North Carolina,  graduated from San Diego State University  in 1977, and has been an educator most of his life. He currently teaches high school in Tampa Bay where he lives with his wife, Elba.

Some of these are new poems, some older ones. I like the brevity, and his vivid images.

From him: Recent publications include  Sheephead Review, BelleReveJournal, the Metric, Deep South Magazine, Southern Writers Magazine, UK Poetry Library, Mouse Tales, Poetry, Foliate Oak Magazine, BlackCatPoems, BlazeVox, Wilderness House Review, Nature Writing,  and Indiana University Spirits to name a few.  Currently, I am trying to gather most of my poetry together to publish in a book called, “Northwoods Near.”

 

       
A COUNTRY MILE
   
Mixed with tobacco juice
And red summer clay
It came from the edge
Of the cornfield
The clout that soared
Past the unplowed field
Smashed into the red barn
Scattering the cawing crows.

ONE LAST LEAF

The way the last leaf
On a winter’s branch
Held by will alone
If not by chance

Reminded me of
The coming cold
Branches will break too
Before I grow old.


ESTATE SALE

Sunday’s best looked untouched
As if saved for a day that
Never did come
Those fine china dishes
Piled under some obscure
Painting of a farmhouse
And piles of old photos
All unrecognizable
Next to miscellaneous items
That must have once been treasured
But today only marked down
An additional twenty percent.


SWING SET

Year after year
Her backyard keeps
Under tall grass
The rusting swing set
And the little red wagon
As if waiting
To be used again.



REAL LOVE

Real love comes
Not with arrows
But with shovels
Picks and wheelbarrows.


DAISIES

Too real to touch
Those blue roses
Lying across
The divided line 
Too perfect and
Always out of reach
For dirty hands
So I picked you
A bunch of wild
Daisies instead.



INVITED

It was no accident my coming here
For they must had known long before
I wandered to their farmhouse near
That soon I would knock upon their door
And wait until the storm would clear.

Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense
In snow to leave a porch lamp lighted
Or post the sign upon the picket fence
For those in need are all invited
Fate could find no better coincidence.

       
FIREFLIES

They glitter and glow like stars
But the ones we catch and place in jars
Will not shine as if to refuse   
Until we open the lid and turn them loose
But just like us whether fly or kid
No light shines under glass or lid.

 

photo by Mark Embry