It’s been some time since I posted favorite poetry. I veered off more into CNF and flash fiction for a few months but still read some poetry, just not as much as usual. As I was putting this post together, I noticed reoccurring themes of mothers, fathers, and rural life. I’m drawn to those themes in prose reading, too, I think because the details are so personal and rich. The stories fascinating and relatable. I hope you enjoy these selections as much as I do. A special shout out to Robert Okaji and his prize winning poem excerpted here. Congrats, Bob! And congrats to Anna Pedigo, Prizewinner for the George Scarbrough Poetry Contest for her excerpted poem noted here.

My Mother’s Ghost Looks Away When I Say Her Father’s Name By Robert Okaji in riverSedge

and if we should meet, I'll ask. Is the language
in each afterlife the same or does it fragment and
scatter with every fallen petal?

“grandmother” by Anna Pedigo in Appalachia Bare

she was a pallid moon, nearly
a century of folded skin and
folded hand towels, quiet sighs
in the kitchen over tepid dishwater

“Rural Sonnet” by Paul Ilechko in Panoply

a simple pathway that follows the contours of the land
that dates back to the depths of history     when native
people followed buffalo across the plaintive width of
nation    

“After Discovering Mother’s Passport” by Tina Barry in Panoply

Mother knew beauty. Longed for it
the way an iced street longs for sun,

and yet each morning turned
that face to the world.

“SUMMER, ORRERY” by Jack Bedell in The Penn Review

By the time she returned to the table,

the sky had purpled so bad behind me
	I could barely see her outline

through the window screen,
	how she sat down in her normal place,

rested her chin on her balled up fists,
	stared straight at that empty chair

“Dream Blizzard” by Shome Dasgupta in The Dillydoun Review

…there’s pain, and hungry for relief from such fashions I remain in your dream or mine…

“Hank Williams’ Last Ride” by Kari Gunter-Seymour in Still: The Journal

He died hard, my daddy,
not like Hank, addicted to morphine
and booze, but he was blue,
and Hank knew the blues.
Tonic tunes, Daddy called them.

Red Hot Sky by Donna Vorreyer in Sweet Lit

Those days, my father would stop at the factory store to buy brown paper bags secured with tape and stuffed with the spicy red dots. That smell a scarlet umbrella…