A frozen lake in Iceland, volcanic underneath the crown
with sideburn-streaks of pumice, rough and well-weathered

On the face of it,
leather, crafted and aged by a tanner,
inlaid with rounded brown glass
and Native American porcupine-quill beads.
(It won't wear out, no matter what they say.)

Rising rounded foothills
lead to a craggy bend
and the helping hand of a Maker (a word heavy with weight).

And at the heart of the piece
inside a bursting chest of memory
the treasures of a life
of friendship
of parenthood

Held together by ancient leather straps
the cargo-box of a stagecoach
hinged on love … my father.

Brandon Moreau was born in Anchorage in 1983. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is presently attending seminary. Combining the arts of poetry and storytelling, he is working on a short story written entirely in rhyming verse. "Portrait of a Man" is one of a series of poems written as odes to specific people in his life.

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A Friend Writes

Last month I posted some questions about writing poetry, along with my answers. My friend Beth Isham, whose mayfly poem appeared here a while ago, sent some answers of her own. Beth, who has a lifetime’s worth of written memoirs, says she’s currently downsizing some as poems. This is from her comments on the writing process:

I had been doing early morning descriptions of a "through the window glass" diary/journal. The trees have gotten taller during the past year and now hide the chimney. I suppose when I see smoke coming up from the trees this winter, I'll begin thinking of the Indians who once lived here. I did a diary of an orchid going into bloom (maybe I should rewrite it from the viewpoint of the orchid).

Sounds like Beth has a good idea for a poem. What’s yours? Send a writing prompt to             poetryeditor@RicherResourcesPublications.com

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Crash and Burn

OK, there was no fire, but my computer crashed fatally a month ago, and so did the external backup drive I had trusted to keep everything safe. Some geek wizardry and $$$ later, I have most of my old files back, including my poems. Rummaging through the older ones is like looking through a family album, a mixture of wry smiles and shudders of embarrassment. Here’s a short piece I rediscovered from years ago:

Black Hole, or The Inevitability of Love

When I walked through that door
I knew I would not be coming back

Two dwindling stars circling a black hole--
how close could I come before I reached

the point of no return, succumbing
to the power of your implacable pull

A knot had been tied in the universe
that could not be untied

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Protest Poetry

“For centuries, poets were the mouthpieces railing loudly against injustice,” writes NPR critic Juan Vidal in a thought-provoking essay “Where Have All the Poets Gone?” There’s plenty to rail against today, from Ferguson to ISIS, but the poetry of protest is at an all-time low in America. “We need our poets now more than ever,” Vidal writes. “In fact, they should be on the front lines--at rallies and marches--questioning and rebuking whatever systems they deem poisonous to civil society.”

I plan to take up his challenge. 

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Why should we get all the bylines? Submit your latest poem—just one for now—and we’ll publish the poems we like best in an upcoming blog post. Simultaneous submissions are fine, but please let us know if the poem is accepted or published elsewhere. Send your poem, plus a few lines about yourself, in the body of an e-mail message to:

            poetryeditor@RicherResourcesPublications.com