|
POEMS BY MEMBERS
NO ROOM FOR ROSES
Freeda Baker Nichols
The flowerbed
is waiting there for me
to dig and rearrange and spread
its contents gently ‘round the apple tree.
But I must wait
until the rain dries up
and when it does, a likely fate—
the place provides a bed for Beagle pup.
And so no flower grows
beside the puppy’s nose.
IT'S NOT AN EASY CHAIR
Tania Gray
To reupholster Grandma’s rocking chair
seemed simple: take some off and put some on.
But I, whom simple doesn’t satisfy,
went deep beneath two people’s lives, removed
the layers down to springs and wooden frame.
It’s hard to learn the naked truth, and worse,
to reconstruct a chair that’s wholly me.
The first thing I ripped off was plastic. Clear
and shiny, mandated at Mom’s last place
she lived. They wanted sterile surfaces.
I hated it. Under the vinyl was
a flowered fabric Sis put on for her,
with tons of extra padding someone felt
was needed. Years before, when Grandmother
gave up this chair and all identity,
my mother had it done in velvet, blue
as royalty would have, to sit in style
in her piano room. Would you believe,
when I was seventeen I spent some time
with Grandmother and saw the chair when new.
Oh happy nineteen-sixty! TV shows
and TV dinners, followed by the tales
of Grandma’s family. Her rocking chair
was navy, sprigged with sprays of daisies, bright
and cheery oranges and yellows. I
sat next to her as we poured over tomes
of pictures, relatives heroic, smart
with elevated destinies.
It’s time
to grapple with far more than button twine
and batting. Now the matriarchs will speak:
if I sit down in their dear rocking chair,
will I insist we turn to Lawrence Welk,
will I believe appearances are all,
or will I have a more determined spine?
WOOD THRUSH SINGING
Gwendolyn Eisenmann
May, green in the woods
under trees too tall to see tops,
sun shafts, soft breeze,
Wood thrush singing.
Down in the pond on a rock
suns a black snake
coiled, head up, knows I'm here
and a pair of resident ducks float near.
There on shore in shade
someone
ringed with rocks two Lady slippers
in bloom, alone,
no grass to shelter or hide.
Flowers, ducks, snake,
life--from where?
Sun, rain, earth, color,
day, night, stars, time.
HAIKU/SENRYU
Pat Laster
a hug
to last us all summer
final day of school
among
sawmill machinery
blackeyed Susans
flag moving slightly
but the windchimes are mute
a cardinal's 'chit'
older gal . . . (her shirt:
"Under the Influence of Christ")
. . .exits the wine store
cows in the pond
up to their bellies
one-hundred degrees
a squash blossom
on the volunteer vine
near the compost bin
TANTUM ERGO
Laurence W. Thomas
We create our oceans
delicately selecting
our blend of hues and textures
to suit our moods
our needs leading us to choose
what depths, what shallows
what paths to navigate
what harbors we will use.
We build our ships
carefully incorporating
our keels of comfort
and holds to accommodate our longings
topsides decked and trim
enshrouded in mystery and confidence
that our vessels buoy us up
shipshape stern to stem.
KILLING THE VILLAIN "L"
Cindy Tebo
Quite a villain the villain “L” has
become!
I’m tied to the tracks without much time.
The train’s due and the poem’s not done.
Dudley was so sure I could save this
one,
so Snidely wouldn’t have any lines.
Quite a villain the villain “L” has become!
The rules alone should have made me run,
instead I’ve been roped into more bad rhymes.
The train’s due and the poem’s not done.
What inspiration can lift me from
these iron tracks of repeated crimes?
Quite a villain the villain “L” has become!
Some misguided muse thought this would be fun--
one who never lost sleep over dead lines.
The train’s due and the poem’s not done.
A whistle blows like a screaming nun,
“Hell
waits for those who don’t revise.”
Quite a villain the villain “L” has become,
hit by a train but it’s finally done!
CREEKSIDE
Dewell H. Byrd
A wild turkey issues a
challenge,
struts up and down the red clay bank,
tail awash in evening bronze.
His wattle swings side-to-side
with each proud head toss.
Two young bushy-tails
chatter,
hide-and-seek in a red alder tree.
Wild huckleberries grow
on an old redwood stump.
Ferns cloak the ground,
send fawn-colored fiddle necks
in search of light.
Deer tracks cross a trampled
trail
where mushrooms grow in a hollow log.
A blue jay screams a raucous warning,
hops atop a huge yellow sign:
Coming Soon
CREEKSIDE ESTATES
AN EPISTLE TO MAN: WHY DARE
TO DOUBT?
Henrietta W. Romman
W When the Book of goodness
is in your hands
H How can you even say “There is no God around?”
Y Year after year, your eyes behold His lands,
D Dare you not ask our Lord
about His Book
A And seek His loving answers with His grace?
R Raise your anxious voice, reach out and knock,
E Each time your heart will see His face,
T Tomorrow is the day that
has no sound,
O Or know you not it quietly creeps around?
D Decide this day to let the
joy of God abound
O Onto your heart, your life. Come, seek the king!
U Unleash the pending wicked thoughts from you,
B Begin to live the light of God, His way so true
T Till troubles flee, then train your quiet heart to sing.
|
TURNING 50
Jeanetta Chrystie
Turning
50 is a really good thing,
remembering all the joys your days bring.
You’ve laughed and played and shed a few tears,
as everyone does throughout the years.
You’ve
enjoyed God’s blessings each day,
and been blessed with a family along the way.
You’ve had some good times, and tough times too,
again that’s something others share with you.
When life
knocks you down, you’re back on your feet;
You know there’s new pleasure and people to meet.
There are so many people around you who care,
And hope at your hundredth, we can be there!
You’ve
grown into manhood, with a wife and sons;
and such blessings are rarely easily won.
In your first fifty years you’ve done incredible things,
I
can’t wait to see what the next fifty brings!
DINING
`A LA CARTE
Faye Adams
"Would you like
barbeque chicken,
or country steak with gravy?"
"Uh, huh."
"You want both?"
"Uh huh."
Her tablemate drools, bottom lip
hanging. He stares at his menu,
waiting for someone to ask.
An aide rolls a wheel chair to the table
for four. "Stay there!"
Her harsh tone seems inappropriate
for the tiny lady with frizzy curls.
"Mom, what would you like for dessert,
butterscotch pudding or chocolate cake?"
"Uh huh."
"You want both?"
"Uh huh."
Leftward movement draws my eye.
Frizzy Curls is on the move.
She's booking out of the dining hall,
fast as her feet can peddle.
The trays arrive. I unwrap cutlery,
pour milk, place Mom's bib around her neck.
Her tablemate digs in, unassisted.
Mother stares at her food, picks up
her fork, pokes at her food.
The fourth place at the table
remains empty.
A SYMBOL OF FREEDOM
Pat Durmon
The eagle soared overhead.
Wingspan immense.
A windswept moment.
Beak, hooked downward,
eyes sagacious and farseeing—
observing the horizon like a scout
for signs of danger. Ready
to slide down and rip devastation
with razor-sharp talons.
A symbol of freedom,
but not going anywhere:
made of brass and secured
atop a tall building
above hundreds of windows.
I stood beneath the
ornamental bird;
behind me, busy traffic.
BERRY BEARD
Harding Stedler
Farmer Braxton trudges
down dusty roads
from June until September
when blackberries ripen
and raspberries hang their red
like Christmas ornaments.
He loves eating berries
from the vine,
ones that stain his beard
a crimson shade.
For years, I thought
he dyed his beard
to conceal the gray
but he relished
the taste of wild.
Folks no longer call him
Graybeard;
instead, call him Whiskerberry
with a hint of fondness
in their voice.
w i s h
Dave Gregg
most remark
on how well
I'm adjusting
as if I were missing
a nail on my big toe
or misplaced a book
on Middle Earth
what they mean is
they have adjusted
to your disappearance
from my life
that abrupt stage left
they mean the hole
I fill daily no longer
distracts their routine
and I understand
I only wish
you had not left
your absence among
my things
DAY-BY-DAY
Diane Auser Stefan
I rip yesterday
off the calendar,
crumple it up,
and toss it in the trash.
Done, gone, finished—
new page, new sunrise
and I hope
when today
becomes yesterday
I’ll feel better
about the day
than I do
this morning.
BAD DREAMS
Tom Padgett
When I was just a little
lad,
I often had such frightening dreams
I woke my parents with my screams
and filled the night with tales of bad,
threatening things with purple heads,
green wings, black eyes, and yellow claws
till they to my demanding cause
succumbed and took me to their bed.
Then later, in my teaching
years,
my nightmares stemmed from academe:
I woke my family with my scream
of unsubstantiated fears,
like going blank while in a play
or failing what I’d hope to pass
through being tested in a class
I never had attended, say.
At last I’m in my golden
age,
yet gold is not quite what it seems.
I wake my wife from still more dreams--
last night I found myself onstage.
The crowd’s anticipation rose
to hear my long awaited speech
designed to meet the needs of each--
if only I had worn my clothes!
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR
AN ASSIGNMENT.
Top
|
Workshop |
Index
|
