POEMS BY MEMBERS
PLAYING WITH WORDS
Velvet Fackeldey
I'm heading home on Route 65
and I'm going 65, and I think
it sounds like the title
of a country song:
"Doin' 65 on Highway 65."
I should be in a pickup,
wearing a cowboy hat and
snakeskin boots.
I'm not a cowboy
and I really don't care
for most country music.
But I can play with words
and laugh at myself
and it makes the road
less boring.
NOVEMBER
Bev Conklin
November
is in a restless mood.
Days gray and somber.
Winds angrily gusting.
Tantrum over, she sulks
through baring trees.
Heavy clouds, pregnant with moisture
scud and bump aimlessly.
For just a moment they break apart
allowing the sun to smile through.
A leaf races its shadow atop the ground . . .
neither wins.
The clouds rush back
blotting out the sun's frivolity.
November wants to pout.
It's time for nature to retire
into a deep sleep
allowing healing snow and ice
to replenish the earth
and prepare for the arrival
of another Spring . . .
A never-ending cycle.
November has insomnia.
But wait . . .
soon she will tire
of tossing turning
and spastic changes of mood.
The first snow will fall,
silently and unexpectedly,
and she will snuggle under
its soft, warm blanket.
At last, November can sleep.
NO-VEMBER BLUES
Val Esker
No turkey on the table,
No potatoes in the pot,
No gravy in the gravy boat,
No stove that's cozy hot.
No money in our pockets,
No gas in our old car,
No jobs (they left for Mexico,
And we can't go that far).
No layaways at WalMart,
We can't afford to pay.
That means no chintzy presents
To wrap for Christmas Day.
November skies look cloudy
But we have awesome news
God gave us all each other
To love away November blues.
STOPPING BY WOODS* ON A
SNOWY DAWN
Todd Sukany
Whose cakes these are I think
I know.
His bakers? Artists in the dough.
He will not see me pause but dart
to find the rows of fried cargo.
My little cart must find me
smart
to steer these aisles with single heart,
to speed past fruits and nuts, forsake
the lusts that lurk within this mart.
I glaze a nod at pale
cheesecake,
avoiding friends—too much at stake!
The only sound is wheels that splay
on other carts left in my wake.
Though Woods tempts me, I
can’t delay;
I’ve meetings to attend today . . .
donuts to eat before I pray,
donuts to eat before I pray.
*A local grocery
CHORUS
Gwen Eisenmann
”I can’t hear myself
think,”
Mother used to say
when we were noisy children.
It wasn’t the thought so much
as the loss of self to think them.
Now, alone, walking a woodsy lane
at dusk, everything stilled but katydids,
hearing myself think, the sounds
are all of others, the parts of me
that they have become.
NOVEMBER SENRYU
Pat Laster her
hobbies
Garden Club
and deer hunting
prisoner of war
dying without fanfare
on Veteran’s Day
flinching
against winter illness
a flu shot
only serious
cooking I’ve done all year
on Thanksgiving
after Thanksgiving
Monday’s 8:00 gives thanks
professor absent
A FORWARD-ONLY TRUCK
Harding Stedler
The day that Corliss Stopher
bought his truck at auction,
he stopped at Gershwin's Hardware
on his way home.
There, he bought a peanut sheller
for his wife.
Eager to get it home to her,
he returned to his truck
and threw the gearshift in reverse.
The truck did not budge.
He did not understand.
He went back inside the
hardware,
begging help. Told the fellows there
he'd just bought Clinton Easley's truck
and it won't go anywhere in reverse.
Some snickered; others laughed aloud
for they knew too well
Clinton Easley's ways.
For a peanut sheller,
they agreed to push the truck
out of the parking space
so Corliss could put it in a forward gear,
then make his way back home:
with no reverse
and without a peanut sheller.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
Top | Workshop |
Index
|
ROAD KILL TURKEY DINNER
Judy Young
After hearing on NPR that roadkill was now
legal
to eat in TN, with apologies to A. Pinder
Sittin’ by the roadside on a wintry day,
Messin’ with a turkey, passin’ time away,
Pluckin’ all the feathers from head to bony knees,
Goodness, how exciting, a turkey feather tease!
Tease, tease, tease, tease,
A turkey feather tease,
Pluckin’ all the feathers
From head to bony knees.
Just around the corner, I hear a fellow shout,
“Stop messin’ with that turkey, out of the ditch, get out!
I think your mind is troubled, my stomach’s in a quease,
From watchin’ you pluck feathers from head to bony knees.”
Please, please, please, please,
Get mental help soon please,
Stop pluckin’ all those feathers
From head to bony knees.
I jump into my car and drive off to my house
And that is where I notice the first small crawly louse,
And suddenly I realize I’m alive with lice and fleas
From plucking off those feathers from head to bony knees.
Fleas, fleas, fleas, fleas
Turkey feather fleas
I got from plucking feathers
From head to bony knees.
THE HOLY SPIRIT, OUR FATHER'S MESSENGER
Henrietta Romman
I got a message from Our Dad
As mounting worries made me sad.
He said, "Look to me,
Hear my word and see,
Just lean on my arm and be glad."
With heart and soul, I
sought The Book;
God's promises of love I took.
My tears then glistened,
I learned to listen.
He led me beside His still brook.
My comfort, Lord, was in thy rod!
Thy staff was in the paths I trod,
Thy pastures I've seen
Are lush and so green--
There is none like Thee, O My God!
Thou are the Shepherd of all love
Who sent Thy Son from up above,
A Lamb from the womb
Disgraced till the tomb
When He rose in glory and love.
LITTLE OLD LADY
Tania Gray
Little old house
little old lady house
little old lady lives here
rows of flowerpots, sitting and hanging
houseplants our for summer vacation
hollyhocks blooming by the corner of the porch
old-lady flower beds, anything that grows
and two cats watching over all
little old house
little old lady house
little old lady lives here
that's all true except the little old lady part
I don't think I'm a little old lady at all
I was just born about a hundred years too late
LOVE'S REPLY Mark
Tappmeyer
As dusk light fades and
thunderheads ignite
a ballyhoo, inhale with me this night
of airy motion rushing left and right
upon us. Come to me, my sweet, dismiss
your caution. Play away the crack and hiss
of storms most lovers locked in bedrooms miss
when clouds, contentious gamesters, rise to dither.
I wish to watch with her
the poplars shiver
and, playful then, some love-art take and give her.
At roost the peacock gents down in the park
call woo to hens that scratch bugs in the dark--
those quilled and distant lovers in the park,
blue folded fans to streamline in the rush
amid the mounded banks of underbrush,
that, needing rest from
love, reply to all
at roost: We will not open to your call
nor come so long as trees head-over sprawl.
Our beauty, finely stored in feathered shawls,
deserves to skip contorting overhauls
and, if we must, we’ll break your hormone’s laws.
Besides, fresh grubs unearthed can make us pause.
THANKSGIVING
A Dorsimbra
Nancy Powell
This season’s confetti blanket rustles.
Plump grandchildren romp and roll in the yard;
a bundle slides and expertly tumbles;
I call, “Be careful,” and stand like a guard.
How I would love to join,
roll carefree in dry leaves,
forget turkey, pies, rolls,
and duties of my age.
Thank you, Lord, for
healthy children’s pink cheeks,
giggles that echo with every cheerful breath,
and warm Christian homes that you have blessed.
This season’s confetti blanket rustles.
PREPARED?
Phyllis Moutray
My three mutts,
Rescued,
Overeat in perpetual
Preparation for future
starving.
FALL FASHIONS
Tom Padgett
With quiet reverence along
the streets
in town, we watch the autumn fashion show.
The models--sweet gums, maples, poplars, oaks,
and dogwoods--strut their stylish finery.
They stop in twos and
threes to posture where
their startling hues are seen to best effects.
Orange and yellow brightly smile, magenta preens,
but haughty red pouts against the muted green.
They wheel and bow in late
October winds,
collecting with polite applause the praise
the patrons feel for samples which displayed
reveal the Grand Couturier's designs. |