POEMS BY MEMBERS:
I scavenge every
source for writing prompts;
the daily news provides exciting prompts.
descriptive surnames, aged folks,
to use in stories—plot-uniting prompts.
unusual, go down in ink,
along with asterisks spotlighting prompts.
cemeteries I include;
who knows when I might need foresighting prompts?
I never know
about the ‘30s dates—
they might enmesh to scene-igniting prompts.
based entirely on surnames.
Dear Abby’s guilty, too: inciting prompts!
captions, quotes—none are exempt.
(No one’s been sued for copywriting prompts.)
So many journals
holding so much gold—
With writing time, I mine inviting prompts.
And this, this
Star Magnolia tells it all:
Success results from expediting prompts.
THE FALL OF QUEEN ETHYLENL
(Tastier tomato gene discovered at UF)
According to a UF research team,
inhibiting hormone, ethylene,
when applied to an obedient tomato gene,
dispels the tasteless unripe green
and make riches heretofore, unseen;
. . . may work on many kinds of bean!
(Researchers will no doubt, honors, glean.)
Evening lends a peaceful mood
Which seems to expedite
Calming thoughts and attitudes
In this serene interlude
As time exchanges day for night.
Birds light and settle in the trees
Finishing their evening psalm
As leaves still in the failing breeze
Which reflects diminished energies
As time exchanges busy for calm.
With brilliance the skies explode
In a horizontal arc
A dramatic episode
Before its colors erode
As time exchanges light for dark.
Slanting rays through leaves settle
Like diamonds on the pond they fall
Illuminating the lily's petals
In a fiery show ‘ere day dwindles
As time exchanges bright for dull.
Fading light shines round the trees
Leaving shadows cast far
That stretch and fade in slow degrees
Until they lose identities
As time exchanges sun for stars.
TAKE OFF YOUR MASK
You make me laugh
with your fancy talk.
You hide behind those big words
and long sentences
and try to confuse me.
But I see through your noises
to the evasion,
Don't make me laugh.
Sometimes, it's only
the little things that matter--
like the fireflies' flicker,
those low-hung stars
which lit our summer love
with afterlight's last light
on quarter-moons nights.
IN THE AFTERMATH OF
in the aftermath
of Hurricane Charley,
all that remains of your life
is the devastation left
after the passing eye
of the storm:
rubble, debris, and death itself.
I see the trees downed,
roofs blown away,
The only avenue left
is to begin anew.
And so you must,
starting at ground-zero.
When the time comes
you are free
to walk through the bars
and into freedom,
you will be years older
than you are today,
and there will be
no semblance of what was:
no home, no husband,
no friends, no job.
The task will be one
of digging out
in search of remnants
from life before the storm
and carving a new trail
late in life.
to freedom, my friends,
May it take us to the end.
to peace I say,
“Today will come to an end.”
the hour comes
And the minutes too soon end?
over the road
May take you to a dead end.
It’s a dizzy feeling
Turning circles that won’t end.
trees reach up high,
Their branches know where to end.
balls can not stop
A block brings it to an end.
not the way, Lord,
How my life will meet it’s end.
know is God’s love
And His grace will never end.
friend, Jean even said,
“Find Christ and live to the end.”
hear a distant calling–
Muted–still it’s calling.
A wolf walks the steep hills,
To his mate he’s calling.
The restless river flows,
Small streams it’s calling.
Geese float into dark clouds,
Goodbyes they are calling.
Winds threaten winter time,
Summer heeds the calling.
Nature’s sounds are calling–
Or is it me God’s calling?
A modified ghazal
In religion we often embrace the hyper-Levitical.
Our opinions are stronger only in matters that are political.
Ideally, we diligently work at loving others.
Meanwhile, we plot against our opposite-party brothers.
We attentively listen to all within our reach.
For those who agree with us we believe in freedom of speech.
On Sundays we uphold the Ten Commandments without quarrel.
On Mondays we excuse our party leaders though blatantly immoral.
As legalists we adhere to strict Biblical interpretation.
However, we live by standards of our party’s own creation.
Like graceful gazelles we soar through religion’s holy loops.
Like flightless dodos we brood a nest of political troops.
BETTER THAN THOU
The heat is blasting our community.
A holocaust on gardens, trees, and lawns,
it makes pedestrians delirious
when forced to leave a sanctuary cool.
I hang my laundry in a holocaust,
delirious, while air conditioners
heat up the gardens in community.
A robin finds a sanctuary
when I spray the hose
and wet the garden down.
My neighbor's sanctuary's filled with books;
her weeds commune delirious
because she let her garden burn up in holocaust
the dogwood branch’s
extra large bloom
the first strawberry
it hurts my jaw
swatting pansy’s roving eye
tulips tightly closed
after last night’s thunderstorm
today, still cloudy
daylight savings time
need alarm for body clock
ticking in slumber
and tall and bold,
you are my promised savior
and you are my jailor.
Past your burly frame
laughter seeps in
testing my fears;
voices call from beyond.
Once I was out there
skipping as children do,
opening my arms to love,
Each time I try
to slide past,
slip through a crack,
voices turn me.
when sun shines bright
and laughter is soft--.
maybe I’ll try again.
Slowly falling in eerie silence,
through darkness to what lies below.
I wonder what it's feeling,
this cold and lovely flake of snow.
Did it recognize the moment it changed
from mist of moisture to a solid flake?
Does it have a sense of falling,
or is this merely a journey to make?
Does it wonder what will happen
when it lands, at last, on earth?
Can it conceive how short the time
between its death and its birth?
How will it die, this unique little flake?
In a wondering child's mouth opened wide?
Or will it be part of an avalanche
on a last, wild, and wonderful slide?
It doesn't matter, my one-of-a-kind friend.
The journey's the thing for you and for me.
We'll meet again; and next time, let's choose
.to be neighboring waves, in a sparkling sea.
ON HAVING A STINKBUG FLY INTO YOUR MOUTH
NEAR SEYMOUR, MISSOURI, AND LEARNING, AS A RESULT, TO TOLERATE YOUR
Were you shocked to find
a Pentatomidae, the stinkbug kind,
winging too freight-train fast
to hold the curving gauge on past
your chiming mouth,
you’d stop censuring your wife for turning south
and critiquing her navigation.
Stinkbugs, good for little else, bring reconciliation.
Preferably, if you must choose an oral guest
from all insecta a bug that’s best,
your pick might be a river gnat
that rarely packs pesky fat
or you might try a skeeter, thin as light.
But never such a vile, robust bug that sticks its face
where your acerbic tongue might
put your wife into her place.
Once you’ve spit though, expectoration underscores
that you’ve mended your intention,
you’ll confess that you too, not her alone, must see more
and pay it rapt attention.
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