POEMS BY MEMBERS
MOVING DAY
Dave Gregg
unpacking unwieldy boxes
clumsy with book and volume
I note her packing, pairing
noir with religion and dance
with history and in the hall I
question her couplings with
so small logic in her groupings
she giggles like she does and
smiles luminiscent and says
"now you see us like they do"
FROM THE TOP
Heather Lewis
The climb robbed some of the
air
from my chest—
From where I stand I can see
miles beyond miles,
and I feel small.
Trees over a hundred feet tall still frosted
with snow in the middle of July;
Roaring waterfalls carve
new paths into the mountain’s side;
As far as the eye can see—
mountains on top of mountains,
with meandering rivers slickly sliding
through the valleys thick with green.
This place,
This mountain top,
This feeling I have—
It’s home.
TRANSACTION
Laurence W. Thomas
The path seems to end at the
stream
or maybe it continues on the other side.
I see you in the crossing
and offer you the stream.
Turning down stream, I find
the security
of a large boulder after I leap
from a smaller one where I teetered
momentarily. I give you the rock.
There is something shining
there:
a gold nugget maybe, a silver spoon
down deep, but the water covers it
and the sun splashes on the surface
so all I can see is the sky
broken into ripples and clouds churning.
I will give you the path, the rock, the stream
if you will show me the source.
I'VE BEEN STUDYING POETRY
Jeanetta Chrystie
I’ve been studying poetry
morning, noon, and night.
It seemed a clever hobby to
rhyme everything in sight.
Everything I say to friends
is coming out in rhyme.
They laughed at first but now they cringe.
Perhaps it’s more a crime?
I greet the postman and my
dog
with unrelenting mirth.
But even at the grocery store
they question rhyming’s worth.
Everything I say these days
is coming out in verse.
So, is this really talent?
Or is this just a curse?
HE'S COMING
Diane Auser Stefan
He has a firm grip on ninety,
maybe ninety-three even—
one age-spotted hand
cupped over the other,
both resting
on his gnarled wood cane,
bent low
by gravity’s slow pull
towards earth,
barely five foot five tall,
standing silent.
But his eyes
dart, search, hope,
surveying the hallway
and the doorway
from his vigilant vantage point
at the front of the restaurant.
To no one and everyone
he stage-whispers,
“He’s coming, my son is coming,
joining me for breakfast.
He’s a busy man and important too—
but he’s coming;
he’s joining me for breakfast.”
ME A JUNGLE MAN? (IN 1999)
Henrietta Romman
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If God had made me a jungle
man,
I’d climb the trees,
I’d live like bees..
no agitation..
no concentration..
nor allegation...
no need for speed
elevators, escalators..
not even clocks
for time would stop..
I’d snooze and doze
I’d simply slumber
not one pause…
If God had made me a jungle
man?
I’d fill my lungs
with air so pure..
feel free, frolic
frisk and dance,
giggle with glee..
pick fresh fruits
wet and washed by
heavens sweet dews..
scented by God’s own
scents..
sent by His love..
If God had made me a jungle
man?
Only blue skies..
waterfalls, no walls..
no Malls..power-cuts..
no computers
no competition,
coffee and creams....
no candies
no nauseating news..
ripping reports
of harm and hurts..
no more weather storms..
no revolting dreams..
no more opposition..
If God had made me a jungle
man?
there’d be more time
to dwell in His might,
bask in His sun..
in His strength..
I’d live in wonder
of His created birds..
tamed beasts.. rejoicing
in His days..His eves
with praise..
Yet, if God had created us
all
in a jungle, we would never
say,
“Heaven save us from that
day,
that approaching giant.
that fearful. frightful
year Y2K! |
CROP FAILURE, IN ABUNDANCE
Harding Stedler
First came the drought,
then the flood.
The bees, as it were,
came not at all.
What we needed,
we did not get.
What we did not need,
we got in great abundance.
Tomatoes struggled
the length of summer
with overmuch.
The plants had given their all
until they were fully spent.
Leaves on the vines surrendered,
turned brown and fell
without so much
as one ripe fruit to pick
as late as autumn frost.
MIND TWISTER
Phyllis Moutray
In post-911 America
amidst intense scrutiny
for possible terrorism,
sometimes in an unscrutable manner,
the pot ran away with the kettle,
and the economy threatened
to go down with the moon.
PARALYSIS OF HALF THE FACE
In honor of Anthony Wayne Bland
Pat Durmon
My brother looked and found that half of his face hung limp
like a wet dishrag. He’d followed his usual routine that morning:
awakened his wife, sat down to watch the news and sip coffee.
Just put his lips to the cup and spilled hot, black liquid
down the front of his shirt. His arm jerked the cup up and away from
his body like most would answer a hot stove. And he said
aloud, “What . . .?” The sun slanted through half-open blinds
into the living room, and he raised fingers to his mouth.
Then he navigated down the dead-end hallway to a mirror to gaze on a
face half-collapsed: there he was— wearing one droopy eye
and a half-wilted lip on one-half of his face. Nothing but silence
came to mind. His natural wit absent. The man of dust took-in air
and exhaled as he stared like a curious bird checking-out an
image
in a mud puddle. Long moments passed before he moved
to the bedroom and said in a low voice, “Honey, I may have had
a stroke or something last night.” After his wife sat up, after she
asked him to see a doctor, and before she left for work, he stood
there before her, posing a question: “Don’t you want half
of a whole kiss?” The man half-smiled, letting a half-light
play over the two of them.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR
AN ASSIGNMENT.
Top
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Workshop |
Index
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WYOMING
Judy Young
This is a thin
place.
Arid ground,
sagebrush,
A fall cool breeze,
hot sun dry.
Its expanses
Are too wide.
Breathtaking,
Disconcerting.
Too broad
for the air to linger
in such a thin.
It strays
and spreads,
and stretches.
It could wander
forever.
How can you explain
such a wideness
leaving
such a narrowness?
This place.
It makes you feel so small.
So thin.
WHY I REPLACE THE DEAD FISH
WITHOUT TELLING MY DAUGHTER
Steve Penticuff
The age of innocence
is sometimes purchased
with lies, and the window
to certain joys is open
just long enough
for a few soft breezes
to carry the smells of spring
and a little birdsong.
So I strap her on my back
and chase the sun:
disillusion nips my heels,
where a strange shadow
slowly lengthens.
Darkness, right before
my eyes, trades its pawns
for queens, but we slip away
from another clever check.
A mere deferral,
but I know with each new
smile of hers the flight
is not in vain. Clouds
will come--and rain, and
worse--but now a shiny gold-
fish flaunts its orange
and shimmers, bathes itself
and us with the promise
(blown in kisses through
the glass) of glitter.
IF IT PINCHES
Gwendolyn Eisenmann
If it pinches
wear a never-mind warm sock,
listen to someone else's new poem,
and straighten the mind wrinkles
that bulge
or maybe not
maybe that's a place for wonder
(there's always wonder under tomorrow)
because you never know
you're going to break a leg,
or win first prize.
What a surprise!
I stepped in a hole,
woke up in a hospital
recommended for ten days of walking
through an accelerated program
to recovery. So I did.
It still pinches but my
socks are warm,
and it's a wonder how mind wrinkles
blossomed into sunlight on flowers under blue
and left me wondering.
MY PARTNER IS A GARDENER
Dewell H. Byrd
and a good one if dirt
under the nails
is any indication. Brand new gloves
are tucked away somewhere,
probably right next to the stylish
gardening hats, knee pads, hand tools,
a Western Gardener Guidebook
and Burpee seed catalogues.
Last year it was a lily
craze, this
year it’s all about fuchsias and the
County Fair. Any cutting or snippet
thrust into expensive potting soil
or into mud honors her green thumb
with hardy foliage and vibrant blossoms
before fuchsias of other Club Members.
When night ushers in the
stars
she’s still on her knees, strands
of red hair teasing her freckled nose.
Her dermatologist cautions against
continued exposure to direct sunlight,
but the blossoms and the praise of her peers
are worth the risk of deviant cells.
RAGDOLL HAIKU
Jennifer Smith
Preened, Prissy, Pretty
MaryRose is brushed and combed
Gorgeous Ragdoll cat.
THE LEGACY OF LEAVES
Valerie Esker
As autumn leaves decay
through centuries,
they give their lives to nourish future green
while building loam of richness, for new trees.
So perfect is this order,
it’s obscene
to think of altering this sequenced flow
celestial powers graced, to earthly gene.
And yet at times, ill winds
can chill and blow;
malignant forces climb and intertwine
their evil tentacles that silent, grow.
Behold this tree whose
leaves now lose their shine,
and though I mourn their loss, accept my fate
not minding sacrifice, for what is mine.
But you, my child, sick
soil will dissipate
despite my willing sacrifice of leaves,
for in their essence dwells a cell of hate
not known to me, yet in
this tree that grieves . . .
cruel cancer blight your Satan’s helper weaves!
I HAVE A VOICE
Jean Even
You have no voice to speak
out, but you shine as bright
As though the great King dubbed you a mighty knight.
In your solitude and glamour, you glow for His delight.
Yet you are just a moon, while my voice takes flight.
I will not howl like a love-sick coyote in a dogfight;
I will sing until my heart's content if it takes me all night,
For the Lord is great even during hours of starlight.
I'll declare His holiness, and my voice won't need a kite
To reach His ears, nor will I have to take a spaceflight.
God hears my praise even if I'm not the moon all bedight.
AUTUMN HAIKU
Pat Laster
a four-inch mantis
by the front door handle
for the second day
drip of the faucet
into the lemonade jug ~
sassafras reddening
a long strand
of the spider's web shining
from her hair
among the pumpkins
the laughing seven-month-old
claps her hands
allowing myself
time to porch-sit at both ends
of the autumn day
LETTING GO
Tania Gray
this part was easy
things from our basement, garage
no longer wanted
sell dishes, crystal
from years of entertaining
we don’t do that now
cut my heart open
daughter shedding childhood toys
she’s moving away
let your brother go
he’s in a better place now
so people tell me
A STAR IS BORN
Tom Padgett
Letters
spelled out H-A-P-P-Y--B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y
on the wall of the barber’s half-full shop.
His wife, the night before, had hung the greeting
while he with friends at home had watched
the hoopla of a political convention.
Today the corner TV continued celebrating
the nomination of the candidate.
Politely observing the rule that religion
and politics are topics not allowed--
that only the rude introduce them--
those awaiting haircuts gave the TV
furtive glances, broke them off abruptly,
returned to newspapers, magazines,
or sale bills on the bulletin board.
A young man’s cell phone harshly rang.
He
responded briefly to his caller,
“Yes, I’m watching,” and on TV
appeared the words: A STAR IS BORN.
The
barber stopped his clipping,
staring at the TV screen.
The clients put their papers down.
Relieved
by the interruption,
each felt he could say something now.
They had wasted too much time in silence.
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