Gloria Mindock (Western Voices 2022)

Bio: Gloria Mindock is editor of Cervena Barva Press. She is the author of 6 poetry collections, 3 chapbooks and a children’s book. Her poems have been published and translated into eleven languages. Her recent book Ash, published by Glass Lyre Press, won the International Impact Award, the NYC Big Book Award, the Firebird Speak Up Talk Radio Award and the International Award- The Princess, Noble Poetry Skills, Art Club of Ragkonik in Smederevo, Serbia.  Gloria was the Poet Laureate in Somerville, MA in 2017 & 2018. 


Sometimes

Sometimes, even the wind gets tired
Maybe today it doesn’t want to blow
Maybe today the earth would like to stop spinning
Gravity would like to let go

Imagine everything drifting into space—
people and objects not mattering anymore
A stampede of floating humans surrounded by junk

Sometimes I like to forget all wars
Maybe someday they will stop
There will be no buttons to push,
no nuclear missiles to end the earth

Maybe someday I will smile again and the warm
air will be just warm, no fire to burn us to ash

Maybe Someday I will see you again,
standing in your kitchen with a drink
not minding the darkness around us

The dark, a dream, that awakened us
Reality is something we don’t want
no light calling on our hearts to fix things
Maybe sometimes, it feels good to forget…
***


Rain

The day is cloudy.
Rain dripping off the branches of trees,
soaking the ground.
The flowers bloom like they do every year.

It was yesterday, darkness was seen.
Flames from missiles striking so many buildings.
Neighbors crying for help. 
Some dying before they were reached.

Now the walls are bare, stained with blood.
Grief overflows from my heart.
It does not matter how many times the sky changes color.

The clouds will drift forever.
Morning never comes again.

When the night is back to normal, I will
be back to a home I love, with a voice
defying all the loss, a depth bearing no end,
a void interconnected with death.
***


BRUISED

My bruises hurt.
No place to go.
Body, broken.

What is to come of us
in this sweeping wind?

Can missiles be blown away?
A storm that stops corpses
from piling up.

My newborn died.
I could not save her.
Crouched in the basement,
there is no pill to make me feel better.

My family is festering in a
makeshift grave.

At midnight, I hear my baby crying, 
but she is gone to another life, 
where there is no sin.
***

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