I REST MY CASE
(James Patrick Wissman)
"I rest my case with that remark," he said.
"It's up to you to now decide the guilt
Or innocence of all mankind with bread
Not shared, and hate indulged, and life-blood spilt.
If love fails all and speech has no regret,
From whence will come our hope, our goal for life?
Let not the powers of evil throw the net
To trap the good, but let us now the knife
Of truth engage to free, to carve, to shape
Our ways in newness: bravely seek our quest,
Rejoin the harshest cynic's taunt, and drape
The mantle red with love and joy confessed.
Once more I'll cast the dice, I'll take the chance,
I'll run the risk: in trust I'll join the dance."
|
THE GOOD BOOK
(David Leith)
My own King David Bible bound
in leather of fragrant red.
My very own King David Bible--zounds!--
in 14 carat gold inlaid.
New gift wrap tossed across the room
and lying rumpled, crumpled, strewn
There all over the living room floor--
old Southern California Christmas Eve.
Our nightly prayers on bended knees--
Santa must have gone out by the door--
Cousins caroling that old time gospel--
all of us woofed by the Season's spell.
Those Christmas Eves in times now past
forged ties of family love that last.
|
THE DRAWING KNIFE
(Tom Padgett)
My father taught himself to carpenter
when we moved to the farm. Before, he’d been
a small-town merchant, hiring someone else
to do odd jobs requiring skill with wood--
a shelf, new display case, step-ladder, stool
to fetch things down for waiting customers.
In town, Dad had few tools (a hammer, wrench
or two, handsaw) with which he piddled--played
around, designing whirligigs to set
on posts for wind--Maggie with rolling pin
to keep poor Jiggs at work, the dasher of
his churn bobbed up and down to match her pin.
But on the farm his play gave way to work,
and tool by tool he added to equip
his shop--that shrine so neat, so organized--
a holy place with Dad transfixed as saint.
He memorized his rows of tools that hung
along the wall like Stations of the Cross.
He liked the drawing knife the best, its nail
high up because its edge was sharp to shave
off waste until a board was almost smooth
and sandpaper could finish it for paint.
He never mastered it, that knife, but learned
to cover errors. He was a patient man.
Years later as I ply a different craft,
I often think that implements we choose
delineate a user’s character.
To save a little, much is sacrificed
if one is using tools as dangerous
as drawing knives or fountain pens.
|
TIME FOR A TURTLE
(John Lower)
A tortoise looked me up today,
Scooting with a scratchy gait
Across the floor of my garden shed.
I wondered if she came to play,
But then she paused to wait
With her olive dome and mottled head.
She, motionless, regarded me;
I, motionless, regarded her.
The standoff lasted a minute more.
She cocked her head to make a plea
And waited there and did not stir
And watched me move toward the door.
I found a small tomato then
And placed it fairly in her way.
She stretched her neck for better sight--
I imagined then a turtle grin.
She snapped, the tomato rolled away,
She snapped and snapped without a bite.
Persistence might have won the day:
She labored on in toilsome chase,
It was a long way to the wall,
I wanted to watch but couldn't stay.
With knife I chopped the fruit in place
To end the rolling of the ball.
She placed a paw upon a slice
And calmly chomped away,
Then raised her juicy face to me
As if to say, "This will suffice."
I went on to make my day-
Will she come again? We'll see.
|
A SONNET, TINA?
(David Hacker)
As my lady dances through my moments,
While mundane cares I seek to turn away,
Our deep affection clearly e'er shall warrant
My fond devotion till my dying day.
'Twas thus I sought to write a simple sonnet.
I sat and thought and wrote and sat some more.
I eyed my paper and the words upon it,
And into shreds that silly page I tore.
I know I should, and if I could, I would
One humble poem--simple ode--create.
My feelings, be they fine or be they crude,
Upon the waiting, empty page I'd shape.
You must conclude as now I'm all but done
I wouldn't know a sonnet if I wrote one.
|
TREE OF KNOWLEDGE
(Doug Roller)
Bored and unchallenged
the angel who once guarded
the Tree of Life
has abandoned his post
for a position with the Pinkertons
his little angel children listening
wide-eyed to his stories of
armored cars and moneybags.
It was after all the
intoxicating fruit from
the Other Tree
that revealed our nakedness
urging us out of the garden
into this journey of profound sorrow
and unspeakable joy
through endless orchards of awareness
|
TEA?
(Mark Tappmeyer)
Sit
with me
for a spell.
You will suffer
no worse
than a cup of tea
served modestly
perhaps a moment
too plain
to visit again
but possibly
there will arise
a quiet surprise--
some slight reverie
to tease you and me
or some wisecrack
needling inside
this wordstack.
|
OCTOBER 13TH, 2002
(Michael Upshaw)
I'm sitting at the table I'll eat off
of later after dinner is prepared.
I can cook. I follow recipes for
the most part and start from scratch if needed.
Perspective is a good thing I don't doubt.
It keeps me level-headed, so I think.
Silly, silly man-person that I am
Can't keep a solid thought in my noggin.
The oil lamp on the table is three-
quarters full--or one-quarter empty if
I was depressed--but I'm not, so it does
n't really matter right now anyway.
I'll light it later when she comes over.
If I filled it now, it may spill over.
I'm going to make chicken and not stray
from the white sauce recipe because
it just wouldn't do.
I've got to go now--she's here.
|
BLACK HOLE
(Blaine Kuehmichel)
An aura hangs heavy
Blotting sun and stars. So black,
So pervasive, so dense
Even breathing is laborious for me.
Everyone, everything shrouded.
Joy’s lustrous voice muted,
Laughter an impossibly,
And patience near rending.
Black vision so restricted
Others transfigured into mere shadows.
Ignorance and stupidity abound,
And small minds loom large.
So pervasive understanding rarefied,
Introversion reinforced, reticence relinquished,
Reason rescinded, compassion reneged,
Reactions visceral, vitriol released.
Dense pain propagates, intensifies,
Ultimately reflecting upward.
Rampart retrogression proceeds.
Time stretches to eternity.
Radiation perseverates, collapse inevitable.
Only reunification remains.
|
SUMMER MEMORIES
WITH SECOND THOUGHTS
(Ken Roller)
I remember summers well--
School bus fading from my sight,
Three months rest from book and bell;
Now I'll fish and fly my kite . . .
And mow the doggone yard.
How I'll swim in our stock pond,
Build a raft and dive from it,
Make-believe I've gone beyond
Ocean depths before I quit . . .
And hoe the blasted cotton.
Golden globes of peaches glow,
Beckoning me to seize the prize,
Leave my earth spot down below,
Pick the fruit for Mom's great pies . . .
But oh! the broken arm.
Berries black and juicy lined
Fields accented by this trove.
Mom said pick them, she won't mind
Baking cobblers I just love . . .
But lo! the chigger bites.
|
BONA GLADE
(Bill Lower)
There is a world far away
just beyond the downed barbed wire.
At the state highway right of way--
a landscape stunted and spare.
An odd little geologic niche:
the tools of weather have scoured
the ledge rock bare--
where
lichen, moss,
and lowly others of the Kingdom of Plants
place their feet for a hold,
fulfilling their destiny,
soiling their bit of the world
patiently,
slowly,
fragilely,
persistently,
and beautifully.
|
 FINAL SEASON
(Darwyne Tessier)
He looked out the window
watching winter approach.
Frost had appeared earlier
than anyone expected.
The doctor’s measured words
fell slowly as leaves outside
settled on dying grass.
Later, as he left for home,
an icy chill surrounded him.
With no concern for his consent,
his last season came on quickly.
|
BOYS WILL BE
(Dan Adkison)
He is son, brother, and momma’s baby,
Source of his father’s pride.
The little boy, carefully pampered,
Is sister’s thorn in the side.
He’s big brother’s companion
And oft-times rival,
Both friend and foe
In times of survival
Or struggle for identity.
Fiercely loyal when outsiders threaten,
He craves independence
From a family that’s pressing
Too close to his face
And personal space.
|
WALKING THE DOGS
(Curtis Goss)
On nights when the
moon is a ghostly galleon
cast upon cloudy seas,
I take the dogs out
on their walk
to see what we can see.
Bubba, who once rushed ahead,
now blind and deaf,
is pulled along behind
Stopping frequently
to sniff and pee
marking familiar sites.
Marquis, noble hound,
has long since learned
to deal with his lost sight
And as he has always done,
leads the pack
because legs and leash are long
|
|
THE ROSE
(Todd Sukany)
Once content to chase the sun
Gave itself for your pleasure
A pruner viewed the line
She severed it
No longer sharing
Now displayed
Drinking the long-stem vase
Tell me of beauty, value
The fragrance that is life
And I'll remind you instead
That which is by itself
Is already dead.
|