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THE GOING BROKE
Nellie O’Brien
We made mud pies, you and I,
While our mothers talked, sewed,
Or cooked for branders.
We heard them laugh and even giggle.
It was plain they were best friends,
As were you and I.
Then one day it changed quite suddenly.
They whispered when we came near,
Or shushed. “Some things children needn’t
know,” they said.
So when it happened, we didn’t know,
Or understand, or learn to cope.
The long suffering, the pain and heartache,
The death, the going broke.
How could we be anything but confused
Or angry?
Time has taught us that life goes on
Despite the bad, the loss, the loneliness.
But we didn’t know; no one warned us.
We hurt, but no one helped us.
”Don’t worry the children,” they said.
Years went by and we lost touch,
But how I wish we could again
Make mud pies, you and I.
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.
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.
CRICKETS
Jessie Schulenberg
Now, look here, you noisy cricket.
Chew things up--I’ll have to fix it.
Keeping me awake last night,
Made me ready to fight.
The flyswatter was lying there.
I was ready to tear my hair.
I grabbed the swatter. You jumped high.
You disappeared toward the sky.
This time, you got away.
Next time, I’ll get the spray.
THE VAGABOND
Edwin S. Rice
I’ve traced the road,
My legs are spent.
I make camp beside a brook
Then I sit, and with a hook,
A simple meal I implement.
My sleeping bag beside the fire:
The world must know
I’m not for hire.
I sleep quite soundly and content—
Arise at dawn—and pay no rent.
EMPTY HOUSE
Jan Kroll
My house contains a treasured cove
Of things I have held dear.
For many years, through smiles and tears,
I’ve gathered and clustered them near.
Things on the wall, I’ve loved most of all
And collected for many long years.
Old photographs that make everyone laugh,
And a few special ones that bring tears.
Antiques and junk and dishes galore
Hold mementos of times that have been.
Unique things that passed through families--
Some new have been added since then.
I’ve arranged everything for comfort and style,
Yet I sit here each night so alone
Amidst all the precious memories.
I cry when I must go home.
SILENCE
Jean Morrison Baker
Mountains there
Prairie here
Silence
Grass moves
Breeze caresses
Silence
Wild flowers
One butterfly
Silence
Earth scent
Clean, untouched
Silence
Quiet reverence
Space, sky
Silence
One moment
Remember . . .
Listen to the silence.
MOUNTAIN MANDOLIN
Glen Enloe
Its mournful melodies come drifting
Through the valley and the glen,
Those last haunting, misting memories
Of the mountain violin.
A jaunty jew’s-harp joins along now
Like a lonesome loud amen,
While a fiddle fades, then rises
With that mountain mandolin.
Then the bass moans of an old cowboy
Who in rage shot his best friend
As that band of long plays on
Like soft thunder in the wind
Yet, one by one those cowboys drift off
As we still remember when,
And we join that dying orchestra
Led by that mountain mandolin.
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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.
SONNET TO FAYE
In Memory of Faye Callahan
Edwin S. Rice
An optimistic warmth was gathered there—
Bustling, charismatic, ever primed.
She spouted from each page her poet’s flare.
When she first greeted me, I think it rhymed.
Appreciative best describes her mood
Found in her words from pen or spoken plain,
Declaring Life could mostly boast of good
If one would only put love in the main.
Death—so abrupt we’re never ready for,
So shocked, we stare and vainly wish again
To watch and listen as her words explore
With keen attachment from a memory seine.
Although our paths crossed late in afternoon,
She was a warming sun that set too soon.
ODYSSEY
Ruth Miller
I awake to
stretches of prairie
where constant winds ride
over a sea of grass,
to mountain chains whose
sawtooth edges point
towards the unknown,
westward to seas whose tongues
lap timeless shores,
beyond the seas to other worlds,
onward, always onward.
OLD BLACK CROW
Jessie Schulenberg
The
old black crow can talk.
Here he comes now--look at him gawk!
Hey, Crow, what road kill did you get today?
“Squirrel and
opossum and trash-can play.
Stole some clothes-pins, hid them in the gutter,
Put old Mrs. Lane in quite a flutter.
Found shiny treasures in my flight,
Hid them in the gutter also--out of sight.
Flew to McDonalds, trashed their bin,
Ate my fill of goodies within.
Trash bags were scattered in the street,
Tore them up for the best of treats.
I flew down Main Street, chatted with the crowd.
You should’ve been there—you’d be so proud.”
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