POEMS BY MEMBERS:
LOST TO A WINTER NIGHT
Like mournful moans of cursed souls
this season's wild ghost
thrashes through damp foggy forest
flushing out those seeking refuge–
Winter howls and threatens.
While rabbits huddle in furry nests,
tell me these sounds are
southbound gusts, not hungry wolves
hunting a tasty evening meal–
Dawn seems an eternity.
Flames dance and cackle at the wind;
I snuggle under
warm couch blankets on plump pillows
feeling guilt and helpless remorse–
A child prays for morning.
LEFTY LOOKS AT CHRISTMAS
There must be many worse off than I, but it
is hard to think of them even
at Christmas time when I have so much to do
and must do it left-handedly.
Some south-paws are paid
more for being sinister (look it up), such
as big-league pitchers who make life
difficult for the dexterous (look it up).
however, I find
it almost impossible to sorrow for,
even those who got that way by
downing steroids. Meanwhile, I take my pain pills,
stay home, and whine about my bro-
ken arm this Christmas.
Rhymed Syllable Count
HOPE IS THE KEY
Every man who has hope
Has dreams to succeed
Beyond the moment, to cope
With the ways of life
And not to be found to mope.
In the dreams of his heart
There is You, O Lord,
Guiding him to do his part
To succeed in life,
And You are there from the start.
What he shall do will be.
He’s looking to You
For lighted wisdom to see
His commitment through.
In his dreams hope is the key.
TRYING TO SHED THE NIGHT
Inside and out,
spiders weave tomorrows
in silent dark.
I make my way
to morning Cappuccino
where I feel them
wrap my legs
The morning news
is likewise wrapped,
marring the truth
of every headline.
I am mired in morning
well into the day,
trying to unwrap
those filaments of night
and feeding spiders
to hungry wasps.
tiptoes the vines
of his Sugar Babies
and Crimson Sweets
fattening in their August naps.
Here there he bends and eyes
and thumps then thumps again,
hoping for that sleepy dull reply.
Not unlike you, poet,
inching your way
through a patch of notion
and sense where
colors ripen like rinds
and fragrance sweetens
like blushing meats of melon.
You search your hand
over the plumpest and thump
the unopened, thump
for that secret resonation,
which you trust,
when you hear it, will treat you
to a spot of sugar.
Here's winter once again, it's no surprise,
again I hate to see the cold approach.
It gets into my bones, I can't get warm.
I put on shirts and shirts and sweatshirts too;
so many clothes my arms will hardly bend
and still the goosebumps pop because I'm cold.
My toes and fingers stiff with frosty pain,
I cringe and shiver till my back kinks up.
My childhood spent backed up to hot wood stove,
I now stand over vents and wait for heat.
I jump in bed, curl up with quilts and quilts;
the weight so great it makes it hard to breathe.
I watch the sky for signs of spring to come
and think I won't be warm again till then.
Wesley D. Willis
Delta faded from the caring Millers,
A mother's laughter folding Colorado
into the laps of merciless billers.
The mountains whispered names in indigo,
The wind has moved their thoughts to dreams again.
A lad his eyes returning just to see
his Western home a scene in fading rain,
Behind the cars unwinding pedigree.
The family rolled their loaves of nerves behind
them giving life a turn into the night,
another state a better life in mind,
destined with the future's passing parasite.
I knew the Millers--worthy friends indeed,
Her husband Henry--mother's name is Ruth.
His muscles like a bull in ironweed,
Their son discarding agelessness from his youth,
The monumental fence that Henry built,
The twanging wires with resting birds in tune,
And Mrs. Miller's dinners make you wilt,
Her laughter touches hearts--her smiles a swoon.
WHAT MY DOG DID ON HER SUMMER VACATION
A hinged square door,
access to the crawl space under the red house,
is open for summer ventilation.
A black hole invites sticking your head in.
My cocker sticks her head in,
her body following. I wait.
She doesn't come out,
so I go back in the house.
Later, she scratches at the front door.
Her head and ears are festooned
with a black lace mantilla—
traces of nothingness,
spider draperies from beyond the black hole.
FREE MALE CAT
I don't want a cat,
I'm clumsy without that
wrapping around my feet.
He said it wouldn't wind.
Free Manx-- rare to find,
a deal you can't beat.
No kittens; it's a male,
a mouser to avail,
prefers life in the barn.
We give fur-bundles free
after litter number three,
and laugh at that yarn.
Manx deserves glory,
mostly true, his story.
"She" is a wonderful cat.
FIRST THE JOY
The dog leaps
of the pushed open door,
rivertown streets to
Hit by a Ford,
crawl home painful chore,
she regrets initial joy--
but the vet gets
Syllable Count and Pet Poem
AN IDLE IDYL
After B. Lancaster
far from being
an extravagance or
an indulgence, let Pap put meat
when there wasn’t
any other; let him
feel like something other than a
back when, were rare
as turkeys, wild as minks;
had to be scared up by a good
right in an iron
skillet by one who knew
how made you almost forget you
dog was re-named
Jack for thirty, forty
years, generic—as with children
WE CALLED HER "PATCHES"
The first time we saw her
she was on the edge of a glacier
licking at her matted, shedding fur.
She turned to look at the two of us
as we quietly watched, making no fuss.
Her appearance was just plain ludicrous.
Bits and pieces of fur in a clump
adorned her sides, but not the white rump.
She really looked like quite a frump.
We saw her again in the next few days
when she came to the park towards night to graze.
She'd always pause and return our gaze.
"Patches" is what we called her then,
and to this day, I swear that when
I hear that word, I see "our" wild young elk, again.
Everybody has a story no one will believe,
and mine's about a cat, my uncle's cat.
Before the Siamese invasion, Persians were
the breed to own. This story happened then.
I would have called her some exotic name,
like Reza or Shiraz, but Uncle Bill just named
her Pussy, this well-mannered cat who kept
herself quite clean and had compassion, too.
When Uncle Bill brought home a bulldog pup
that whined all night, she visited its bed
and took it by the nape to share her box
and "faucets" with the well-kept kittens there.
But Pussy had her flaw: although she learned
to use the commode, she would not take her turn.
So if you needed it and she did, too,
she dashed ahead to beat you to the seat.
Her shortcoming compounded with the years
until my uncle realized that Pussy,
though very smart, would never be polite--
and would never use the lever for the flush.
I BRING YOU MEMORY'S BOUQUETS
when our love was new
like spring's first tender violet?
(Oh, we were young like spring then too!)
Remember when our love was new?
Like kindled fire our passion grew!
Love's cooler now, my sweet, and yet . . .
remember when our love was new
like spring's first tender violet?
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