SPRING FLOOD
Jean BakerWe watched the river
creep into the tulip bed
climb the steps
lap the door
before we pried a window up
and panicked
into Jess's fishing boat.
Clinging to the past
a photo album saved
we settled like silt
into survival bent
and drifted with a picket
from the fence
to higher ground.
Jess offered us his hilltop house
fed us soup and bread
and we were dry and safe
until the river calmed.
Then we reclaimed our sodden roof
and found we'd lost
more than we'd saved
not the least of which
was youth.
TRIBUTE TO JAN KROLL
Fay Callahan
Fakers, loafers, bums,
Watch out, here she comes.
Save yourself, take flight,
Duck out of Janice’s sight.
NO REST is her creed,
So finish the deed.
Jan Kroll gets things done--
Hard work comes before fun.
THE HEART PATHWAY
Venna Stevens Johnson
The mind follows today
Where the heart led yesterday.
Watch thy thoughts‹the intent‹
That the song of the heart
May thankfully rise.
COMMUNICATION
Ruth Miller
If minds could only speak to each other
with a clear understanding of what was meant,
subterfuge would be no more, no more ill intent.
We could say those thoughts that lie deep,
that often trouble us ere we sleep.
Those we love most seem most afflicted,
clam-like, each keeps his shell closed tight,
encrusted with brine, a sorrowful sight,
the mold now firm, the tears unshed,
loneliness, silence, the words unsaid.
If minds could only speak to each other,
could say the thoughts that need to be said,
erase longstanding grievances, and be led
to discover a living more complete,
a simple sharing, where minds meet.
PENTACLE APPREHENSION
Eva Wojcik-Obert
Five senses,
five fingers,
hear: something haunting lingers--
Spill menses,
strike star lines;
witch a pentagram defines--
Dim the sun,
rim the moon,
catch messages from a loon--
In the center
sits Dementer
ciphering who may enter--
Fertile dung;
hearts flutter,
thin skins baring souls shutter--
Crush the rose,
stuff the nose,
waste not blood nor grapes ere ripe--
Clinging life
forgets the strife;
follows blissfully the pipes--
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ODE TO TOO-YOUNG BRIDES
Shirley Davis ColemanShe hung her wash across the yard
for the August heat to dry.
She hoed and mowed, picked corn, Swiss
chard,
and watched the river and brooding sky.
Folding still-damp clothes,
she found the still-damp butterfly/
All day long till both were gone,
she yearned for freedom of the butterfly.
Blue butterflies can fly away,
but oh, my dears, not I!
Children waiting to be fed,
their father's needs to be met/
Blue butterflies can fly away,
but no, not yet, can I.
She fed them fish and grits
and fried tomatoes going red.
She plucked chickens, snapped green beans,
sewed, baked their daily bread.
then sang sweet lullabies when fireflies
lighted paths to bed,
her okra growing upside-down
and spiders spinning webs.
Night air grows thicker, heat clouds flicker,
furred bats sweep the full-mooned sky.
Dust devil winds disturb the grave,
parched flowers quiver, wither, die.
Though childrened misty years are gone,
their stormy skies with hope soars on,
for dreams will never die
as long as rivers run, cicadas hum,
bumblebees, praying mantises,
birds, and butterflies still fly.
WALLS
Edwin S. Rice
I sit within my
room and wait
To hear an angel’s tread,
But silence mocks my memories
And happiness has fled.
While sorting through our golden days,
Each sound though ever so slight
Will bring me to an open door
To gaze into the night.
FAITH
Jean Baker
Faith entered quietly
and sat upon the stair.
She didn't say a word,
but I trusted she was there,
a friend I could rely on,
strong and deep as indigo.
I joined the mad procession,
watched people come and go.
Life and love wove evenly
until dying came too soon.
I turned to her in desperate need,
but faith had left the room.
ZACK
Elbert Heath
Michelangelo's David in tee-shirt and shorts,
bare feet or flip flops, a vagabond of sorts.
Blond, curly-haired Adonis, smoldering eyes,
Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer, in Hawaiian disguise.
Barefoot philosopher, ragtag sage,
the world is his oyster, life is his stage.
A house builder, he goes it alone,
a worker in wood, a builder on stone.
A worker of words, a shaper of phrases,
he speaks with emotion, takes us throug mazes.
His startling verses come from crumpled up papers,
his wisdom astonishes us , as well as his capers.
He finishes his verse with down-turned eyes,
acknowledges our applause with genuine surprise.
May real life work never dull his perception;
may some of his offspring be poetical conceptions.
His verse is deep, really superb;
he just may be our next Carl Sandburg. |
