POEMS BY MEMBERS
SNOW IS POETRY
Gwendolyn Eisenmann
Snow is poetry, patterns people make
around their lives with what is given
fallen from Heaven, erasing plans in place.
We see it coming down, God-made to break
whatever wandering vision
fills our space. Snow can erase
all else with snowflake lace
like magic leaven
sprinkled from a winter's shake.
SNOWMAN
Laurence W. Thomas
The body grows as it rolls
into quite a respectable snowball
with a smaller roll placed on top.
Not
quite what we wanted
we note as we finally heft
the head into place.
As kids, we made these.
Now, we can't find coal and
somebody steals the carrot.
SUCH A TEASE
Faye Adams
She makes an early showing,
her warm breath blowing;
an Eastern sunrise glowing,
flowers up and growing.
Melted icebergs flowing,
men on tractors sowing;
loose dirt clods throwing,
barnyard roosters crowing.
Suddenly, it's snowing;
frosty winds now mowing.
Wily smile, all-knowing;
fleetingly, she's going.
Spring . . . such a tease
PAINTED NAILS
Pat Durmon
At first the family didn’t say a word
about her painted nails.
Instead, they walked on eggshells,
trying to get their bearings. The nursing
home, new to all. So, no missteps
were welcome.
Our mother asked a why-question.
Eggshells, all over the floor
and on the window sills—
fragmented and fragile. Stunned,
each son, each daughter
negotiated delicate footsteps.
No place to stand without driving
those fine white daggers into shoes.
But when someone made mention
of her nails, she looked down at her hands
like she might consider an August peach.
She smiled, “My first time . . .”
Words of hope.
JANUARY ICE STORM 2009
Diane Auser Stefan
breathless cold
morning
ice imprisons
each dark branch
and each blade
of grass
like fringe on a
shawl
icicles trim
power lines
then snap and
break down
tall trees bend
to earth
treetops frozen
tight to ground
held against
their will
week without
power
we live hard
like pioneers
respecting their
strengths
day-to-day
living
stretches
imaginations
for ways to
survive
when power flows
back
days ease yet
daily struggles
not soon
forgotten
HARBINGER
Bobbie Craig
March
winds stir
clouds, create
jigsaw puzzle
pieces, rearrange
tomorrow's weathercast.
Snowflake confetti shimmers
in the tentative sun, glistens
on delicate white crocuses next
to vivid daffodils announcing spring.
RIBBONS OF LAUGHTER
Harding Stedler
The room
was filled with revelers
bouncing laughter in varied decibels
off walls of painted cinder block.
In rhythms of sound
wrapped myself in ecstasy
and climbed
the invisible ladder of joy.
There, I made bows of laughter
to dangle from the ceiling
so we could dance our way
to night's end
and cradle the moon
in an elbow
of some distant galaxy.
b r e w
Dave Gregg
they met one night a week
for years in every weather
never missed a meeting
not one that I recall they
rarely ate just cups of joe
and hours of the staring
sometimes they spoke but
mostly not but never failed
to hear them and though
they hardly touched you
felt them through the walls
we tried to give them space
but they swallowed up a room
as menu, staff and patrons
changed they met to sip the
brew we called it "relationship
coffee" I'd kill for some right now
JEALOUSY
Pat Laster
My boyfriend's gone out with
my baby.
"'Be back in an hour," he
said. "Maybe.
"We'll ride three-three
wheelers all over the snow,
slipping and sliding wherever
we go."
Already today, they'd watched
wrestling: Mid-South's,
with large plugs of Red Man
filling their mouths.
They worked quite a while at
building a sled.
"The snow is too slushy; it
won't work," they said.
"Come with us," the boyfriend
had nobly insisted.
"There's only one pair of
boots," I resisted.
I guess the real reason I'm
feeling so mean:
I'm competing with baby. She
just turned fifteen!
SURPRISING HOW THINGS COME IN
GROUPS OF EIGHT
Tania Gray
Of course, an octopus waves hi eight times,
tarantulas en pointe four pairs of feet,
a mirror with eight sides is good Fung Shui.
It used to be an 8th grade graduate
could step into an adult role. It used
to be a box of eight Crayolas kept
a youngster happy quite awhile. A set
of dishes ought to have eight plates and bowls
because the dinner table has eight chairs
and my old cookbook recipes serve eight.
The engine of our Mercury Marquis
is a V-8; and so’s the can of juice
of select vegetables. The 8-track tape
is an antique; and you were cheating bad
if you won at canasta with eight cards.
But best of show for groups of eight-at-once
is California babies A through H;
octuplets came out kicking: number eight
was news to all. These tots are vigorous;
it took a team of docs and nurses six
times eight to get them in their cribs. I’m glad
I’m not the mom. She won’t permit her name
to be announced. But she can’t keep those kids
hush-hush or hidden under wraps: they’ll squeal!
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MAGNOLIA TREES STILL
BLOOM
Freeda Baker Nichols
New Member
The graying skies
are dull as blotted ink,
The cellars dank and filled with spider webs
In Dixieland. The peach trees bloom pale pink
Where Coats of Blue defeated Johnny Rebs.
When soldiers died in war’s red-spattered night,
Reluctant Rebels laid their weapons down.
Magnolia trees still bloom sweet-scented white
And Southern Belles still wed in satin gown.
The story Mitchell penned—the war its theme—
Gone with the Wind depicted spoiled coquette,
Who selfishly destroyed her treasured dream
And pouted then without her darling Rhett.
The South, like Scarlett, never really died
But kept its inner strength with stubborn pride.
RAINFOREST
Dewell H. Byrd
A low rumble of thunder
stumbles over the cucumbers.
A soft spray tickles the hair
on my right arm.
I lean on the shopping cart,
one foot on the rear axle,
scan the greens and yellows
while my wife pokes and squeezes.
Despite her ritual I suspect
what I’ll be eating all next week
is written on that wad of coupons
clutched in her purse-hand.
In a small dark office over a warehouse
in Richmond, California, a dozen
potato-heads with cauliflower ears
wear green jackets with a red S on the pockets.
They lean back, smoke crooked celery cigars,
blow onion rings at the skylight,
plot my cuisine for next week.
Suddenly the Head Veg slams his palms
against the jicama table, shouts:
"I got it men! We’ll issue a big yellow
special coupon for the weekend:
CORN-ON-THE-COB and RED CABBAGE.
That’s what he’ll have for Sunday dinner."
A roar of approval thunders
through the Produce Rainforest.
SPRING
WILL ONCE AGAIN BE HERE
Genesis 8:22
Jennifer Smith
Buds
appear on flow’ring trees,
Crocus blooms about the yard,
Jonquils push up through the dirt--
Spring will once again be here.
Frisky
squirrels build treetop nests,
Robins hop in garden plots,
E’en though snowbirds visit my deck--
Spring will once again be here.
Ol’ Sol
shines a bit brighter each day,
He warms my heart if not the air.
One of these days it will be true--
Spring will once again be here.
God once said, “As long as earth endures
Seedtime, harvest . . . summer, winter . . .”
His promises are always true–
Spring will once again be here.
EASTER LOVE
Jeanetta Chrystie
The story started long ago
When evil sought to overthrow
God’s grand design for history—
Revealing Heaven’s mystery.
God came to Earth
incognito,
A babe to battle mankind’s foe.
Poor Rachel weeps, evil’s high price
When Herod orders sacrifice.
The Christ escapes to other
lands,
For God, you see, has other plans.
To Egypt in the dead of night,
Then Nazareth, to grow in Light—
In David’s land, of David’s
line,
As prophesied, a King divine.
Again, the Foe tries to lay claim--
The upper hand in earthly reign.
Upon a cross he seeks to
nail
A battered man, now weak and frail.
From top to hem, the veil is torn.
It’s for this reason Christ was born.
Soon from the depths of Hell we hear,
“See, Death is conquered, Life is here.”
Now Christ awaits with God above,
As we accept His Easter love.
FATHER LORD, WOULD I ?
Psalm 119: 11, 105
Henrietta Romman
Would I, Father, reverently bow my head
And openly break Your given rules
Like many faithless, godless fools
Who may think they clearly know You,
Father Lord? Would I?
Would I, Father, ignore my purified heart
That is being tuned to You instead,
Forgetting that You have ever bled
Knowing You would forgive me soon,
Father Lord? Would I ?
Would I, Father, take the Holy Book in hand,
Consume it and get through it all the way
As each night turns into another new day,
Then carelessly follow the evil of the world,
Father Lord? Would I ?
Would I, Father, walk in full faith, then praise,
Then form opinion of much hate and scorn
Leaving your Fatherly heart to be utterly torn
As you watch me throw away all Your love,
Father Lord? Can I ?
Would I, Father, with closed eyes picture heaven
While my truly cleansed tongue lashes out
With wrongs and vice, violence and doubt
Yet stand before you with such great piety,
Father Lord? Would I ?
Would I, Father, counsel all who cross my path?
With words of caution that seem so right
Choosing to stress upon Your saving might
Still, an apparent plank sits snugly in my eye,
Father Lord? Would I ?
CHANGES
Tom Padgett
On January 26,
this year, 2009,
a mother had eight babies,
and they are doing fine.
Two times before, octuplets born
had never all survived.
These tiny Californians
are very much alive.
Six boys, two girls shared
the single mother’s womb;
Home from the hospital,
they won’t have much more room.
She has six older children,
and all are under eight,
sired by her boyfriend,
whose part was to donate
some sperm of his to
fertilize
her eggs again in vitro,
of which the doctor then implanted
six as embryos.
On its own one split apart,
and then another did,
The staff in the delivery room
found themselves outbid.
They bet on seven when they
cut
and dubbed them A to G,
then H appeared surprising them
with Mom’s fecundity.
Her big surprise will come at home
as life she rearranges--
with eight more babies she can count
on changes, changes, changes.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR
AN ASSIGNMENT.
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