THE JACK'S FORK
Elizabeth Y. Porter

The water is very clear today, 
ice-cold, 
as it was when your father swam in it. 
Now, thirty years later, 
you, golden-haired, 
float where he floated. 
He was a better swimmer; 
you skimmer on the surface, 
then set your feet down. 
He dove from the bluff; 
you play games, blind man's buff 
on the rocks beside the stream. 
The sun beams down 
on bare skin, 
a tan beginning to burn, 
As on days 
when he made waves, 
long before you were born. 
The sounds are the same: 
the frogs creep and croak, 
and 
You splash and screech, 
making memories fly in drops 
to join the river and the years.

HUMMINGBIRD MOMENT
Hilma Hughes

      On an early spring morning he flew through the open door of the Art Gallery, perhaps attracted by the bright colors of the paintings on exhibit.

     Flash of emerald,
     Flutter of winds, ruby red,
     Hummingbird dancing.

     Hovering in front of an abstract in bright blues and reds, he suddenly spun around as if realizing he was no longer outside and the bright splashes of color weren't flowers.  As understanding dawned, he darted to a nearby window.

     Wings beating window,
     Ruby breast against the pane,
     Hummingbird panic.

     Walking quietly to the window and gently cupping hands around the tiny body, I captured him. Immediately, he became quiescent in the hollow of my hands.  Turning his head, he peered through a crack between my fingers.  Our eyes met!

     Eye-to-eye contact,
     I with awe, he without fear,
     Soul to soul we touch.

     I carried him to the door and, opening my hands, tossed him to the wind.  He flew to a tree branch a few feet away, turned around, and looked at me.  Again, it seemed that our eyes made contact.  He nodded his head several times as if to say, "Thank you," then darted into the distant blue.
 

BIRCH TREE BANK ROBBERY
Edna Staples

The day was warm and sunny
and Bob was mowing grass.
The tellers in the Birch Tree Bank
were busy counting cash.
Two fellows in a Ford sedan
parked just outside the door.
One stepped inside and waved a gun.
It was a forty-four.
It was a forty-four.

"All get inside that vault," he said.
"and do it mighty quick."
He closed the heavy metal door
and gave the lock a click.
He tripped upon the electric cord
as he rushed across the room.
The light went out. He sprawled there flat.
And the gun made a terrible boom.
And the gun made a terrible boom.

The driver of the get-away car
left there in nothing flat.
"There's been a murder, sure," he thought,
"I won't get mixed up in that."
The would-be robber dashed right out
and seeing Bob he said,
"Get in your car and drive me out
or I'll blow off your head.
Or I'll blow off your head."

Bob's mother heard the fuss and came.
She screamed and said, "Oh, please,
Don't take my son, I beg of you.
I beg on bended knees."
"Out of my way, old lady, dear,
we're going for a ride.
Just start this car and drive it hard,
a gun is in your side.
A gun is in your side."

So Bob he drove toward Arkansas
and talked to quiet his fear.
Mile after mile they sped along
until Bob said, "Look here!
We're many miles away from town
so if you will let me go,
I'll walk back home. It'll take me hours.
You'll get away you know.
You'll get away you know."

He hoofed it back and for many days
a great hero was Bob.
The guys were caught, the bank was safe,
the bank they meant to rob.
The bank they meant to rob.

EXCHANGING ATOMS
Daniel Dahlquist

Snow is not literally blue
but is blue.

The wood in your armchair sympathizes
and the metal faucet does not.

Everyone hush, the material is speaking.

Sometime it's obvious: yellowwood trees
are sensitive,
goose down has memory.

In a little known Irish play
called The Third Policeman
a man loves his bicycle so much
he and his bicycle exchange atoms.

"The slag-heap of history"?  Well, yes,
if it's your history
and it's a real slag-heap.

If you can believe Michelangelo,
sometimes a person craves release
from a block of marble.
 

AGE CAME SUDDENLY OR,
NO MIDDLE GROUND
Susan Breed

She was not angry at getting old,
Just surprised.

She had called her nieces "children,"
When her husband countered, "No,
They are young women."

"No," she said at forty-five,
"They are teenagers."
"I," she said, "am a young woman."

He harrumphed,
She insisted.
But no matter,
She had questioned,
And at that instant
When she was no longer young,
She started to be old.

AFTER FORTY YEARS
Paul Faulkenberry, Jr.

After forty years 
I've come home. 
I have changed more 
Than anything else; 
Both a love and hate 
It's worked out. 
There were so many 
Things I learned. 
I wanted to share them all. 
So many things I still recalled 
Of home, hills, past and 
Present loves. 
All in the past now. 
Somewhat confusing. 
My breath and heart 
Are labored--for things 
Already done or things 
That yet need doing. 
When I returned, was 
I indeed going or 
Am I yet to come? 
 

HAIKU
Paul Faulkenberry

Hey, Mr. Monkey,
would you be much happier
with fewer cousins?
 

IMPERFECT LOVE
Elizabeth Porter

Sometimes we’re brave when we think not
To love someone when we’ve been shot
Down by words thoughtlessly said.
Words flung at us, we duck our head,
Then stand up tall, and know this truth:
Imperfect love is absolute.


CONSPIRACY?
Pat Jordan

Jets flew over
the wilderness areas
at 4:00 in the morning‹

Just after the moon rose,
obscuring all the stars.
 

MAY NINETEENTH, NINETEEN NINETY-NINE
Phyllis Moutray

In flowing silk and high-heeled sandals,
they dug in the dirt
for a share of hostas with white-bordered leaves,
the cream bearded irises, and pink peonies,
enjoying the sun, the heat, the varying
blue hues of the cloudless sky
on this pretty spring day.

They began on the hill
and sauntered down the valley,
carrying their mother lode of phlox and spiderwort
with their bobbing blue blooms.
Reluctantly they hurried back to their work,
late from their version
of the three-martini lunch.

WILD ROSE
Edna Staples

Wild rose, growing on the weathered fence,
Why do you hide your beauty in this place?
Your delicate pink against the pale gray rails,|
Your fragrance mingled with new-mown hay.

You could be in my lady's room
With overpowering cousins, pink and red,
Or climbing the white lattice on the porch,
And hanging your pink blossoms overhead.

How like a baby¹s hand so soft and sweet
Against its mother¹s worn and wrinkled face,
The new against aged! Why should you
Waste all your sweetness on this rustic place?

"My Maker put me in this woodsy place,|
Right where he wanted me to bloom and climb
And give the traveler a breath of spring
And a glimpse of beauty on the clinging vine.

For we are all a part of God¹s great plan,
So I will bloom for all who come this way
And drop my petals when my time is over
And know my flowers brought a brighter day."
 

HORSES IN THE WIND
Jennie Cummings

Horses in the wind, shake heads and bound,
their noses and their ears sense wiffle sounds.
They twist and turn, beauties with flowing manes
who dance ballets in space to winds' refrains,
then snort fierce gusto as they come unwound.

Like Pegasus the flying horse they soar
across the fields, they canter, spirits roar,
they pace, then whirl two axial spins again,
                               horses in the wind.

Their feet with metric motion tap the ground.
They gallop as if chased by tracking hounds,
equine allegro--on only nature's rein.
They are so free, their exertion without pain
as they trot around the barn, then back around,
                               horses in the wind.
 

BACCHUS DETHRONED
Tania Gray

Raccoons on the grape vines!
Raccoons coming to our arbor
in the heart of the city‹
it seemed so poetic.

I saw their fat furry bodies
and sharp little claws
clinging to the latticework‹
it looked so poetic.

Our neighbor squashed our illusions
about being selected as Bacchanalian hosts
to help wildlife survive‹
such a poetic fantasy.

"They didn't waddle here from Shunga Creek,"
said our know-it-all neighbor.
"They crawled out of the city sewer
and they're spreading germs all over
your poetic cornucopia."

So much for poetry in the city.
 

GATHERING EGGS ON THE FARM
IN DEPRESSION DAYS
Joy Grogan)

Coiled in the hen's nest,
The black snake.
My mother,
A hundred pounds
In a cotton dress,
Raised the hoe
In her small right hand,
Brought it down
With a vengeance,
Cracking the eggs
inside the snake.
 

DELHI
Betty Porter

In Delhi,
the brown woman
carried the limp baby
on her shoulder.
The baby mewed
like a sick kitten.
Surely I had coins
to give a sick child?
Of course I did,
finding out later
she had borrowed
a dying baby
that no one wanted anyway,
prolonging its dying gasps
to make money.