POEMS BY MEMBERS
HE HUMS AS HE
MILKS
Gwen
Eisenmann
He hums as he milks
and
the cows stand quiet
at dawn, in the
barn
sunlight through the open door
burnishing
their auburn
coats.
Are they aware,
do they
hear those geese calling?
CHEATING MOZART
Steve
Penticuff
Our child turns six
months
old and my wife
says, we're bad parents:
we haven't
been
playing Mozart.
There's all the research,
you know . .
. and
of course she's right,
so I panic and scramble
to
salvage something
--anything please
in life--for the
poor
plebeian at our feet.
I wiggle out (desperate
times,
desperate logic)
and offer a long-shot:
But Mozart
didn't
listen to Mozart
as a child, right?
Hope rolls in
slowly,
settles around us like
a welcome fog,
chills us out
awhile.
But the fog horn intrudes
somewhere in the
distance
(and the sun always wins
in the end
anyway),
reminding us deep down
that some lies
you just
can't buy.
Mozart, after all,
was Mozart, not
Joseph
Amadeus Schmoe.
And besides, he actually
did listen
to Mozart
as a child. He just wrote
down the notes
from
symphonies already
playing in his head.
The cheater.
HOW NOT TO
WRITE A POEM
Ben Nielsen
Step ONE and Step TWO
Do not think,
do not stew.
Step THREE and Step FOUR
Less is never
more.
Step Five and Step SIX
All words really do mix.
Step
SEVEN and Step EIGHT
Gotta love the hate . . .
Step NINE and
Step TEN
What did that last line mean?
Because I am pretty sure
it did not make sense. I mean really.
Come on. What
kind of poem is this? Oh
poems!
HIDE AND SEEK
Ian Scott
Paterson
If beauty were in
season,
how might one hunt it?
Be it me, I’d start with rod an
reel.
I'd tie to heavy-test line the ugliest,
most appalling
lure I could find.
Beauties do eat uglies don't they?
But what if beauty
doesn’t
take to bait?
I suppose I’d try to trap it.
I’d use a ray of
light or two
and a shutter to catch and contain.
But where
would I find a shutter fast enough?
But do you think
that
beauty can be caught?
Maybe the best that I can do
is
just to let the pictures speak
their thousand words.
And
just sit back and listen.
COME UNTO ME,
LORD
Jean Even
Bring unto me a day of
peace
Where love abounds with your grace.
Home is far away
from this rat race,
And I’m so alone in this place.
My heart cries out for Your
love
And the sight of light from above.
Though I walk near a
cave in daylight,
The cold darkness surrounds me like a
plight.
Come unto me with heaven’s
joy for this day.
As I pray in earnest that you won’t
delay,
Tonight I’ll watch Your universe on display
And
remember life is like a child at play.
POET-TREE
ENVY
Valerie Esker
I know that I shall never see
a poet quite as glib as me.
Now I've said that, mon ami,
I'll bet I've made an enemy.
HIS NAME IS
WONDERFUL
Henrietta W. Romman
We wonder at our Great Good God
Who
takes big steps to rest our mind.
In His sure Word he hides a
rod,
We wonder at our Great Good God!
He hears our cries,
and he would nod,
He made the heavens and mankind
We
wonder at our Great Good God
Who takes big steps to rest our
mind.
WOMAN, NINETY-THREE,
DIES
Pat Durmon
She leaves the bank accounts,
blooming daylilies
and a small gray house to her ten nieces and
nephews
in faraway places who did not visit. In the living room,
a Zenith television glows on two snowy channels.
In the
yard, the heart-shaped leaves of mournful treetops
click and
clack restlessly as if they might tell lively
secrets before the
sky brews up a storm.
Then I find the light of a
summer day in what seems
a dim picture of a withering
world. It reflects off
the uncut grass and gilded weeds
around her house.
I, who had come on a whim,
sit low and
watch from the fifties’ dinette set.
From there, I decide to buy
the bedding,
only a trace of her; that way I can lay my
winter head
on Irma’s flat pillow she leaves
behind.
THE HESITANT
MAJORITY
Tom Padgett
Indecision is the valley land
wherein
we live below the mountain Certainty,
which shows a
sunlit face some days each year
but usually remains obscured by
fog,
unknown to all except the brave who climb
to set a flag
to prove they fear no more.
Most of us will never climb
beyond
its first levels, unsure of who we are
or where we want
to be, forgetting names
of places we have been, remembering
an
odd melange of things--barnyard smells,
school medals won,
descants of nightingales.
We lie in meadows white with
edelweiss
and coax a marmot near to photograph,
but stop to
raise binoculars from time
to time to see the scalers on the
peaks.
We shun those crags, deny the glories of
their
heights--and live with others like ourselves.
CREATIVITY
Julie
Garrett
When
it comes to creativity,
you must think like a child.
Simply
stare off in Space--
let your imagination run wild.
Some may be an artist,
a
musician, or a dreamer.
Some may be an athlete
who strive not
to break their femur.
But all in all I really
am
quite the creative gal.
Be sure to keep your "wild"
thoughts
a little bit moral.
I'm creative because I wrote
this poem for you!
I KNOW WHERE ALL THE SLOPPY
DRINKERS ARE
Tania Gray
I know who prefers malt Bud
Light or Coors
and those who tipple and then topple cans
from
off the railing of their porch or pitch
their semi-empties from
the car to street
I know who drops their silver cylinders
amid
detritus of a late night bash
especially in college parking
lots
at Rush I'll find the metal mother lode
for twice or
thrice a day my terrier
and I conduct a seek and seizure
search
we are relentless we police our beat
and pick up what
can easily be had
so far we haven't tried to dumpster dive
we
pick up flattened roadkill and the fresh
catch of the day still
dripping amber ooze
you see aluminum is ready cash
the price
they pay per pound has gone way up
and trashy drinkers keep our
pets in treats
PALESTINE PILE-ON
NOT
IN MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, OR JOHN
"Jesus did many other things as well."
John 21:25
Mark
Tappmeyer
Below the heap
where limbs
strayed
in spaghetti disarray
and hands groped
for
knotted-leather seams
and strong arms plied
their pile-on
schemes--
the Nazarene, under all,
would not give up his
grip
upon the sheep-skin ball.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
Top |
Workshop
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E. A. ANDREWS
After E. A. Robinson
Laurence Thomas
Whatever Mr. Andrews chose to
own
he took, no matter who picked up the tab:
His scoundrel
ways, deceits, were widely known
to us, succumbing to his gift
of gab.
He out-talked anyone he chose
to cheat.
And we fell victim once within his pale.
Try as we
would, we never could compete
against him; somehow we would
always fail.
Oh, he had power, the might
that money brings
to ruthless ones who use it to promote their
goals
at the expense of others who, as underlings,
fall prey
to tyrants to become such hopeless souls.
We suffered cruel treatment
with no hope
of besting Mr. Andrews. It wasn’t funny
the way
we lived, until one day, this dope
appeared to us and gave us
all his money.
INDIGO BUNTING
Judy
Young
If I went out hunting
For
the indigo bunting,
One I would never see.
But today I’m just
walking,
Not at all stalking,
And I happened on
three.
VANDI'S DREAM
David
Van Bebber, Jr.
Her brown eyes sparkle and
fade
as her hopes that rose up subside.
Another disappointing
day
has quickly come and gone away.
She will die again there
in her bed,
rest her broken heart and head.
Then rise again
renewed and refreshed,
and with her new life she will
dress
with a new dream, on a new day.
A completely different
game to play.
The sparkle returns, her new eyes shine,
leaving
the old life dead behind.
INCHING TOWARD A
PYGMY
Harding Stedler
Suddenly, top shelves
of
cupboards
are beyond his reach;
tree limbs he used to hang
from,
beyond his grasp.
Aging may have absconded
with
his height
and given it to baby giraffes
that they might stand
taller.
A frantic search is on,
in roadside
ditches,
under beds,
in landfills
for missing
inches.
Shrinkage in recent years
has reduced him
from
5'10" to 5'6"
without his knowing it.
As he inches toward
a pygmy
in the sunset years of life,
he ponders the
mischief
of thieving ghouls.
NOSTALGIA NOW
Nathan
Ross
An unusual suspect nudged me
late this morning: too much sleep.
The usual culprit: an
alarm,
which leaves me to be comforted by just
five more
minutes and,
soon enough, five more.
Home again for a season
of sweat,
a season to catch up on boredom, sleep, and
more.
Trees are through blooming.
Birds are raising
juveniles.
The essence of my own juvenile days
linger like
dark chocolate on the palate,
sweet moments contrasted by bitter
tears.
Friends are gone. But thankfully,
my family’s still
here to catch up with.
ATLANTIC BEACH
Pat
Laster
where sandprints
dissolve
under incessant undulations
gobbled up
then
sandspit
in opals and diamonds
violets and teals
saltspray
daydreams
hovering
girdled by laughing gulls
bandied by sea
breezes
augured into sandwarmth
I pick through shells
of
autumn orange
translucent as parchment
then jump
startled
by timpanied waves
crashing
crashing
GOLDEN
DOG
Diane Auser
Stefan
I’d
see you on my morning walks
sometimes barking a greeting,
always wagging not just
your tail, but your entire south
end.
One thick misty morning not long ago
I saw you
silhouetted
racing
across the field, hair in flight,
and you as graceful and fast
as the deer you might have been chasing.
Magical !
Then yesterday morning while
walking
I was stunned and stopped
by the sight of golden
hair
at rest by the side of the road.
A close look told
me
you’d run no more
and though I hated the task
I knew
your family needed to know
why you hadn’t come home.
I don’t know your name,
golden dog,
but I knew your spirit,
your joy, your
curiosity,
your dutiful guarding and
your friendly barking,
and I will miss you.
ROCK GARDEN
Velvet
Fackeldey
In
my garden, between the rows
of cucumbers and tomato plants
and
green beans and carrots,
are many rocks.
The Ozarks ground
produces them
in great supply.
The rocks grow wild and need no
care.
Too bad we can't eat them.
When the summer days grow
long
and my children whine,
"There's nothing to do!"
I send
them to the garden
to pick rocks.
Just once each
summer
curs the whine.
Next summer, when they forget,
there
will again be many rocks
for kids to pick.
THE
MYSTERIES OF THE MIND
Sharina Smith
The mysteries of
the mind are ours to unravel.
Is it possible to reveal the
truth?
What lies in the deep?
Is it too sacred to fool
with?
Will we ever know; should we want to know
The great
secrets inside--
Memories of good times
Dreams of the
future
--What lies behind these thoughts?
Ah, the great
treasures there to be unfolded,
Shall we ever know their
value?
Can they be appraised?
(The careless days of youth are
treasured there;
The feelings of growing up are held in pain
there.)
Is it right that we should try to solve the
mystery?
Something says not to ask, but just to
accept.
I shall try.
FREEDOM
FLAG
Nancy Powell
Stores and ads display the
flag;
fireworks stands dot the highway.
We have cause to show
and brag;
souls paid dearly for this day.
Daring men march
into Hell
forfeiting all, chancing fate,
so we can hear
freedom’s bell,
always pealing on this date.
Honored emblem–stars and
stripes–
for servicemen who gave life,
families with tears
unwiped,
hearts pounding with drum and fife.
"Just a piece
of cloth!", you say.
It stands for flesh, blood and
bone,
parent, child, and graves in clay.
Waving peace, it’s
proudly flown.
LATE SPRING
Bev
Conklin
Today I realized
the
colors
Orange and Black
indicate the beginning
and the
end
of spring and summer
When I heard
the cheerful
song
and finally spied
the bright plumage
of an
Oriole,
I knew the frost
had truly gone.
When I see
carved pumpkin
faces
and black-clad children
dressed as witches,
I'll know
it's back
and will stay.
Yellow and Red make
Orange.
Warmth and learning,
passion and action.
There are
no colors
in Black . . . nothing.
And so, Orange and
Black
remind me,
there's nothing I can do
to hurry
spring
or delay winter.
Just enjoy both . . .
when it's
time.
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