By William Palmer

For a DaTscan
to confirm 
I have Parkinson’s,
I am injected
with a radioactive tracer.

A few days later
my neurologist shows me
an image from my brain
that contains 
what looks like
a radiant horseshoe.

The tip, or heel calk, on the left side 
is gone.

The diagnosis is accurate.

But most
of my horseshoe 
is still there.

Each day I will try to throw a ringer.

---

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in Braided Way, JAMA, J Journal, One Art, On the Seawall, Poetry East, and The Westchester Review. He lives in Traverse City, Michigan.

By George Christopher

Transition states not stasis not static
No longer substrate, not yet product
Highest energy on reaction coordinates
Breaking and making covalent bonds

Pre-med, med school, residency, possibly a fellowship, attending
Changing roles, responsibilities, locations, people, relationships
In changes from good to good or good to better
Some-things and some-ones must be given up
For new some-ones and some-things to be embraced

Transition states not stasis not static
Present becoming past
Undetermined future becoming present
Adaptation from cellular to social contexts
Work through grief, move on
Welcome the future in the open-ended
In certainties that give direction
Uncertainties that open new possibilities

---

George Christopher is a physician who has transitioned into retirement. He and his lovely wife Linda live near their two grown sons and grandchildren in western Michigan.

By Michael Salcman

There’s nothing as beautiful as a marina at dawn
the clacking of ducks
the sky clearing away
the remnants of a storm:

A silvery sky
and a breeze sun-filled
and warm
the steel halyards at rest
from beating on mast and boom
the loom of shadows withdrawing
from the wheel
in the cockpit
the city awakening too soon
like a cat in search of a meal.

The cabins in my sailboat line up
like the lenses in a telescope
the rays of the rising sun
pricking through
from back to front
finally reach into the bow
warming the V-berth
and wake me to the morning.

The tide runs low—
soon there will be
dock hands on the dock boards
and halyards stamping in a stronger breeze
carrying the smell of coffee
and the children asleep below
who won’t yet feel or know
the wonder of the world.

---

Michael Salcman is a retired physician and teacher of art history. He was chairman of neurosurgery at the University of Maryland and president of the Contemporary Museum in Baltimore. He is a child of the Holocaust and a survivor of polio.

His poems have appeared in many medical/literary journals (JAMA, Chest, Ars Medica, Blood & Thunder, Caduceus, Healing Muse, Hektoen, Hospital Drive) and less bloody venues like Arts & Letters, Barrow Street, Café Review, Harvard Review, Hopkins Review, The Hudson Review, New Letters, Raritan and Smartish Pace.

His books include The Clock Made of Confetti; The Enemy of Good Is Better; Poetry in Medicine, a widely used anthology of classic and contemporary poems on medical matters (Persea Books, 2015); A Prague Spring, Before & After (winner 2015 Sinclair Poetry Prize); and Shades & Graces, the inaugural winner of the Daniel Hoffman Legacy Book Prize in 2020. Necessary Speech: New & Selected Poems was published in 2022.

By LaDeanna Mullinix

Together, we’ll visit our friend
who no longer knows us, and pluck
those pesky little whiskers
off her chin.

I’ll keep the cat
you leave behind.

You’ll come
when I call to say
the cancer’s come back
or the diagnosis is dementia.

I’ll go when you call
to say Joe just died.

We’ll steady each other as we step
onto the bridge, and say:
stand tall, speak a little louder,
smile,
take my hand.

---

LaDeana Mullinix is a Quaker, a retired occupational therapist, a native Kansan, a Master Gardener and a Master Naturalist. Her poetry and essays have been published in Friends Journal and Slant. Her poetry has been published in one anthology, and two were recently accepted in a forthcoming anthology featuring Ozarks poets, from the University of Arkansas Press.      

By Debbie Baxter

I watch my mom for signs she’s going to be leaving me soon, even as she’s still here. She looks more fragile. A little more lost. Is she? Is she between two worlds now? Who is it she reaches for when she’s sleeping? Is it her mother or maybe my dad? She told me he was sitting on the love seat, and when he didn’t speak to her, she thought he was dead, and then she said she knew it was a dream, a bad dream.

There are people in her room these days, but she says she knows they’re not real. She’s stopped talking about them like she once did, but she thinks they’re sitting on her sofa, sleeping in her bed, or having picnics in the floor with their children, waiting for her to join them. They don’t speak, but they smile, gather around her, and sometimes, when she thinks I’m not looking, she smiles and waves at them.

Other times, she worries the blankets between her fingers, touching, always
touching the fabric, moving her hands along the edges, reading the soft folds
as if it gives her messages only she can see. When she wakes from her frequent naps, she’s confused and slurs her words. I bring her water, say my name real loud. She turns blind eyes my direction. “Who are you again?” she asks, smiling.

“Just me, Mom, no one important,” and we laugh. But it’s not really funny.

---

Deborah (Debbie) Baxter is an award winning poet who lives in Chesapeake, Virginia, with her husband and 105-year-old mother. A graduate of Old Dominion University, Debbie continues her creative writing education at The Muse Writers Center in Norfolk. Her poetry reflects her Southern roots and ties to family. Her amazing mother is the inspiration for many of her poems.

By Frederick Levy

Our radio wouldn’t dare blast through my father’s orations;
he’d tote his small son on drug rep calls, navigate back roads,
the ultimate detail man.
Other times, he’d drive mute and stare,
while I’d try to decipher his silent accusations.
Alone in plain sight, I felt trapped in the tundra of his glare.

We sat in the waiting room, chairs touching,
our silence the grenade of the unsaid.
Absently letting my hand fall on the armrest,
I screamed soundlessly as my skin
leapt from the webbing of my thumb;
his fingernail drew blood.
Bewildered, frozen, nothing to hold, nothing to protest.

For as long as I knew, I sheltered, eyes closed,
in lands of my creation
but the world fell away in steep decline.

“It never happened.
He never cut me.
He’d never hurt me.”
Shallow bursts of breath…”it never happened.”

We drove home with nothing to see,
the windshield blackened.

---

Fred Levy is age 74, a clinical social worker of 46 years, who retired April, 2020 to focus full time on writing poetry. He has been taking numerous poetry courses and workshops at The Muse Writing Center in Norfolk, Virginia, which has offered him the opportunity to exchange valuable experiences with other poets. An observant Reform Jew and active in his synagogue, he has been married for 44 years to his Presbyterian spouse. They have raised their two children  – Joshua, 43, Elana, 40 – harmoniously in their two religion household. Exchanging ideas and living lives of diversity has been at the center of their family life.

By Carol Barrett

Twelve ounces coffee 
with skim milk, not whole, then walk
forty minutes flat

Mornings, try the scale
A poet knows less is more
Think leaves, autumn’s drop

---

Carol Barrett’s poetry has been published in magazines in the U.S., Canada, Britain, Israel, Germany and the Virgin Islands. Her third poetry volume was released in February (Reading Wind, from The Poetry Box). These poems were inspired by the poet’s father, a country doctor, who was also a farmer and musician.

1. Multiple Alarms from Heaven

Arctic icebergs are breaking up,
Melting Antarctica airport-runways need new sub,
Strong gales have torn apart buildings, Oops:
Flooding also moved houses like floating cups.

2. The earth responds

The green leaves don’t say goodbye,
The remaining yellow resists snowflakes from the sky,
The brown and red spread out in formation,
This defensive camp has nothing to hide!

3. Human self-determination

We have seen more natural disasters,
Plants are adjusting their lifestyle set by regulators.
Everyone should do their duty,
so why do we still find it hard to be adjusters?

……………………………………………………………

Recite in Chinese

1.      Tiān shí yùjǐng 天時預警 (Multiple Alarms from Heaven)

běijí bīngshān liè,

nánduān jī jiàng nán

kuángfēng sī jiànzhú,

shuǐ yān yuè pínfán.

2. Dìqiú de huíyīng大地回應 (The earth responds)

lǜyè bùcí xíng,

cán huáng jù xuěhuā.

Hè hóng fēnbù zhèn,

hélì jié fáng yíng.

3. Rénlèi zìjué  人類自決   Human self-determination

tiānzāi yú shù fān,

zhíwù luàn xìng cán.

Rén rén yí jìnzé,

héyǐ wǒ réng nán.

………………..

2023 天地人     鍾倫納

1. 天時預警

  北極冰山裂, 南端跑道融, 狂風撕建築, 水淹越洪鋒.

2. 大地回應

綠葉不辭行, 殘黃拒雪征. 褐紅分佈陣, 合力結防營.

3. 人類自決

天災逐漸繁, 植物亂興殘. 個個宜擔責, 為何我尚難    .

…………………

---

Tom Chung, Ph.D., M.Phil., B.S.Sc., is a professor in the Fay W. Boozman College of Public Health.

Tom has also maintained a life-long passion in the study of Chinese history, culture, and poetry. He is one of a few writers who has published in five Chinese societies and diasporas, despite their political differences.