POEMS BY MEMBERS
AUTUMN
Laurence W. Thomas
It comes
slowly like the
drawing down of summer
a little at a
time
dying the way summer ends
with cooler days
vying with the heat
as asters and
chrysanthemums fade
dying as the leaves excite
the eye
yellow red
orange gold
before they fall
from bare branches
dying like the summer
with the hope
that there will
be an easy winter.
WHERE'S CHRIS?
Phyllis Moutray
Time was when water flowed up Piney Mountain;
when green-leaved oak and beechnut
branches shadowed children playing
like mountain goats up and down the mountain;
when laughter rang and bells chimed at dinner time.
In this 2007, year of drought,
you, my child, went out to play with friends,
never to be seen alive again.
Where did all the future go,
TOMORROW, IN NEED OF SLEEP
Harding Stedler
I caught Tomorrow napping
in an abandoned corn field
where autumn had turned crisp
before late September's frost.
I wondered why she looked
so desolate
this far in advance of
October's Ukrainian dances.
I read her messages
on the underside of leaves,
prophecies not unlike those
inscribed in sand
by April's receding tides.
I wanted to slip her socks off
and lay her down in stubble
for the long sleep between the
rows.
TO WRITE . . . OR NOT TO
WRITE
Pat Laster
December third—it’s
raining. I should sit
in cozy comfort, write another scene
to move my novel forward. But I flit
between the dreaded tasks, pretend to clean.
I dust and straighten; send a get-well
card
expressing love to one with cancered lung.
I wave to neighbors studying their yard,
then fiddle with a picture, get it hung.
Alas, my heroine
must sew the dress
she’ll marry in, locate a preacher, scrawl
a note to her betrothed, who’s peddling. Stress
intrudes, but possibilities enthrall. I
crawl
into a winter robe of rose,
pull rocker to the fire, relax and doze.
LISTEN
Valerie Esker
The Lord
tells us the truth
if we would just listen,
open up our fact-sealed ears,
hear with our resistant hearts.
The sound
of his voice
is always near,
does not need translated
but needs our attention.
It rides on
the stirring of the wind,
in the night’s dark hush;
is the balm for our sorrow,
the vehicle for our waiting joy.
His Spirit
of truth
resides in the large and small of things;
speaks tenderly always,
murmurs comfort to our agony of “Whys.”
When we
sleep,
He covers us
with his loving Word.
OUR GUIDING STAR
Jeanetta Chrystie
“When they saw the star,
they were overjoyed.” – Matthew 2:10
Beyond the
realms of human-known space--
Lighting the way to a humble place,
Came God’s guiding star.
Blazing
from an indigo sky,
A light that seekers are guided by,
Shone God’s guiding star.
Over a
Bethlehem manger scene--
Spanning the gap that lay between,
Came our guiding star.
Incarnate
God in baby’s flesh,
Recalled in precious wooden crèche,
Christ, our guiding star.
Destined
for a cruel cross--
Purchased in blood, our gain from loss,
Risen--our-- guiding star.
Returns
again on ivory horse,
Triumphant Son and our life’s source,
Comes our guiding star.
Listen now
to your heart’s yearning;
Are you ready for Christ’s returning
As our guiding star?
GOD' S PLAN FOR MAN
FROM A-Z
Henrietta Romman
A day has come when mind and
heart
Begin to take a distinct part,
Concerning lessons hard and
deep
Derived from life to make us
weep.
Engraved with prints of God's
own love,
Forgiving sins from heaven
above.
God only in His loving name
Has hands that cover up all
shame,
In such a mess man's life has been.
Jesus with His true love was
seen,
Knew all, saw all, cleared all
along,
Lost nights He turned into a
song.
Mortality was once man's lot,
Not knowing to give in or not
O'er thorny paths man slipped
to find
Provided shed Blood for
mankind;
Quenched He man's hunger and,
Reserved fresh homes in
Jesus-Land:
Strong nails-pierced hands
shouted the call
To draw man further from the
fall.
Untied man's hands to join HIS
BRIDE!
VICTORY! "It is finished," He
cried!
With newer hearts God showed
His care,
X-ited man from Adam's snare,
Yearning for all the world to
know,
Zeal of God washes white as
snow....
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WINTER
INTO SPRING
Dewell H. Byrd
Lie beside my morning mist
and wake to silver tears;
wait with me while winter's world
gray-clouds away our fears.
When whitened chills reach my heart
to claim their icy toll,
come beyond the warmth of me
and lie beside my soul.
STICHOMYTHIA
Gwen Eisenmann
What's in an apple?
Seeds and a worm.
Is the worm alive?
If you see it squirm.
Which is more important?
They are equally good.
The apple? The worm?
Doing what they should.
ONE RAY
OF HOPE
Jean Even
O blessed Hope, come unto
me in sweet desire.
All it takes is one ray of light for me to acquire
An eloquent declaration of worship and praise.
May my assertion be humble yet bold to amaze,
Even Your horses who are swifter than eagles.
O hope, your assurance is more than viceregal.
Hope, for all hope, is a
worthy cause to engage
My faculties as though it can be a sweet greengage.
Hope sustains me in this life for a more blessed life,
It’s for me to be attentive to the abundant, the rife.
My greatest hope might come in the night as a thief;
Hope does live; I’m a watchman and that’s my belief.
LAUNDRY DAY
Tania Gray
This peg hangs
up my broken heart
and this one my incessant tears
The heavy bed sheets washer wet
drip as my limp dream disappears
The clothespins hang the household brights
and cheat the dryer on this day
suspending old-fashioned bleached whites
and nothing does this scene betray
Familiar routines heal the hurts
They say that time will sear the scars
that wind has famous healing arts
that sun evaporates all fears
TEACHING THE BOY
Pat Durmon
Half-lost on a back road after
dark, I stopped
at a farmhouse near a
crossroads, looking
for help with directions.
A handsome woman came off the
porch.
She seemed to dodge the curved
moon.
Her kind words merged with a
hand
that pointed. But it was
toward soft talk
on the sloping yard that I
turned my head:
there, sprawled on their
backs,
amongst purple crocuses poking
up, lay a man
and a boy staring skyward,
intent as astronomers
on pricks of light puncturing
the sky. Open
laughter drifted up. The boy
pulled out
a pocketful of questions, and
the man responded
with a wide supply of
worthwhile words.
Was I totally lost? Had I
stepped through a door
into another world? Perhaps
the woman
read my mind: she had a
twinkle in her eye
as she explained, “My husband
and grandson
are grazing in the midst of stars . . . .”
CHRISTMAS
Diane
Auser Stefan
Christmas songs and midnight mass,
cold
December days,
sharing
joy and yuletide smiles,
kids in
a Christmas play.
Baking
cookies, memories swelling
so much
to do this season—
yet I
pause and contemplate awhile,
why
celebrate, what’s the reason?
It’s not
just time to give and get,
though
sadly that’s all some people do.
No, it’s
a time of joy and love and hope
that
each day we might feel anew.
It is
Jesus’ birth centuries ago
we
celebrate on Christmas Day.
The love
of the Father who gave us His Son—
we thank
Him each time we pray.
Long ago
the crowded inns of Bethlehem
sent the
Holy Family out in the night—
On
Christmas we go to St. Peter’s
to
worship together, it’s so right!
Not
everyone has had a perfect year,
many
have deeply felt great sorrow,
but Hope
and Love are what Christmas is . . .
Christ
with us yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
This
coming year let’s make a difference
and
remember Jesus’ coming from above—
just as
Christ has promised he’ll come again,
we now
come to his manger with love.
DISSOLUTION Steven
Penticuff
Waves lap at the edge
of concentration while
white sand through a sieve
rains on a dump truck,
and the afternoon vanishes.
BELLS FOR BILLY BURGE
Tom Padgett
With an apology to John Crowe Ransom
Late one dark November day
I first learned that I will die.
When I went out to join in play,
Billy Burge was away
in the county hospital.
I asked my friends if they knew why.
Ruptured appendix, they said,
and the next day he was dead.
Six boys from the fifth grade,
“honorary” pall bearers,
heard the preacher say that all
attending Billy’s funeral--
the boys like the grown men who made
up his body’s “actual” carriers--
were like Billy Burge bound
for plots of cemetery ground.
Later that same afternoon
no counselor helped me find relief,
but father re-opened the ice cream store,
and things went on as they had before.
I wrapped myself in a thick cocoon,
denying unresolved grief,
yet church bells measured out my breath--
they
have since Billy Burge’s death.
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