Category: Poetry

The Ebb and Flow of Aspen

“The Ebb and Flow of Aspen,” a poem by Lori Gurtman.

Weeks before, months after
The longest day of the year
Sunlight streams down
Tourists swell the town
Hotels and restaurants come alive
Patrons spend and businesses thrive
People frolic outdoors
Rafting, biking, hiking galore
Under the stars, swaying to the beat
Concerts entertain crowds on the street

But in the middle of peak season
Locals complain with good reason
Cars, bikes, and pedestrians
Create traffic and congestion

Cooler weather signals transition
And school begins a new session
Golden-colored leaves
Dance from Aspen trees
Visitors leave without a trace
Finally, an open parking space

Winter is officially here
The shortest day of the year
Christmas lights shimmer and glow
Mountains pile high with snow
On the slopes skiers and snowboarders abound
Playing like children on a powdery playground
Enjoying après before they dine
Sipping cocktails and fine wine
Smiling proprietors count their bills
Fattening their bank accounts until
Vacationers fly home on jets
And the town once again resets

Snow melts, flowers bloom, bluebirds sing
Earth permeates with the scents of spring
Aspen remains quiet for a little while
As the ebb and flow begins a new cycle

Follow The Money (A Poem)

“Follow the Money,” a poem by Lori Gurtman.

Follow The Money

Nonviolent offenders fill our prisons
Monsanto grows food with GMO poison
People are dying of opioid addiction
Big banks get away with corruption

Mass shootings are on the rise
Congress puts gun control laws aside
Big Oil batters the Earth with its drills
Global warming threatens, destroys, kills

The FDA approves drugs with dangerous side effects
The DEA ignores marijuana’s medicinal benefits
Affluent schools get supplies galore
Cronyism fuels a divisive class war

Follow the money


A Strand of Gray Hair

a strand of gray hairA Strand of Gray Hair

It arrived out of nowhere
One strand of gray hair
Resembling a lone aspen tree
Lost in a forest of evergreens

I will never know
How much time I have left
Aging occurs without consent

I pluck it off my head
Where newborn peach fuzz once grew
And the golden strands of my youth
Now my caramel locks are highlighted
with chemicals

I examine the plucked hair
Nickel-colored, coarse and strong
It reflects light
A sign from the afterlife
The soul remains the same
While I physically transform

This is the first
But it won’t be the last
There’s nothing I can do
To prevent these gray hairs from springing

Instead of lamenting my age
I relish my wisdom

The Washing Machine

the washing machine

The Washing Machine.


The Washing Machine

The washing machine spins
With each passing year

At first their clothes were tiny
They grew with every revolution

Onesies tumbling into T-shirts tumbling into jeans
The motion of the dryer whirring and rumbling––ding!
I tuck their clothes into drawers like memories

The cycle quickened
As the seasons shifted

Blood stains from scraped knees
Mud streaks from soccer games
Chocolate birthday cake smudged
Into my family’s fabric

One day the pile faded, leaving me
With empty laundry baskets
And the quiet folding that lay on my heart