POEMS BY MEMBERS
JANUARY SUMMER 2006
Nancy PowellTrees
shake, stark and shivering,
though this wicked wind is warm.
Pink tinted sage waves quivering;
inky smoke signs malefic harm.
Cattle stampede to the creek bank,
where narrow trickles weakly ramble,
mud squishes underfoot dark and rank,
smaller animals shriek and scramble.
Sirens scream, volunteers rush,
a community comes together,
mortals against flaming brush.
Come snow; quench this weather.
Snow birds escaped to north land.
Killdeer where will you nest?
Will spring lend a healing hand?
Is God putting us to the test?
I remember wide-eyed children,
parents surveying parched fields
equating nature with purges for sin,
–my silent prayers for angel shields.
When nature wields her hellish fury,
is it encouraged by Satan’s sword?
Assuredly, God will chair our last jury
dividing grace and justice with word.
MUSIC ON THE WIND
Jean Even
Hallowed is thy name, O Lord,
And worthy of my praise.
Thy glory is my salvation;
Joy is my hope,
my protection in frays.
Unto You, Jesus above,
I’ll make a joyful noise
Of an operatic array,
Bold masterstrokes
In classic ways to hoist.
Lift up, O voice, with singing,
Harmony to resound
As bells echoing in the land.
Ring out, O heart,
In tones that will astound.
You bring joy to my heart, Lord,
In ways that transcend.
Your peace is with me in the land,
Consecrated
Like music on the wind.
COME, KINDEST PRESENCE
Valerie Esker
Come, Kindest Presence,
Here to this table.
Hover close, over gleanings,
over heads bent in trust.
Come, Living Essence,
come ever nearer.
Inspire with sweet breathings,
hearts fashioned from dust.
From newly-filled spirits
springs joyous thanksgivings,
quietly praising
your good, as we must.
CARILLON
Velvet Fackeldey
The bell rings,
calling me.
Yes, I am grey and bent,
but I will not go.
Not yet.
I must say
my love aloud
to those I have ignored.
Don't tell me
my time has passed.
I will not go.
The bell rings,
calling me.
A STORY IN FOUR-LETTER
WORDS
Phyllis Moutray
The power of four-letter words--
with their extremes of
love and hate,
their past and present tenses
of feel and felt
and hold and held,
their temperature differences
of cold and warm
and cool and heat--
reminds me how
I loved you till
I hated you.
There wasn't much
for us in between.
We were warm until
we were ice-cold.
With you I felt good
until I could
only feel pain.
Thinking of you brings
tears
to my eyes again.
Is it truly better
"to have loved and lost?"
A FRIEND INDEED
Henrietta Romman
You are, O Lord, my FAITHFUL FRIEND,
Great mercies You prepared for me.
I know You said, "Wait for the end."
You are, O Lord, my FAITHFUL FRIEND.
Spread out Your hand, O Father, bend
Your head, incline Your eyes to me.
You are, O lord, my FAITHFUL FRIEND
Great mercies You prepared for me.
DEATH
Julie Garrett
Why go on with this life
When all it does is bring me strife?
The ups and downs go all around.
I wish to be put in the ground.
The pain I suffered as a child
Makes me now, oh so wild.
I put on my painted smile
And play the role for a while.
I set my self at a pace,
For no one sees my true face.
The pressures building up you see
I wish to bring death to me.
Who would guess the one I
cherish
Is the one who made me perish?
The cruel world does nothing but judge;
Perhaps with them I hold a grudge.
But now it's time to end this day--
Up to heaven I make my way.
The many pills go down my
throat,
I know I have no reason to gloat.
But here I lie on my bed,
Hoping soon I will be dead.
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THE CAT AT NIGHT
Pat Laster
the cat, late at
night
running the length of the house
and back again
between the cat's ears
calico colors change shapes
with her yawn
mid-February
calico in the sunshine
a living doorstop
the calico
bringing winter inside
in her coat
in the sudden light
the old couch brighter
with the cat on it
FLAMING TONGUES
Harding Stedler
The stench of burning squirrel
all but drove the firefighters out
as they battled the hillside blaze
on Oliver Mountain.
Dead trees crackled and popped
and toppled into crisscross piles
like garden wigwams.
Deer vaulted from the underbrush
in search of safety
along the banks of Turtle Creek.
December's fast forward
of springtime brush fires
made the scene surreal.
Rocky crags that overlooked the valley
swallowed the orange flames
that begged for more to eat.
FLIGHT OF SNOW GEESE
Judy Young
Streamers move
across the sky in a wavering V, so high
they are barely perceptible, gray
against gray, an undulating soft lead etching against
a winter
cloud cover.
Hundreds of individuals form this thin thread
pulled along by an invisible
needle, basting in and out of soft fleece. They are so high
the rushing
beat of their
wings and the cacophony of their voices make
no sound and announce no presence to
hundreds of individuals threading their way through cars.
The silent
existence
is noted only by one who, standing in the
middle of a crowded parking lot,
chances to look skyward, wondering whether there is snow
in the air.
CROWD CONTROL
"There will be no end of
disrespect and discord." Esther 1:18
Mark Tappmeyer
The sweep
of expectant male faces
can drive kings even
in their vaulted places
to refrain the scepter
from a maiden form
who finds herself
treading lightly
on the palace floor
and only yesterday
had lost her way
along the porticos
looking for the
palace door.
POETRY READING AT ALLEY SPRING
Tania Gray
Sandy arranged the event,
reserved the time, collected chairs, assembled poets.
It was a quiet, hot afternoon.
We sat in a dim corner of the old mill,
hearing the spring in its untiring mad rush
by the open back door.
We listened to each other's passions,
feelings captured in efficient pace and cadence,
starting timid, growing stronger.
Protected by solid wooden walls on two sides
with mill machinery our hypotenuse,
we spilled words on the floor
as water spilled through the sluice gates outside.
Roaring, tearing, driving to be free,
they fell and tumbled
to race and run from shade to sun,
spreading, swelling, and sliding farther,
out of sight of our restricted space
and away from our barricaded interior
out to the wider world.
POETRY BUSINESS
Tom Padgett
The voice on the phone,
cocksure in tone,
informed us he had a plan
for groups like our own--and on went the drone
of a telemarketing man,
who early had found the
best of sounds
to him were words he himself said.
His rates would astound, for companies around
charged more, as surely we’d all read.
Of error-free frills like
superb spelling skills,
he boasted high-and-mightily,
then said we’d be thrilled when we saw the bills
for the State Pottery Society.
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ASSIGNMENT.
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