POEMS BY MEMBERS
BUSINESSMAN ACROSS THE HALL
Velvet Fackeldey
He bops up and down the stairs
and in and out of his office.
He gives the appearance
of busy, importance, influence.
The hours on his door say
he starts his momentous day
at nine.
But I know
he never gets here
until ten.
A SINKHOLE MAY BE FORMING ON OUR BLOCK
Tania GrayI’m
watching with suspicion and concern—
it started with one hole in their front yard,
(a bushel basket would have fit in it),
and when it filled with leaves from a big tree
nearby, you couldn’t tell. It stayed that way
a couple years, the house was sold, some kids
lived there and went to school (not much success)
and meanwhile, turf slumped in another spot—
still shallow, but I thought the sycamore
had siphoned all the moisture from the ground
during our years of drought. A college prof
purchased this house at bottom of our block,
but he was ill-advised, I thought, to buy
a house whose yard was anything but flat!
This year, more holes appeared, while One and Two
enlarged. A Labrador could hide in them.
Has Prof at all observed the rapid way
something below is eating up his yard?
How soon will gravity connect the dots?
Will creeping chasms climb uphill to us,
and sucking soil, implode our rabbit hole?
How awful, sixteen houses on our street
collapsing in a bottomless abyss!
A word with city experts might be wise.
Or better yet, keep mum. I’d rather not
see swarms of TV trucks, reporters, streams
of gawkers looking for the latest pit
of Ozark doom. Let sleeping Labs lie still.
NEW BIRD FEEDER
Bev Conklin
Questioning chirps from treetop high,
cocked head turning, bright beady eye
seeking to know this "something new."
Is it a trap? Will it catch me, too?
I won't go near! That's the safest way!
Slowly a week passes--and maybe a day.
It hasn't moved, and that's food in there.
The skies are gray. A chill's in the air.
I move to the window, glance through the pane,
and spy the small visitor--at long, long last.
Now I'll see if he'll finally deign
to try the seeds and break his fast.
With flash of wings, white on blue,
and a startled cry Who are you?
he quickly retreats to the bushes below;
But I have to try it, it's going to snow.
With magnificent courage for
one so small,
he finally eats--and risks his all
on fragile faith that I'm a friend,
one he can trust until winter's end.
REVOLUTIONARY TEARS
Diane Auser Stefan
come easily, yet the pain lessens not at all.
No sighs or cries, just silent suffering
from her soul reaching every pore and nerve
till her whole being aches.
How can she be made to understand
the glorious cause for which she suffers now?
Her only love's life ended in his own field,
cut down by passing blurring coats of red,
with no chance to change from plow to gun
to protect what was his.
No questions asked,
killed because he loved his land
and because he merely looked like one
who fought against the king.
So,
she sits and cries and listens not to those
who would regale him as a patriotic hero.
She knew he had no politics,
loved only life and wife
and working his own land.
LIMERICK
Gwendolyn Eisenmann
There was a young girl who
wore jeans
While picking the garden
greens,
And though she could
squat,
The jeans would not,
So she stood, 'cause she
could, picking beans.
FORENSIC INSTITUTIONS
Phyllis Moutray
Who walks these long halls?
The sick, in pain, sometimes
again;
the caring, bold, health
restorers -
doctors, security, nurses,
social workers.
Who walks these long halls
kept so clean by
housekeepers,
who sweep and mop again
and again?
What did they do that brought
them here?
Are they like you and me
and common man?
"Of course," he finally said,
speaking of the single man,
"he's like you and me and
common man,
but failed to do what he
must do to maintain reason.
He lost his home, his
livelihood, his wife and kids,
and walked a forbidden path
to kingdom come,
where the owner's
righteous will be done.
Justice, judgment calls,
will be approached
when he has mental health
and hope."
God bless us all
that we judge not
what reason lost has
harm wrought.
God bless us all
that we may do
what we should do.
God bless us all
that we respond
with healing words,
actions, and prescriptions.
May sanity reign
from these long halls
to live outside these
concrete walls.
LIVING ON THE OLD HOME PLACE
An etheree
Pat Laster
I
didn’t
recognize
bermuda’s bloom
until my younger
son enlightened me. I
had no notion that a size
of rock, which lay below the soil
on this old hill, was known as “cathead.”
Are other wonders waiting here for me?
CONSTELLATIONS
Pat Durmon
Two obvious facts: he had hit
his target squarely
and he wore the trace of a frown
on his face.
I turned to make certain
of the rarely changing
constellation
for which his targets had some
fame.
It had been a direct hit,
slightly off-center.
Afterwards, I drew back to the
laundry room,
knowing my husband would plod
back to his shop
to break the rifle down to its
smallest component.
He would probe and stroke every
tiny part,
looking for some piece of grit
or tiny burr
throwing it off. Probably he
would finger the stock
up and down, up and down. Then
there’d be a deep
breath— a rifle needs to be
tight and shoot true
or it’s
sure death, he’d said.
He does no less if all goes sour
between him and me. That he
cannot abide:
he’ll calculate close and push
me to talk and talk
to clean out all my grime and
grit.
This, no different. The man is
set on catching it
before it goes too far askew.
Dark will be walking
our way soon. On this moonless
night
we will sit silent side-by-side,
bundled in a blanket
for an hour under the power of a
clear wintry sky.
We will look at perfect
constellations
being birthed— a common
miracle around here.
THE END: A METAPHORICAL MONOLOGUE
Julia Bartgis
Chapter One, Miss Drama met and married Mr. Speedway.
Our spine-tingling, nail biting, make-me-want-to-scream
adventure began.
Chapters Three, Four, Five, and Six
came along, birthing texture
with additional characters.
The plot mounts and then thickens--you and me--right in the
middle.
New settings unfold in quilt-like array, friends skip in and
out,
as one adventure tumbles into another.
We embrace the new discoveries
lying within soul’s depths.
Suspense holds me love-bound as each crisp page
continues to turn.
Mr. Speedway, can you imagine the drama ever fading?
I find it hard to imagine life’s sun beams
will cease as death’s nighttime settles
upon an aging beach.
Yet, every reader knows, without being told,
With the last page, the story concludes.
The end of us. Pages sprinkled with
humor, love, and endurance
and wow . . .
The End.
CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'RE OUR LEADER
Jeanetta Chrystie
I will
pray for you every morning.
I will listen and watch each day;
To understand the issues you're facing,
so I'll know how to pray.
I'll pray for wisdom and integrity
as you carry out the functions of your office;
For God's guidance as you schedule each day,
and select each hour's emphasis.
There will be times when you're ask to compromise,
and times when you don't know what's right;
Times when a hard choice is obvious,
and times when no answer's in sight.
There'll be times you must doggedly fight--
for justice and truth without rest;
And times when you'll have to choose--
between good and better and best.
There'll be times when you are discouraged,
and times when you are proud,
Times when you're frustrated,
or just trying to please the crowd.
There'll be times when it all comes together,
and times when it all falls apart,
But in and through it all--
God will speak to your heart of hearts.
God is ultimately sovereign,
and put you there for a season.
Find His will in all that you do,
you're in office for a reason.
|
|
WAITING ROOM
Cindy Tebo
The head is missing
from the Lego pirate,
A tower has fallen
on top of a truck.
I sit down
on a wobbly chair
And flip thru the faces
of magazines.
A cord dangles from
the coffee maker,
The scent of old grounds
left in the basket.
Someone says,
"Your car is ready."
I leave the gray walls
for sunshine
And hope I never
breakdown again.
GOING HOME
Jean
Even
Come, O fount of every blessing,
Lead me to the eternal King.
Now the day is over; I’m going home
To Beulah’s beautiful golden shores.
I'm looking up to You, O Word of God incarnate.
I’m trusting You, Jesus, with blessed assurance.
Help me to lean on You, in Your perfect peace,
As I surrender all I have unto Your good grace.
GARDENING AMONG THE
GROUNDHOGS
Harding Stedler
At dusk tonight,
we will slip into shadowy woods
with a tray of tomatoes
to plant on cushioned slopes.
Since we no longer own garden space,
we will plant where groundhogs frolic.
God will not mind.
And Lucinda Browning will not object.
She knows that I will bring
her ripened fruit once the flesh turns red.
We will all be healthier
for the luscious fruit of summer
even if it grows on borrowed land.
How curious the discovery of boys
who wander aimlessly downhill to creeks
to find vines with crimson orbs
draping from their woody stems.
The taste of freshly picked fruit
is enhanced by daybreak dew
and rays of summer sun.
I feast on morning there.
The only ones to eat
my refrigerated produce
are callers who come unannounced.
HARK, THE TRUMPETS SOUND!
Henrietta Romman
The Lord does reign.
It's not in vain
When He is King:
There's latter rain.
We hear His call
Within our soul.
His love is there--
We'll never fall.
Lift up your eyes
Unto the skies.
Adore Him more
Till He says, "Rise."
The trumpets sound!
To leave the ground
Christ calls His own--
We're heaven bound.
FORCED RETIREMENT
Mark Tappmeyer
Each sunrise these narrow backs
I straddle shutter when this blade
on which I wear my hand
attracts
a sputtering at the throat. I step away to watch
each stumbling gait to hope the hope of Levis old
and late that glory will settle down
like manna meats upon the desert floor,
like peace upon a troubled heart,
Yet all that lies before me is butcher's art
where kidney fats go
crackling and white-headed lambs
face blackening.
TIME
Jennifer Smith
The months of summer slip
away like sands
in the hourglass of life.
It seemed not so long ago their speed seemed so
Much more slow, but now they hasten
Ever swiftly . . .
Friends say, “Time flies
when you’re having fun.
Live!”
I say time flies as you grow older,
Ever moving through the hourglass
Swiftly.
MID JULY
Laurence W. Thomas
Patio plants look dry
already
after rain in June and storms last week
left a broken branch dangling
out of reach. I scan the sky
to see if I should fill the bird bath
noting the same lowering clouds
that threatened yesterday.
Thunder growled for an hour
beyond the horizon last night
like a neighbor’s boom box
dampened by distance,
insinuating itself into my drowse
enough for a mental check
of windows facing west.
I fall asleep to undercurrents
rumbling to rise in undulating waves
that break away from where I wake
to reports of distant power outages
from storms, high winds and hail
angrily attacking in the viewing area,
but any rain pelting the night
of my dreams fails to disturb them.
Days drone on into weeks
of watching my garden cry for water
while the first floors of houses
in towns I never heard of
become flooded. Towns in Texas
are reduced to kindling and homes aflame
in western forests leave me teetering
between sympathy and gratitude.
I'LL HOLD THIS POEM NEAR
Steve Penticuff
I'll miss you, daughter,
being four,
when verbs run more
or less amuck:
you "seed" a duck
and "make-ed" cookies; "go-ded"
to
the beach. And who
will freeze this time
for me? For I'm
afraid your un-selfconscious
play
of language may
soon disappear . . .
I'll hold this near.
OH THOSE NAUGHTY BUTTON PEOPLE
Valerie Esker
There they were,
in the forbidden room;
Grandma’s bedroom,
the “no-no” place.
Stormy, only three,
made a mess there
once before.
(Scattered Grandma’s face-powder,
every
where.)
This time, she
knew she shouldn’t
enter.
The spanking from the last time
stung her memory now, just as sharply
as it stung her bottom then.
But, there they were.
Those button people,
next to Grandma’s pincushion.
Blue, white and yellow ones,
awake, inside the shiny sewing tin.
Big ones, little ones,
calling Stormy. Begged her,
“Come play!”
Stormy took a breath,
nodded “yes”
and tip-toed in . . .
anyhow.
EARLY BIRDS
Tom Padgett
The 7:30 flocks
are saints
who work religiously to pass
and probably would--if they thought they should--
crawl on their knees to class.
These zealous students discipline
themselves in prudent sacrifice:
obsessed, they give up food and rest
as well as blacker vice.
They quit their almost unused beds
each day in pious flagellation
and go recklessly, no-breakfastly
to get their education.
Somewhere there surely are rewards
laid up for them which they can keep,
not jading pleasures nor fading treasures
of teachers half-asleep.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
Top |
Worshop
| Index
|