POEMS BY MEMBERS
DISHWASHERS
Renee Johnson
Dinner, then we
wrangle plates,
forks, frying pan,
mixing bowl,
beaters
together.
Stopper in the sink,
scalding water,
steam cloud,
blast of soap.
Scrub,
rinse;
quarantine
clean from dirty.
Hand-towel dry,
stack,
shelve.
Drain,
kitchen lights off,
dishwashing
done for tonight.
BULLFIGHT
Helen Bulger
He screams Olé with the
crowd,
as the Taurean strikes the dirt floor,
glaring at the red flag held via
the taunting, marvelous matador.
She studies his body next to
her
bullring and stance unify, as
the matador thrusts the sword
into the heart of the bull’s eye.
Then sights the bird’s
wingspan,
eagle wed to the cerulean sky--
inclines his head towards her,
the compliant dance crucified.
ALZHEIMER'S HITS CLIVE
Judy Young
There was once an old bee named Clive
Who no longer was allowed in the hive
For the bees were appalled
That he never recalled
Whether comb has six sides or just five!
PRAYER FOR THE STRAYED
Shana McCoy
I stand along the side of the
straight and narrow,
Forgetting where it was that I got off of the well-
beaten path.
Where do I try to begin?
How do I start when I don’t know where I ended?
Precious Jesus, hold me
close,
If left alone, I know I will fail.
APPETITE DESTROYED
Josh Lawrence
Soon,
very soon, I must swallow
that pine tree whole.
I thought I could get away
with just the lick of a needle,
munching, crunching bark.
But it is inevitable now.
I see it must be consumed
and stopped before it grows
any further.
What started out as such an
innocent,
miniscule seed, has grown into
a decaying spore, lodged in my throat.
It is uncomfortable, but I
can still
breathe. My gizzard grinding away
at this brick, getting nowhere.
I splash down some water, hoping
it will ease the pain, but it’s no use.
I must spew this behemoth onto
the beach. I must let it go.
ANNE AND LINDY
Theresa Lochhaas
On the ground they were
Anne and Lindy.
She with bookish black frames
and a fistful of poems,
Ivy League’s finest,
his fingers black with mechanic’s grease,
countenance cut by a charming smile,
St. Louis’s lone eagle.
But the sky cast a curious spell—
when his plane rattled through
high altitude’s cloudless sun-dazzle,
translucent as liquid gold,
jeweled with flecks of magnified dust motes,
they were a poet and an adventurer.
A connoisseur of words
with her harbor of dreams
and the grandest of aviators,
larger than life.
Maybe it was the thin air,
or the dizzying heights,
or the quiet moments of private conversation
on those afternoon trips to Long Island.
On the ground they were just
Anne and Lindy
But when they flew together,
they tread the dawn.
She wrote in a letter to her sister once:
I am upside down,
completely overwhelmed, and upset.
He’s the most absorbing person
and he doesn’t touch my life anywhere, really,
but he touches it everywhere
UNSAID WARMTH
Nathan Ross
Home-baked bread spread
with peanut butter
always makes her go “Mmmmmm . . . ”
Without looking, she knows I’m watching.
Eyes closed, soon to dawn, then
the smile, always that smile,
like sunrises never complimented.
HAIKU
Valerie Esker
gull rides the shore wind
above the picnic table
eyeing leftovers
ADAGE OLD
Diane Auser Stefan
do as I say, not as I do
so easy to tell another
to ‘write it down’
but I did not
myself
adhere
till now
Disarray
Disorganized days and daze
in mind and home and self
Calm down
I say to me myself
Things will
fall
into
place
eventually
MYSTERIES OF RAIN
Patsy Colter.
Sometimes it falls like a
whisper
Upon the window pane
Faint gentle tapping misty
and serene
Softly lulls us to restful sleep
Then picks up gusto with
fierce winds
Unmistakable power of assault
Startled from peaceful dreams
To moments of frightful awareness
Rain is welcome, elusive at
times;
Essential to all living things
But always beyond the horizon
Of a brand new day.
WAR OF EMBARRASSMENT
Harding Stedler
Each day, the news grows
grimmer,
and the senseless loss of lives
less defensible than the day before.
Yet the war goes on, mercilessly.
Insanity prevails over civility,
and the Tigris is awash in blood.
Thousands of innocent lives
lost
every month with no prospect
of resolution. Our leaders cry,
"More oil! More oil!"
Oil at the expense of young men's lives?
Reports of sand swirls in the
desert
are all that give me hope.
They promise a life after war,
if only the war would end.
KNOWLEDGE IS WISDOM
Jean Even
O, ye of little wisdom,
Ignorance isn’t bliss.
Hearken to the unknown.
Seek throughout the depth of it;
Explore it to the limits;
Go beyond it into a new horizon.
Celebrate in what you find,
Or close it for what it's not.
Only speak the wisdom you acquire.
As truth, it will be known.
Speak with the fire of conviction,
The passion of desired favor,
Or the strong disdain of hate.
Hark! let it be known:
Wisdom backed up with knowledge
Is more desired than ignorance.
FOR MOSES, FOR YOU, FOR ME
Henrietta Romman
God burns a bush in every heart,
He waits and yearns for man to know.
With love, God sends a fiery dart,
God burns a bush in every heart.
The Holy Ground is but a start
To cleanse and follow as we go.
God burns a bush in every heart,
He waits and years for man to know.
|
AUTHENTICITY
Steven Penticuff
The photographer comes
at the damnedest time
to snap a picture
and drop it in the mail
for posterity. So on that day
may my hair be wild
and uncombed--a nest,
perhaps, for sea breezes
and mermaids' voices
whispering surprises;
may my eyes be peaceful
and mischievous,
two enlightened pools
clear and deep
that make people wonder
what I'm up to; and lined up
in a wide and honest grin,
may my teeth record
their long, beautiful history
with coffee and tea, berries,
red wine. Sirens and humans
and all Creation can do
what they want to behind me.
Just let that silent picture
of a man who lived once
sing--and sing well--
of acceptance, compassion,
and a life steeped in prayer
POETRY IN THE NUDE
Bri Scott
The time has come, the
fates declare,
to write another poem.
Personify in formal wear,
pull parallel your form.
Alliterate! Tuck in each
word.
Spruce up your punctuation.
Yet once again I find myself
in hyperbolic consternation.
I wrangle with infernal
rhyme,
That will not tie about the line,
Nor lie straight against
the page…
I’ve broken now my metric gauge.
There are wrinkles in my
simile.
My diction tore my imagery.
Oops, I smeared my
metaphor.
What the ’s a
caesura for?
The time has come, I must
confess,
To take this poem and undress.
Naked clauses leave no
doubt,
Just let my assonance hang out.
And though you may condemn
me worst,
I’m comfortable in my free verse.
FLOODING
Pat Durmon
I witnessed it for myself
soon after the dogwoods budded.
The river in an unapologetic way
swelled and splashed through thickets
along the banks and pecked away
at the roots and runners
of the thick cane brakes
leaning east.
Then from the radio
we heard more rain was on its way.
My husband’s stick, his flood gauge,
was gone— just gone, washed away
by the rushing waters.
Conversations became short;
eye contact, scarce.
But the high waters ran here and there
with a menacing noise—
such a terrible freedom.
And that same sound
mesmerized the two of us.
A funeral could not have made us
more hollow.
ASLEEP
Velvet Fackeldey
I wake as a hand moves
across my line of vision
startling me
almost touching my nose
and then it's gone
out of sight
and my breath catches
in my throat
while I force my head to turn
to find the body attached to the hand
and in the glow from the street light
I see my hand on the blanket
and feel the needles stabbing
as blood begins to circulate again.
HAIKU FOR MARCH
Pat Laster
walking the old trail
to hear the sound of spring
the maples budding
red petunias
in the daffodil bed
first day of spring
saplings
standing
in violets
the full orange moon
a penumbral eclipse
darkening one side
the first hummingbird
squeezing the tea's lemon
slice
onto my green beans
sinkful of dishes--
the bud-vased buttercup
spawns a poem
SNOWBOUND
Laurence W. Thomas
As a neighbor boy
makes angels
in the frosting of snow, I think
of divinity fudge whipped
to sugary froth hardening
into mouth-watering whiteness.
His father crunches
the crust of snow peaked
like meringue on my driveway
as snow sprays from his blower--
cabbage chopped into slaw.
He chews out a path
in the white layer cake
with icing from yesterday's snowfall.
The weather reports warned us
of healthy helpings
but after so many servings
piled high on my plate,
I worried about overindulgence.
Enter my neighbor whose offer
to clean up the mess
came after he noticed the frosting
in my drive rising like biscuit dough
and he knew I would need
a way to get out. His son
came along, a ginger-bread figure
all wrapped to keep him oven warm
as he stirred up the snow, making angels.
WHERE IN THE WORLD--
Gwen
Eisenmann
Where in the world do I belong? Where
Am I not on hold? What other place
Feels like my garden, yet allows a face
To float among the flowers, and to care?
Who understands transplanting? Who's aware
Of sun that slants, and shadows that displace
The sense of being in a certain space?
In a cocoon I move from here to there.
Who and where would make me feel at home?
The scattered bits of soul I've left behind
Must make a pattern. Everywhere I roam
Someone creates an essence. When I find
A formula for mine, how sweet the loam
Fresh-planted, with its fragrance thus defined!
FEAR NOT
"Joseph son of
David, do not be afraid." Matthew 1:20
Mark Tappmeyer
Easy for them to
say
who slip there to here
here there
like on skyscrapers
boarding
emerging
knowing the door will open
the way back
never worrying that they
may be tricks of the imagination
PRISONER IN A BIG HOUSE
David Van Bebber, Jr.
I’m stuck here waiting
for joy to walk through that door
to take me to a place I knew before.
They don’t speak of me going
home
or the torment of this stay.
I am disregarded like the rules of this house
no one listens and everyone cares.
Servants to themselves and the falsehood
to which they have pledged.
The photographs on the wall
give testimony to a life of lies.
Their smiles reek of pain.
When I speak,
no one hears my silent ache.
I am lost in the lies of unspoken promises.
The assurance of a short stay
undefined by the plastic tongue of a snake
deceiving even himself.
Will this never end or must I run away?
Fleeing my loving captors,
running from this house to another home
of mine where I’ve never been.
THE SADDLE BLANKET
Tom Padgett
At twelve I had some
money when
I saw it at the hardware store,
but wising to the wiles of men,
I knew where I could get some more.
Not from my father who had done
his all when he gave me the horse,
but from my guest, my sister’s son
whose tender heart made him my source.
The letter that I helped him write
his parents told of his distress
and, movingly, of my sad plight:
the check came soon—I knew success.
So if I ever break the law
and get caught, I am sure to tell
I went astray the day I saw
that saddle blanket for Old Nell.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
Top |
Workshop
| Index
|
