POEMS BY MEMBERS
COQUETTISH WAYS
Harding Stedler
In her skin-tight skirt,
that old woman
chases younger men in church
like a beagle
in pursuit of rabbits.
Every Sunday,
she sits with a different one
and feigns her innocence.
She sits shoulder-to-shoulder
beside each of them
and grins seductively
while the music plays.
She does not know we see
her flirtatious ways
and giggles her way through prayer.
One day she'll get her wish,
and a suitor will whisk her away
without her knowing.
She is certain to give the preacher
a timely sermon
for the following Sunday.
REMARK
Todd Sukany
Often the window,
complete with spider trash
collecting in its corner,
frames scenes
no different from others—
oranges and purples—
the stuff of rhyme.
Should these words
not escape the web,
this moment too
will become
an irritation
to be swept away.
A WEEK LATER
(A cinquain sequence)
Pat Laster
Wild hair
un-made-up face,
bemoaning sore muscles
from walking, trimming
azaleas,
I think
after
reading his love
note, if he could see me
now, his feelings would
probably
vanish.
No sign
of sparkling eyes,
no thought of dressing well,
my sloppy shorts and shirt and
shoes
dirt-stained.
He'd say,
Hey, did I dream
this one up? She isn't
the person I've had on my mind
all week.
WRITTEN IN SONG
Gwen Eisenmann
I stood beside an apple tree
to hear a yellow warbler singing there
and he did not fly away.
I was that close to Heaven,
just branches away
from a signature
written in song
on air.
Is this not a miracle--
the only word I know
for birds that sew
earth to Heaven with song
and let me listen?
DEAD BATTERY
Velvet Fackeldey
Just like a car,
some days I don't start.
Too tired, too slow, too late;
any excuse will do.
I'd like to hibernate,
or be a hermit, or maybe
a muttering bag lady,
pushing an overloaded grocery cart
with Wal-Mart sacks and sweater sleeves
dangling over the sides,
so people would stay away.
But I must be here
and there
and my face must smile,
even when my eyes are dead.
A TENDER TOUCH
Jean Even
For You I’ll rejoice with a
phrase.
Teach me to laud You in holy praise.
I’ll exalt Thee with adoration.
You are the light of my salvation.
In mercy I did find Your grace.
A Savior’s tender touch left a trace
Of anointment, to warm my cold heart.
You heard me praying and took my part,
Bringing me home to Heaven’s throne.
I won’t stay here on earth lying prone.
In humble ways I’ll praise Your glory.
Rejoicing in You is my story.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
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Index
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MONTANA REVERIE
Val Esker
Oh Western Sky,
in a dream
did I first witness you?
If not,
then why this sense
of deja-vu?
My eastern feet
have never walked
this foreign soil before,
and yet,
stride sure and fleet
as when on sandy shore.
God's mighty hand
drew me to these rocks,
this endless view;
proved, that like this sky,
His love is vast,
miraculous,
and true!
THE COSTLY MESSAGE
Henrietta Romman
Y'shua came. He is the Word,
The Son, Redeemer, Savior too.
His blood was shed, His message heard:
Y'shua came, He is the Word,
The cross before Him and the sword,
His heart was set, and this He knew:
Y'shua came, He is the Word,
The Son, Redeemer, Savior too.
REMEDY
Tania Gray
The tumult and excitement of a bird
chorale is strangely soothing to my sole--
the best alarm to waken me each day
is warbled song in half-light ebb of night.
It is an hour delicious, just to lie
half-dreaming, drifting in a semi-sleep
with trills and twitters floating on a breeze.
At times I'm now unsettled from my sleep
with nibbling nudges of anxiety
until with day's inception, songs of birds
sedate my fretful state. The same effect
can happen in the soft twilight of dusk,
when as an arboreal lullaby,
the birds call gently to each other and
to me. It is a soporific drug.
In my carefree youth I soundly slept
until my mother called me from the door.
I wondered why my mother liked the dawn--
she said it was the best part of the day,
a time of peaceful ministrations, cares
suspended. Life repeats itself with me--
I meditate accompanied by birds.
DIVERSION
Nancy Powell
Today the clouds look like
fish meat,
a spread of fillet across the sky.
I see only buzzards trying the feat
of stretching their wings to fly
in the distance where hills meet
blue orbits kept for hosts on high.
Can it be the great fisherman
spreading out a heavenly catch,
and from the swiftness of his hand
speeding currents stir my corn patch
and rustle across this autumn land
as vultures wait for scraps to snatch?
Weathermen would surely tell you
this pattern is caused by high wind,
and my daydreams are all untrue.
But they keep me sane, I defend.
With trouble and sorrow, we knew
a diversion balm he would send.
ORDINARY SORT Mark
Tappmeyer
"They lay their
crowns before the throne . . ."
Revelation 4:10
Most entering heaven's
courts
appear the ordinary sort
who in their days on earth clerked shops,
laundered diapers, hoed snakes and crops,
clung to God as best they knew or could,
though stumble-prone in how they should
walk. Their crowns,
hardly jeweled,
look pig-iron plain, too rough to fool
a studied eye. But among the stars--
the Jeremiahs, the lioned martyrs--they are
witness to the truth: when cast down,
cheap crowns too make hallowing sounds.
SCHEMERS Tom
Padgett
A dad-blamed casserole will
not console
a man who's lost his wife, but on the whole
that's what the widows bring, not steak nor stew.
They're at your door within a day or two,
dressed fit to kill and frisky as a foal.
You get home from your
early morning stroll
to find some woman waiting to condole
by handing you a dad-blamed casserole.
I swear, if you were ugly
as a troll
and low man on this late-life totem pole,
you'd guess before you left the funeral pew
some lady's ploy to use your stomach to
achieve her goal: a dad-blamed casserole.
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