POEMS BY MEMBERS
SONNET OF NECESSITY
Gwen Eisenmann
When I remember how the brook so clear
ran rambling through the forest where we were,
I wander there again and hear the sound
and walk with wind and memories around.
A sycamore stood silent by the stream,
its golden girth more than my outstretched arms
could measure, smooth bark rippling in the gleam
of water running by. Old mellow farms
lay green beyond the forest's boundary
in sunlight on the path that beckoned me.
With all the twists and turns it led me through
this sonnet lost its sequence wandering too.
Now I look out on a tall ginko tree
as foreign here as my life seems to be.
MARK ANTONY AND
THE FALL FROM
PARADISE
Mark Tappmeyer
If dies
is what one does
for heaven’s sake,
then dying’s due
to you
who knew her,
like one who studies ancient wonders,
who draws his finger
inch by inch
across a marble’s
rounded crests and folds,
across the flanks and ribs
of her hieroglyphic soul.
She was full,
as paradise was,
we’re told.
But no history’s ever
quite this true. For,
amidst even robust delights,
always across
one’s face, her brow, yours,
floats discontent,
a moment’s wanting more than
this nubile queen, this noble you,
this Niled place,
awakening then
the fall in her
and you,
the fall in all.
SUMMER SUNRAP
Harding Stedler
Summer boils
beyond the shadows.
Asphalt bubbles in July,
and cattle ponds
yield to sun.
As little water
becomes no water,
fish fly
in search of deep.
I do not challenge summer
on days like this.
I stick to shade
and poise myself
for passing wings
that will give me breeze.
I wrap myself
in leaves
until darkness|
wraps the sun.
Then, night allows me|
a shedding of the green.
RELEASING BLESSINGS
Jean Even
To God be glory,
Honor in grace,
Trust in faith,
Holy in redemption,
The Deity in life,
Everlasting eternity.
Rejoice in His ways,
They are righteous
Justice for all men.
Merciful in grace,
His goodness is
Divine in holiness.
Receiving our praise,
Inspiring in worship,
Turning our words
Into sweet savory,
Releasing blessings
From His glory.
NOTE TO A POET
For Carrie
Phyllis Moutray
Five-foot tall octogenarian,
your eyes crinkle with age and laughter.
You're a true Victorian wonder,
a writer of sober sonnets,
inventor of the humorous Lil Ann.
You use your stove, never a microwave;
type poems on a typewriter, never a computer;
style your hair with gel, never a curling iron.
Though you'll try to teach us,
you know more about formal poetry forms
then we'll ever began to master.
OCTOBER
Bev Conklin
October has arrived.
A few brown leaves mar the beauty
of her cloudless, azure skies.
Now, green summer leaves change,
revealing the vibrant colors
that have been hidden within.
Only in these final days
will they display the fire
and passion that sustained them
during the summer days,
as they nurtured, shaded, and protected
"their tree"--their connection
to "all that is."
Embracing the gusting winds,
they are released to indulge in
a graceful, gliding, dipping, diving dance
as they race toward rest and renewal . . .
fall's final, flamboyant celebration.
October leaves her gift.
ZEN AT NIGHT
Tania Gray
We make a perfect yin-yang design
sleeping together like two spoons
Our cat is the black dot
curled up in the half-moon shape
by my chest
Our dog is the white dot
curled up in the other half-moon
by your legs
All we need is a round bed
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MY BACKYARD TREE
Velvet Fackeldey
A fall evening on the porch,
the temperature that twice a year's just right.
The back yard tree fills my field of vision
with ripe reds and outrageous oranges,
the colors so extreme I think
the tree must ache in its altered state.
Does it know nakedness lies just ahead?
Does it hoard its power
for the burst of green to come?
Our lives cycle onward at nature's mercy,
less under our control that we think.
AN AUTUMN MINUTE
Pat Laster
The autumn beauty's everywhere--
in fragrant air,
magenta leaves,
bronzed wheat in sheaves,
sun-burnished pastures stubbled gold,
lone oriole,
umbrellaed groves
(bovine alcoves),
a visual banquet unsurpassed,
a rich repast.
All senses share
fall's love affair.
BETRAYAL IN PARADISE
Valerie Esker
My Florida,
how I fell in love with you
when we first met!
You seduced me with your fronded shadows,
dazzled me with your sultry sunlit joy,
caressed me with your salty breeze.
Northern gloom fell from my pale limbs,
slid to my sandaled feet,
when sloughed like snake-skin
outgrown.
Florida, when we met,
life danced anew
with your exotic tempo teasings
tapping at my heart.
My freshened spirit winged high
into your blue noon sky,
sailed through your flaming sunsets,
surfed your crashing waves.
Oh, but then . . .
your tempest raged!
A YO-YO
Judy Young
I feel like a yo-yo on a short string,
One minute I’m high as a bird on the wing
But then someone gives this yo-yo a throw
And down on the bottom, I’m lower than low.
One minute I’m up, one minute I’m down,
Bobbing through life hardly touching the ground.
Spinning and spinning I go round the world
Redundantly like a pendulum twirled.
Elated I’m like a man on a trapeze
I reach for the moon, split the atom with ease
But double or nothing, a tidal wave’s drumming
And over the falls, rock bottom is coming.
Ride round the corner and this sleeper awakes
On life’s roller coaster without any brakes.
Loop the loop, breakaway, grab the yo-yo, then chuck it,
Once superman, now a drop in the bucket.
I’m sinking, I’m rising, I float up, I fall
Up and down on my string, never stopping at all.
And if you are wondering wherein my mood lies
It’s low to the ground or way up in the skies.
OL' COLLEGE TRY
Todd Sukany
I signed up
But just for a degree
I’m really not interested
In much educationally
I’ll attend a function or two
So long as you know
The reason I attend
Is only for show
I guess you probably think
Your work is a gift
But I is I
And I’m surely not missed
Since I just want an A
And your tasks are not fun
I think, Jesus, I’ll find
Another instructor for Life 101
DEAD LANGUAGE
Tom Padgett
Marie Smith of Anchorage, Alaska,
in an interview with the AP
said fifty to ninety percent of languages
will be dead at the end of the century.
It takes 100,000 speakers
to keep a language, noted Marie,
to keep it passing from generation
to generation effectively.
Think of it this way, Marie put it,
every two weeks a language dies,
and our world, linguistically speaking,
is much poorer for its demise.
Thousands of them have died already,
and half remaining are barely alive
with fewer than 2500 speakers--
some have only four or five.
Eyak, for example, has
one speaker, only one,
and with her dies her language--
no other person speaks it, none.
Marie gave this AP interview
not in English but Eyak instead,
and since no one could interpret it,
who knows what on earth she said?
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