POEMS BY MEMBERS
TO SHAKE HANDS WITH A TREE
Megan ParkerAll day you’ve been extending
your arms
waiting to be acknowledged.
You’ve weathered hardship and rested in the sun
now waiting to share with someone
the strength you have found.
All day you’ve been extending
your arms
waiting to be seen and felt.
So, I will put aside my
resignation
my shy fear of appearances.
And when I reach out my hand to shake yours
droplets of laughter from your cool leaves
fall around me,
and I am blessed.
SCREENING THE SNORES
Harding Stedler
Where ducks and geese
guard shorelines of Willastein,
I sleep with open windows
and listen to their night sounds.
Without cause for alarm,
the nights are tame,
my sleep uninterrupted.
Feathered friends will alert
me
in times of danger
to intruders' footsteps
and impending harm.
Most often, they bask in moonlight
on harmless shorelines.
Through window screens,
I send them snores
to soothe their fears
of reptiles and bands
of roving coyotes.
They fan the daybreak
and feather for me new thanks
as I put my feet to floor
and allow my thoughts to fly.
DETENTE
Dave Gregg
We met about peace
when the fighting started
Rebels and cowards
versus brave-hearted
We fought about break time
battled at lunch
We couldn't do breakfast
so argued for brunch
I moved to adjourn
instead we declared war
This is what meetings
on peace are for
SIGNAL
Mark Tappmeyer
You tell me this story:
You’re ten
in the backseat of a ‘52
before seat belts
you and three younger sisters.
Your mother driving.
A screech of tires, someone screams.
The sideways drift of the car
that comes to rest on the shoulder.
You’re asked,
Are you OK? Are you OK?
which you are, which everyone is.
But your mother is pale
and before turning back to the wheel
tells the four of you
Next time, on my signal, dive to the floorboard.
It’s forty years later as you tell me this
still wondering what the signal is
and if you will recognized it when it comes.
LIVING ON THE
EDGE
Pat Durmon
Between the two of them
no beans, no cornbread,
no fried potatoes, no tomatoes
only broth and careful thoughts.
Between the two of them
four ears and soft talk come
late on starry nights
countering long hard days.
Between the two of them
significant feelings
surprising sparks
hearts ease-out of cages.
A small miracle.
KITTY-CISE
Jennifer Smith
Two pairs of pointed ears
angled toward the floor
Two kitty motors very loudly purr
One strand of yarn slowly snakes between the two
POUNCE!
Good kitties exercise each
morning before eight
“Come on people, let’s play! Hurry – don’t be late!”
Again the strand of yarn slowly wends its way
POUNCE!
HISS!
If the kitties nicely play a
treat they will be given
Shrimp or clam or tuna bites, crunchy nuggets – yum!
A little later, there they sit, on the floor like bookends.
“When the other one gets up, perhaps we’ll play again!”
SUMMER SHORTS
Pat Laster
the former pea patch
grows a crop of head-high weeds
this hot, dry summer
leggy hibiscus
against the rock wall
first bloom this summer
dog days of August
two white-robed clerics preside
at graveside
in the mesh of grass
and fern . . . an orange mushroom--
a dragonfly rests
child on the same pew
smelling of chlorine
a swimming pool bath?
THANK YOU, BURPEE
Tania Gray
Our garden grows
under the nose
of Kappa Sig
who mostly doze
Our yen to plant
extravagant
is ‘cause we dig
exuberant
Our plot is small
but overall
variety
botanical
Our fam will eat
on easy street
fecundity
a summer feat
WAYS
Jean Even
In all my
ways I’m consumed with the love of God.
In my
decree for Him; His righteousness floods my soul.
He’s taken
my burdens, I no longer carry them on a rod.
He’s
removed the yoke from my neck dropping it in a hole.
In all His
ways He’s anointed me with the oil of joy.
HAIKU
Valerie Esker
charred forest
green saw palmetto tip
points skyward
GOOD NEWS?
Phyllis Moutray
Serial killers, a novelist notes,
are common in fiction
but remain uncommon in
fact.
Highly publicized, leads a
poet to wonder,
are serial killers today's Old West
competition for Top Gun?
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR
AN ASSIGNMENT.
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GROWING OLD
Laurence W. Thomas
I live in a museum
surrounded by a family
of reminders, a house
peopled with accumulations.
Antiques that mother bought
already as antiques
now fifty years older
hold congress in my rooms.
The scions of the generations
I adopted by default
populate a house
whose walls resound
with conversations
between old books and pictures.
I hold intercourse
with the remains of aunts and uncles,
friends and neighbors
each artifact a reminder
as I frequent the gallery
that I alone remain, curator, survivor.
PAPA'S COMING HOME
Dewell H. Byrd
I’m not afraid of the wind and rain,
Ragdoll’s holding my hand.
Papa’s coming home,
Papa’s coming home today.
We’re watching for his big boat.
White sails on top stretch high,
high into Heaven. There,
near the lighthouse; hear the horn?
Sea keeps rolling--- green and white
like Mama’s new gown.
Waves hiss in pebbles at my feet,
cold water makes my toes pink.
Papa’s been gone a long, long time.
Ragdoll stares at the swirling mist---
Papa will come when the sea is green---
the sea is turning green, green, green.
White foam is turning cream
like Mama’s party face when there’s
company. A string of pelicans
watches for him, dives for him.
Hurry home, Papa, cold fog is rolling in.
Ragdoll and I will find you, Papa.
We’re coming, coming into the sea.
Where is your hand, Papa?
ODE TO EVERY PENCIL
Henrietta Romman
Dear pencil, you taught me
With truth and honesty
What no one else could do.
You showed so well, so true,
You walked along each page
You helped along each stage,
I learned to hold you tight
To ease my pain, my fright.
For school was not to be
Where we would sit, be free.
School was, and is, a place
Of hard work. Just a race.
Dear pencil, you gave me
Sweet blooms and bees to see,
So well you did obey
My right hand every day,
All that my eyes have seen,
You traced, you drew so keen
That all may watch and know
Your clear and hidden glow.
For many years you were
My friend with willing care.
YES! I give you credit,
My work . . . none need edit.
Let every student know
God watches high and low.
To help us He made you,
Glory! For what you do,
Say not, " I am some means
For helping kids and teens."
Dear Pencil, we owe much
Just for your magic touch.
Lift up your head with joy,
THANK GOD YOU'RE NOT A TOY!
METAL MAN
Julia Bartgis
I sat on the porch, still,
a stranger climbed the hill
waving a metal wand.
He traveled toward my pond.
as the contraption hovered
over land covered
with freshly mowed grass.
Eyes alert, he would not pass
by any treasures tucked in dirt.
His checkered red shirt
worn big and loose
hindered not his goose-
like strut when the detector tapped,
Tap, tappity, clap, clapped
to a sure and steady beat.
He planted his feet
as he excavated with no care
my landscape. How dare
him whoop with wild
excitement like a child
at Christmas time.
A dirty nickel or dime
did not interest me
because I could not see
the old coin’s worth
that he resurrected from the earth.
FORMAL DINNER BY INVITATION
ONLY
Diane Auser Stefan
Uninvited guests we were
as on our walk today,
we came upon a solemn
feast,
a most unique buffet.
Those near the food stood
aloof
in shiny black from head
to feet.
They glared at us with
beady eyes,
no welcome did they speak.
They set about devouring
the meal
as each waited, then took
a turn.
We stepped up and nearer,
but were stopped
by icy looks that seared
and burned.
And so we left this
exclusive buffet
hosted not by duke or
earl,
by rather by some ol’
black buzzards
feasting on a road-kill squirrel.
PYRE
Steve Pentcuff
I think I shall place
a large pile
of recycled loose leaf on a little raft
in view of several children playing
on the outskirts of a nice village.
And I think I shall send it off
in flames, floating down the river,
in hopes that word of "the great
lost works" might add to my mystique
and push me past mediocrity
toward a lore of less obscurity.
CLASS REUNION
Tom Padgett
Like archaeologists we tested shards
around a table littered with our past--yearbooks, programs,
photographs from high-school days.
"Whose picture's this?" you asked.
But no one knew. "She didn't graduate
with us," you said. "Her picture is not here.”
You pointed to a newspaper with rusted edges
that told of our commencement years ago.
"A Thelma something, wasn't it?" I tried.
"A Thelma Lee," I added on. "Oh, no.
You mean Thelma Lee Flood," he said. "She lived next door to me
and was a grade ahead of us."
He stirred the pile and took a fragment from
a previous age. Then one across the room
spoke, "In our junior picture she is gone.
She must have left when we were sophomores."
I turned an album page. "I have her here
among some snaps that date much further back."
I held the data toward the group. Again
we drew a blank. No theory covered her.
Then one who just came in applied her science
to the task. "We used to sign these things,"
she said and flipped the photo from the page.
"She's Thela Hargrove--wrote her name right here."
"That's right," you said. We all agreed,
amazed that we so easily forget the friends
that formed our time, and jealous of the one
to be credited with this significant discovery.
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