Live Encounters Poetry & Writing August 2025
The Length of Ritual, poems by Linda Goin.
The Length of Ritual
Arctic terns fly three months without sleep
as they follow the sun to breed
and back again every year, many miles.
Constant daylight casts
uniform memory between frozen poles.
Sunday morning, on land, the arms
of a man spread out and around
two young sons. He carries them safely
through a sermon, a score on Paul
and his critics. Four more brothers shape
this tight family formation. They indicate
a sure flock, secure in their inherited map,
nature’s internal rhythm. Wife and mother
sits sentinel at the end of the pew,
gray braids brace her for private storms.
She envisions other waves, hands
entwined. A silhouette flutters against
snow white walls, a man shadow
leaves, no farewell. How these rituals
carry us, every week, every year.
Writing Around Life’s Edges
I’m interested in writing images
that illustrate how my ass was similar
to my mother’s as we bent side by side
to pick weeds from her deer-ravaged garden.
When I write laments about her death,
my words appear white on white,
like the blocks that cement bodies
to the hill behind the church.
Loss is a cliché. My hands,
darker than a grave digger’s grip,
leave me with nothing to write
about the internal shift.
My mother once offered to lend
two boxes of shoes I didn’t need.
She said, never mind. I’ll leave them
to you after I’m gone.
Words that describe change conjure
soil eroding around life’s edges.
Everything disintegrates over time,
except those thresholds. I want
to capture the pith and pivot, the nitty gritty
bright digs that bring roots to light.
A woman who holds a pen is not a grave digger.
A woman who holds a pen is not a savior.
Night
Night is a prime example
of reckless, when excess
dares caution and wins, tossing
remnants to attorneys.
Night is impulsive. It pilfers
affection from the cashier’s
rack when she turns her back,
hoarding her warmth.
Night is bodies burning,
heatwaves rising to ride
unbridled horses, wild eyes
straddling constellations.
Night falls fast. When it hits
the horizon it explodes
into a million misconducts.
The light’s too dim to sing.
Night is not an ensemble.
so don’t worry about cellos
or halos, but you might
remember your dreams.
Night is a prime example
of impossible wings, when
old legs feel ready and young
legs run from reverence.
© Linda Goin
Linda Goin is an award-winning writer and artist from the United States. Her poetry has been featured in Mojave River Review, Sundress Publications, Verse-Virtual, and Nightingale & Sparrow, among other publications and anthologies. She is the author of two chapbooks, She-Oak and Fearless Morning. Linda’s poetry explores themes of relationships, trauma, healing, and surrealism—often infused with a sharp, unexpected sense of humor.