Susan J. Wurtzburg
Poetry
Sliding over the Edge
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
The Yokohama coast where railway tracks hold the land
close to the seashore like a giant zipper.
Wooden sleepers stretch north to Kaena Point,
an albatross sanctuary on Oahu’s rocky tip.
A promontory across the ocean, and many mountain ranges
from my father, lost to geography.
The landscape impinges on his daylight hours:
four white walls, a wheel chair, and a door.
No entrance to the world. He has exited his mind,
and left his body, an empty shell.
This dry husk of a man, confined to a bed, no walking,
but occasional gliding, nurse powered.
Motionless, but for a flapping arm, almost like a wing
practicing flight, skin transforms to feathers.
Plumes of hair upright, but inside an old sea bird preparing
to launch from his wheeled chariot.
Rounding skyward, an avian intervention giving sanctuary
as his mind slides over the edge of reality.
Spending his final years airborne at sea, an escape,
beloved birds, final companions for his voyage.
Published in Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, June 1, 2021.
Republished in Sanctuary Magazine, March, 2022.
Blue Skies Beckon
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Prominent tufted ears, black pupiled golden eyes, hooked powerful beak,
tree-bark camouflaged feathers, six-foot wingspan, predatory perfection
encased in the body of a 14-year-old Eurasian Eagle Owl. Let loose in New York’s
glass-walled metropolis. Urban zone of sand, stone, cement; natural materials
in unnatural form. Was there space for a bird hatched unnaturally, released
in Central Park by anonymous snipping of his cage wire? No skills
at wild living, yet he survived, dining well on mice. Named Flaco
by his fans, photographed during daytime hunting, perching, posturing,
on trees, but also building ledges, fences, created edges
delineating a once-natural world. Parceled patches of green, no barrier
to a renowned city resident, paparazzi-worthy. With only a year of fame
outside his cage, one cool morning in February, he strained the borders
of his world, flexing his wings into a window promising endless blue skies.
Published in the National Federation of State Poetry Societies Encore 2024 Prize Poems, ed. Kathy Cotton, p. 56 (1st place in the “Land of Enchantment Award,” National Federation of State Poetry Societies).
Republished in Sanctuary Magazine, September, 2024.
In the Mountains
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Just an ordinary day in the Andes, youthful
archaeologists focus on the past.
El terrorismo de Sendero Luminoso
1982, ignoring politics, we map and excavate
ancient features, Northern Peru.
un grupo military político.
On that evening, we bring the equipment downhill,
joyful in the mountain sun.
Las dos décadas de terrorismo
My shoulder weighted by a surveying tripod,
smooth metal pinches.
entre 1980 y el 2000.
The fastest route to town, not the local trails,
but a direct transect.
Campesinos brutalmente asesinados
Back in the square, military visitors label us
“Sendero Luminoso,” plot death.
lucha contra la gente.
Locals know the project, save our lives. No
rescue for Quechua boys two days later.
Tres campesinos murieron.
Published in Crab Creek Review, 2022, Volume 2, p. 38 (semifinalist in the Crab Creek Review Poetry Competition).
Threading the Needle
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Purple cotton-polyester, like my father,
blend of nature and artifice. Thoughtful
threads interwoven with aggressive
brightness. This dress shirt, Singapore made,
his father’s city. Shipped across the ocean,
like his pater, but in hull, not cabin-class. Stiff-collared
British formal-style attire, my dad, at times.
Ancient, soft fabric,
more flexible than my father,
outlived his mind, lost at sea,
in the muddy blitzed depths.
Followed by his body, strand
by strand, unraveled in the end.
This cloth relic, worn by me,
by the ocean, sun shelter.
Faded colors, like memories,
much mislaid, murky mysteries.
Published in Naugatuck River Review, 2023, Issue 29, p. 39 (semifinalist in the Naugatuck River Review’s 14th Narrative Poetry Contest).
1st Place, Gold Typewriter Award in Poetry for Published Creative Writing, 2024, League of Utah Writers.
Out of the Box in the USA
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Headline “Crayola launches box of crayons
with diverse skin tones,”
positive step in a dumpster fire.
Will knowing that children color their stick figures
Light Almond, or Extra Deep Golden
keep me from despair?
Partial to drawings of purple-tinted mothers
with green spiky hair, fathers with deliciously blue skin,
cranberry locks.
Families of brilliantly colored shapes,
oddly sized figures, floating under yellow suns,
with dragons in the sky—
Crayola markets “Colors of the World,”
so well intentioned, somewhat like pageant winners
mumbling “world peace.”
Will it mean anything to an incarcerated young Black father
that his child sends him drawings
toned accurately?
Will it be helpful to a Black mother, whose sister died
in childbirth, that her niece
draws her skin Deep Golden?
Will voting disenfranchisement of entire communities
be changed by
Very Deep Rose pencils?
Baby steps to wholehearted,
comprehensive change.
Color me Light Medium Almond.
Published in Crosswinds, 2021, Volume VII, October, p. 90.
Unimagined Possibilities
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Eyes focus on dust motes, yellow swirls hover,
animal smells in the air.
My cousins soar between hay bales,
excitement crackles with fear.
Voices loud, mouths wide, leg scratched,
still, we chase and scream.
Shoes full of hay stems never slow us
as over the bales we fly.
Games done, we empty socks and pockets
of dried grass, brush each other off.
Clean up the youngest, glance around the barn,
ready for departure.
Oblivious to the black-cloaked figures, scythes
raised, who haunt our play.
Death lurks overhead; rusted bale claw held
by a tattered rope.
Injury loiters by the open end of the barn,
a two-floor drop into a manure pile.
Mortality dallies in the hay mows, a plunge
to mangers or stone floors.
We are children, unaware of grim prospects
skulking around the cows.
Back up the hill to our parents, enjoying
cold beers in the late afternoon.
We leave the barn reapers to their dark pleasures
as we escape the possibilities again.
Published in The Literary Nest, Blog, Volume 7, Issue 1, Poetry, January 23, 2021.
Republished in Sanctuary Magazine, July, 2021.
Sweet With A Dash of Salt
By: Susan J. Wurtzburg
Mandarin oranges, taste of summer,
delightful weight on my palm. I feed
my grocery cart. Golden globes rest
on metal ribs, promise better days,
glow of sunny hours with friends.
Companions peel fruit with me,
scatter white salt on the segments,
pop luscious pieces in our mouths.
Tart juice bursts on our tongues,
tears flavor our eating pleasure.
No delight for the harvesters
of our gilded bounty. Men, women,
teens pluck fruit in hot Florida. Brown
fingers reach high in the trees, bodies
drip sweat, gain insufficient gold.
Maya workers battle Sunshine State
for human rights. Salt-drenched pickers
sleep interrupted by neighbors’ cries,
aches and fevers untreated, risk so much
for our salted sweet-mandarin day.
1st place in the Elizabeth M. Campbell Poetry Award, 2022, National League of American Pen Women.