POEMS BY MEMBERS
A SKYDIVING SPECTACLE
Pat Durmon
Mid-June.
Earthbound, millions
of cottonwood seeds
wing their way down.
All over my yard—
puffs of tiny, white parachutes.
HER MAJESTY AT HOME
Tania Gray
The Queen comes out
on special days:
she wears a bright tiara,
an ermine cape and long white gloves,
expecting much hoo-ahrah.
The Queen appears on special
days:
her birthday, and on Charles's,
the day she took the British throne,
and any whim of Royals.'
The Queen shows up on special
days:
the frame is also awesome.
The mantel is her honored place--
aren’t Anglophiles so tiresome?
LARVAL LAMENT
Gwendolyn Eisenmann
Organic gardener's recipe: "To rid
your garden of chewing insect larvae, squash same, add water, and
spray back on plants. Insects are repelled by their own spray."
O larva green upon a rose,
thee I eschew, thou worm of woes,
who rolleth up a lovely leaf
to hideth thee, thou lowly thief.
Thy telltale etchings thee engrave
upon such succulence, thou knave,
and thus reveal thy hiding place
in every planting thee efface.
The fly that flit thee I have caught.
Tho' there be more 'tis not for naught,
for thee and all thy siblings hatch,
but now thou art to meet thy match.
How now, green larva, squashed and spun,
think thee the right to mothdom won
by stealth, rapacious chewing slug?
Thou'rt now but spray on brother bug.
Thy juices but a squirt, you see,
the essence of demise to be
for all thy creepy crawly kin.
No more the fly thee might have been.
O Larva green upon a rose,
tho' I eschew thee, worm of woes,
and squash and squirt, thou chewest still.
Loud I lament thy wormy will!
BODY AND SOUL
Laurence W. Thomas
They looked for a man who
would cry
for them on national television,
cry for the lost body of his son
after the flood, after the others
had been rescued or found in the debris,
a man who regretted the body
like sorrowing for a jewel
destroyed in the disposal.
The search would continue, he said.
If there is a soul, would it celebrate
what they might find?
I DO
Dave Gregg
She texts me
from a wedding
describes the
bride and groom
walking down
a narrow aisle
beaming parents
children, guests
I am drinking
on my porch
to celebrate
a divorce
final, in
two days
she writes again
"The ceremony
is over, and
I cried" so
I toast these
strangers with
my glass
"Do you like
weddings?"
she asks
"I do"
I say,
"I do."
EPISTLE TO MY MOTHER
Henrietta Romman
You suddenly
vanished from
my world, from
my sight, left
my heart to learn.
You have swept
your love away
gone afar…
into eternal life,
the blessed land
of no return.
On this earth
you never warned
me, “listen child,
learn, know there
are birth and death,
we all take a turn
then we all go.”
At times of separation
from loved ones---,
I watched you weep,
and deep, within
my child’s mind,
kind as you were,
I failed to feel
the truth: somewhere…
someone was no more.
How I wish
I was warned by one
so precious as you
that death is a due-
O Mother .. Mother...
Would you not have
helped…prepared
my heart…when now
my own son is gone?
With Love,
Your daughter.
WHO’S NERVOUS HERE?
(ABC Poem)
Diane Auser Stefan
Anxious but calm,
darting eyes followed George. He
instinctively jerked, knowing lookers
might not often perceive quickly
real situations that ultimately, vehemently,
warranted xenophobic, yawning zeal.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR
AN ASSIGNMENT.
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IN ALL THEIR GLORY
Freeda Baker Nichols
The Towers loomed above the boulevard
near New York’s famous port beside the sea,
icons, a sign of strength along the quay.
We had no cause to post a bodyguard.
The sun shone on the shards of glass, unbarred—
a testament to country brave and free.
We lived and worked and breathed a silent plea
for U.S.A. We prayed with deep regard.
But evil roared—a beast from far off lands—
its neck outspread, its nostrils blowing smoke,
emitting frightful sound like crashing planes.
The windows reached like fragile, helping hands
to least-suspecting victims—gentle folk.
Their warm, red blood still cries from tear-dried stains.
UNCORKING
Dewell H. Byrd
He rests his head against my
elbow
watches intently as I explain each step:
hold the bottle tight
stick corkscrew in just so
turn the way clock hands go
all the way down
tilt, lift
pull straight up
steady, listen for the
POP
smell the cork.
I salute his 5th birthday
with my home-made wine.
I steady my head against his shoulder
watch his every move with watery eyes:
listen for the
POP
smell the cork.
I lift my glass with trembling hands;
salute his 42nd birthday
with his home-made wine.
A PEARL
Jeanetta Chrystie
Our love is like a spring-wound clock,
Faithfully ticking, day and night,
Sometimes faster when the spring is wound tight.
Our love is like a sweet-water spring,
Cleansing the soul with cool splashes of laughter,
Saving life in the desert, nourishing growth,
Refreshing the spirit from careworn days.
Our love is like a precious pearl,
A rare treasure for which many search,
Once found, any price is worth its having,
Once found, any amount of work is worth its keeping, Once found, can
shine for others to see--and
continue to hope.
CINQUAINS FOR SUMMER
Pat Laster
Quarter
moon also poised
to watch the town's fireworks
with a better view than any
of us.
Never
again will I
spend another birthday
driving nine hours across this
country.
Slowest
July morning:
the day his airplane leaves
for Italy, the tourist sites,
then Greece.
Giving,
reluctantly,
the DC souvenir
to a sister for watering
my plants.
After
the rewiring
of the homeplace, plus teen's
"must-have" new Blessing-brand trumpet,
I'm broke!
POTBELLIED DANCER
Harding Stedler
Savage winters invaded
Erie's shores
and sent us hovering
around the coal stove
six months beyond October.
No room in the house except
where the coal stove danced
was warm enough
for human habitation.
When he
was not working,
Dad assumed the fireman's duties
and stoked the coal
until we could finally shed our sweaters.
Heavy,
dense clouds
spiraled from the chimney,
sending smoke signals
to the all-but-extinct Chippewas
whose lands were now the white man's.
Burning
lumps of coal,
dug from miles beneath the earth,
put us in touch with bygone eras,
and we thanked the trees
that gave us leaves that gave us coal
and put us in touch
with treasures of the Ice Age.
COMING HOME
Faye Adams
We are who we are
because of our roots,
but time is an eraser.
New grafting
changes
the harvest.
We leave our cocoon
never to fully return.
though sometimes we re-visit
and remember . . .
MANY HAPPY RETURNS
Tom Padgett
My sister just returned
from a cruise to Denmark,
Sweden, Finland, Russia
(with day trips added-on
to Germany and Estonia).
She never worried about
remembering details,
for she’s a good photographer
who counts on her camera
to serve her as her mind.
Alas, alas, on her return
she found somehow
she had erased the pictures
from her digital camera,
and with them went her memories
of what had been to this point
unforgettable. How now
could she share with family
and friends what she had seen?
She knew one way only
to bring her cruise to life--
to do it justice, so to speak:
next week she will return
with camera in tow to Denmark,
Sweden, Finland, Russia
(with day trips added-on
to Germany and Estonia).
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