Patience: The Broken Key That Only Locks (a sonnet)

posted Apr 3, 2020, 10:25 AM by Jeffrey Wolf   [ updated Apr 3, 2020, 10:26 AM ]

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer

Posted April 3rd, 2020

Patience: The Broken Key That Only Locks

Spent seven days on a six word memoir,

I never thought I would run out of words.

Quarantine locked them up in an armoire,

all former thoughts flew away with the birds.

“Patience is the key,” that’s what I’ve been told,

but I can’t just sit and wait out the storm.

I must weather it so I can take hold

and reshape the pliant thoughts that lost form.

Words are hard to find, harder to retain,

so I must prepare for the valiant quest.

I’ll take on this flood of pandemic rain,

I’m not a hero, but I’ll pass the test.

I’m a girl missing the thoughts in her head,

words, unlike viruses, need to be spread.

What Now? Facing Life Without the Entertainment World (a poem)

posted Apr 3, 2020, 10:24 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer

Posted April 3rd, 2020

What Now? Facing Life Without the Entertainment World

Virus spreads around the globe,

prompting more people to hunker down at home.

What are we gonna do now, read books?


I’m happy snug on my couch,

catching up on reading.

Just started Love in the Time of Cholera;

It seemed appropriate.

Out doing something,

time in the mountains,

exercising as long as I want to,

sunshine and exercise 

will help us be as healthy as we can be.

Working more,

doing it from home.

Home improvement goals

are now on front burners.

Time to relax,

evenings freed up.

Learning to make macarons,

making a present, 


It’s all about slowing down.

Almost feels guilty...


Storm in the Wilderness (a poem)

posted Feb 3, 2020, 11:13 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Katherine Alder, Staff Writer

Posted February 3rd, 2020

Storm in the Wilderness

A rough torrent of water cascades down the rocky cliff

crashing down out of sight 

behind wind whipped trees and red brown rock

dead branches snap and fall 

but do they make a sound

leaves and needles tremble beneath the onslaught

battered but proud

Above the sun burns 

at the ever encroaching clouds 

angry purple

thundering their rage 

crying their sorrow

as they tear at the land 

the sun retreating to the corner 

battle lost 

to weather the gales

again to shine upon the life

left after 


New Message From Me (a poem)

posted Jan 31, 2020, 5:14 AM by Jeffrey Wolf   [ updated Jan 31, 2020, 5:16 AM ]

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer
Posted January 31st, 2020

New Message From Me

Texts to myself are new recipes,

chocolate raspberry cupcakes 

with Greek yogurt frosting.

My brothers hear the Kitchenaid mixer and yell,

“Are you making healthy food again?

Texts to myself are odds and ends,

snippets of poems not yet written, 

“Her wedding ring slides to the left

whenever she plays a G,”

and ‘the trees looked as if

they had been dipped in confectioners glaze.

I text myself rough drafts,

messages I hope to someday send

but they’re just a little too wordy

for a babysitting client,

a little too sappy 

for a friend. 

Texts to myself stay in the safety 

of my messages app,

reminding me of the last thought

to spin through my head,

an idea that might finally be ready to send.

Three Mile Harbor Long Island (a poem)

posted Jan 31, 2020, 5:12 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Katherine Alder, Staff Writer

Posted January 31st, 2020

Three Mile Harbor Long Island (a poem based on Thomas Moran's Painting "Three Mile Harbor Long Island")

The sun slowly sunk

beneath the horizon 

ending her vigil over the Earth

for the moon to take her place

with a brilliant scene 

of painted fire

and purple smoke clouds

a flash of intensity before


Beneath the sun lies a lake

reflecting the flames

a sailboat drifts across 

the serene waters 

catching the breeze

On the shore

grow trees all scrambling 

for the light
mourning its passing until

the next morning

A solitary man walks


beneath their boughs

a wraith amongst the shadows

who at the passing of the sun rejoice

Brightening Sepia Stares (a poem)

posted Jan 20, 2020, 4:57 AM by Jeffrey Wolf   [ updated Jan 31, 2020, 5:17 AM ]

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer

Posted January 20th, 2020

    Brightening Sepia Stares

    Some say... 

    if two people

    spend enough time together,

    they begin to look alike.

    I always thought it would take decades,

    that maybe,

    one day, 

    I’d see an old couple out walking

    and mistake them

    for brother and sister.

    Now, though,

    I question all previous theories,

    looking at an old

    sepia-toned photograph

    of a newlywed couple


    instead of matching 

    his tie to her bridesmaids’ dresses,

    seems to have matched

    his eyes to hers,

    her nose to his,

    his cheekbones to hers.


    the old cameras

    are to blame,

    for not one figure

    in one photo

    reveals a trace 

    of the slightest facial imperfection.

    Even an elderly woman’s wrinkles

    appear almost nonexistent,

    to the point where

    she could be mistaken

Resting the Faces of Time (a poem)

posted Jan 20, 2020, 4:55 AM by Jeffrey Wolf   [ updated Jan 31, 2020, 5:17 AM ]

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer

Posted January 20th, 2020

    Resting the Faces of Time

    Some say...

    gears make clock hands turn,

    but we dreamers

    know the truth.

    A fiery scarlet dragon chases

    a fading blue peacock in circles,

    catching her every time.

    The dragon effortlessly guides

    the slim bar, 

    the minute hand,

    as easily 

    as a housekeeper

    might whisk a broom. 

    The peacock groans

    under the weight

    of the hour hand’s 

    sturdy beam.

    Hours were once

    shorter than minutes,

    but as the peacock

    grew frail,

    the dragon 

    simply grew.

    Even now that the tides have turned,

    in the dragon’s attempt

    to ease his mentor’s burden,

    the old peacock

    can never stay ahead for long.

    Neither master

    nor student

    enjoys their endless game of tag,

    but that is how they will remain:





    That is,

    until they reap their reward:

    the sweet relief

    only delivered

    by a digital clock.

The Forest

posted Jan 17, 2020, 1:12 PM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Katherine Alder, Staff Writer

Posted January 17th, 2020

The late afternoon sun was warm against the unkempt green grass and the old worn wooden picnic tables; its golden light washed over the landscape. The tables’ once perfect, red-brown surface flaked away and under the paint, the wood was grey with age. Vandalized with couples names, I was here, and doodles left in multi colored sharpies, the authors’ long forgotten messages, bore the passage of time, permanent reminders of people. A heart bearing Sebastian Devereaux’s initials was permanently gouged into the side of the table’s bench with the sharp, biting, edge of the knife he carried. Today he had no reason to stop,walking past the table, leaving it with the memories. The ghost of the two that used to sit there. They left their fleeting imprint after every picnic they took on their hikes through the forest.

The opening of the trail was half hidden by the long reaching arms on the trees, almost invisible to the casual observer. But Sebastian’s feet found the familiar dirt path, he ducked under the branches, laden with vines snaking their way around the trees keeping a stranglehold on their hosts. A smattering of plants grew up around the base of the trees under the feet of their taller compatriots, like a child chasing after their older siblings. They longed for the sunlight accepting whatever drifted down between the leaves. Mayapples and wood violets encroached upon the path reclaiming it. Bunches wildflowers grew in the spotlight formed by the gaps in the treetops. Sebastian picked a few idly as he passed, collecting a bouquet, a brilliant contrast against his otherwise dark outfit. He used to give the flowers to Paris when they walked together.

He passed a fallen tree. Its once glorious trunk had fallen victim to rot and decay; its massive roots torn up when its branches kissed the dirt. It housed countless insects, and mice nested beneath its bulk. A red squirrel paused on the trunk an acorn in its mouth, puffing its cheeks; its silly expression contrasted the elegance of its bushy tail. When it saw Sebastian walk past it chattered angrily darting along the length of the tree.  It raced for another trunk scrambling up it, and climbing towards the blue sky. In another second it was gone escaping the human intrusion on an otherwise calm summer day. It would soon begin collecting acorns stashing them away before the harsh winter, the months through which it longed for the ease of summer.

He came across a short scraggly blackberry bush filled with tiny, purple, berries, many had been pecked apart, fallen victim to the birds overhead, flying free on the summer breeze. They left a red-purple blood stain in their place. Numerous birds lived in the forest, nesting in the abundant trees. Three sandhill cranes, hunted grasshoppers in the distance teaching their young. They perambulated around the forest bobbing their heads to the ground when they found their food. They had little to fear from their surroundings, but they remained vigilant ready to fly if threatened. The path turned before Sebastian could have gotten close to them, not that he wanted to. He kept walking following the meandering trail.

He spent many days and many summers in recent years here, he and Paris made it their goal to hike every trail in the park, but this was their favorite. They had come here so often that Sebastian knew every tree and rock. Everywhere he walked reminded him of the past. The past that only existed in photographs. At the last turn before the bridge, he saw the old split stump. Paris used to climb on it, to be taller than Sebastian. Now it was inhabited by a spider, its extensive web spanned the gap of the split. An unsuspecting insect had its flight arrested by a death trap of spider silk. Sebastian moved on reaching his destination, an old wooden bridge hidden by trees, it was where he had proposed to Paris, whom he never married because a simple car accident, killed the love of his life.

Sebastian walked hand in hand with Paris over the familiar trail, he resisted the urge to check if the ring box was still in his jacket pocket. He planned on proposing on the bridge where they first kissed. The bridge spanned a rift in the ground, the water would drain down the path trickling over the rocks when it rained. Plants thrived all around the bridge. Taller trees obscured parts of the bridge from view, the central one had a gaping hole revealing a hollow in the trunk. The leaves of the trees cast irregular shadows across the boards, though the wood was natural, unstained, and old, none of the grey brown boards had been claimed by creeping rot. The floor of the bridge was solid with the most infinitesimal gaps between boards. The couple walked out to the middle of the bridge and leaned against the railing conversing quietly, studying the landscape. Before they moved on Sebastian, pulled the ring out of his pocket, got on one knee, and proposed.

Sebastian smiled sadly at the memory walking out to the center of the bridge, a few leaves were scattered across the surface of the bridge, still green, as they had recently fallen from the trees above. He looked out over the thriving plants, the trees all stretching their arms towards the sky, with saplings scattered all around at their feet, all yearning for the sun, many would lose the competition for resources, but the survivors would grow up stronger. Chlorophyll green filled every gap as plants spread across the landscape. It was the first time in almost a year that Sebastian had visited the trail, after Paris had died he didn’t want the reminders the place carried. After a while he left the bouquet he’d picked earlier and moved on, walking away.

Charcoal Landscape (artwork)

posted Dec 9, 2019, 4:49 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Katherine Alder
Posted December 6th, 2019

Atop the Powder Hill Observation Tower (a poem)

posted Nov 12, 2019, 4:43 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Abby Walter, Staff Writer

Posted November 12th, 2019

Atop the Powder Hill Observation Tower, overlooking Pike Lake, “Mary + Evan

Forever and Always With Love - 2005" is carved into the wooden rail,

inside an ever-fading chiseled heart, worn away 

by Mother Nature’s show, wind, and rain

plus a thousand hikers’ hands,

rubbing greedily at the wood.

Someone’s forlorn knife,

maybe Evan’s,




Then again,

there are much

worse places to be left alone

than atop a beautiful wooden tower,

an arm’s length from the glorious oaks,

closer still to the shimmering blue sky and crisp fall air,

smelling not of “Pumpkin Spice” and “Apple Harvest,” fake-fall hand soaps,

but instead, scented with real autumn: crushed leaves, cool rain and a touch of early frost.

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