Poems for Reyn

Oh fair maiden, 

holding secrets unknown,

tucking away the hurts

that caused the flaming outbursts 

that put you in this prison tower,

taking  your sense of self 

and any power 

you might have known 

if left alone, 

holding secrets unknown. 

Oh fair maiden, 

where have you gone?

With wings clipped 

you are not allowed 

to express fully

who you are. 

In your moments of passion, 

on the outer edge

of free spirited, 

THEY decide 

you need reining in, 

without even beginning 

to hear your side 

of the story. 

And so, 

locked down, 

you comply-- 

at least for a time 

of “oh well,”

and let it go. 

I sit 

on the outside 

and wonder how 

an opportunity 

for connectedness 

and creativity 

and goodness 

got lost, 

and wonder where 

the anger went. 

© Anne Cressin, 2011

Tower of London; photo from Wikipedia Commons, by CherryX

The Corner of Second and Ho

Rounding past the meadow, east of the lake,

Agony exuberant shouts for all on the make.

Rises up the intersection where all the damned go,

For here's Hell's Hell at the corner of Second & Ho.

In one corner, poor Deek struts in fashion threadbare.

His eyes see nothing, just horizon-less despair.

"I will always be with you, I will don't you know"

Intones this broke man on the corner of Second & Ho.

Across the way, Hungry Willie lazes on a lawn chair alone.

Belly extended, guzzling booze as he gnaws a leg bone.

Reaching for coke below the awning of Wings-to-Go

He rasps, "But no one can fly from the corner of Second & Ho.”

First Class fingers the cars as they speed their merry way,

But what fear motors their hearts, no one will say.

As he pees on a pole, First Class teases those in the know

"Change’s coming at last" to the corner of Second & Ho.

Gomer hears this snide taunt and finds strength (from above?)

Out of the chop shop, she staggers into the street preaching love.

The yos & hos freeze at her words, both the high & the low

Then rush to embrace - GRACE - by the corner of Second & Ho.

As they move off the curbs, a family wagon stops in its tracks.

Windows roll up, locks snap into place, pale faces draw back.

Blessed Gomer staggers back among the meek, life's sad undertow,

Sweeping away all hope on down the corner of Second & Ho.

                                        

As the crowd departs, she snarls "Cracker" at that blue-eyed fool.

The Chevy drives on, darkness returns, again the bleary-eyed drool.

"The first may go first, but the last shall last forever and ever mo'"

Murmurs Gomer to herself athwart the corner of Second & Ho.

© Byron Harris, 2011

At the corner; photo by Tony Russell

Gray Smoke

Thin wisps like smoke that flee from the fire,

a fog late at night, broken down but higher,

fly past the full face of a moon I desire.

Deep in this night two bodies aspire
- Venus and Diana -

both searching the earth for the plausible

fire.

But between we three, an army expires -

tis the shades of Robert E. Lee

and the troops we admire -

thin wisps of gray smoke drawn to the fire.

They swirl down in pills,

from deep darkened hills,

into fate which was badly begotten.

This mass, this fume, is all that now looms

of an army that has never forgotten.

© Marvin Welborn, 2011

Robert E. Lee; photo by Tony Russell

i've been waiting for you -- poem for peace

psst.  i'm here.  the other side of the door.

i hear you.  you've been knocking.

are you the one who tried to turn the handle before?

turn the handle ... turn it.  push a bit harder on the door.

it isn't locked!

come in, i've been waiting.  i've been waiting for you.

CHORUS:   i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

you got distracted.  you've been here.  i remember you.

don't carry your cell!  don't watch too much t.v.  don't waste so much time!

come back to the door.  turn the handle.  push on the door.  it's open!

come in.  i've been waiting!  i've been waiting for you.

CHORUS:   I am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

i am here.  always have been.  don't you know how easy it is to get to me?

all in your mind.  your mind.  choices.  you make choices.  choose me!

do i have to shout?  maybe.  but i don't do that.

i am quiet.  i'm here.  in here.  i really am.

i can't come to you.  you must come to me.   it's just the way it is.

make the time.  choice.  make the choice.  you can.  you can.

i've been waiting!   i've been waiting for you!!!

CHORUS:    i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

you can do a lot.  or a little.  hey... it's up to you.  but... you have to do something!

now...  it's time.  now!  do one thing.  even one.  one thing for peace.  one.

come on,  come back to the door.  turn the handle.  push on the door.  push.

come in.  come in...  i've been waiting.  i've been waiting for you!

CHORUS:   i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible!

© Charlene Roycht, 2011

Door waiting; photo by Tony Russell

In defense of five

It may not be seven's perfection

Or eight's swirling infinity

Especially not three's

Godhead

Right angle strength

balanced on curve thrill,

five is a woman erect 

on a yoga ball

Lovely and odd,

five is the midway 

point to ten, that decadent

basis of metrics and money.

Five is the State Supreme Court--

when two out of three fails,

the rock-paper-scissors plaintiff

appeals to three out of five

for a more just verdict

A smaller scale than one-to-ten,

one-to-five is thriftier, more potent

Five more minutes 

of sleep is the common man's 

dose of indulgence

In minor keys, thirds

may waver, bringing the dark,

the melancholy,

but with the integrity of 

Abraham Lincoln, the fifth

holds steady, knowing

someday the arpeggio

will once again make

a joyful noise. 

© Linda Peterson, 2011

Flowering Cherry
Five petals, five-lobed calyx;
photo by Tony Russell

The Other Side

All week the threshing machine spat straw.

And then there it sat, a great yellow dome

begging to be climbed if you could do it.

I couldn’t.  Nobody could, not a straw pile -

a running start and a loud whoop gained you

a few feet but not the summit, ever.

It was the pigs, rubbing and burrowing

around the edges, who started the other game.

They’d thrust their shoulders against the stack,

then root and trench their way around the base.

Before long they had undercut the edge

and turned their crooked paths toward the center,

rambling pig-sized tunnels just right for a boy

on his knees, and there I was, crawling around

beneath who knows how many tons of straw

held up by pillars any runt could knock down.

Breathe deeply and ease in, grope your way along.

Follow the shoat trotting through the dark -

he grunts in fear of you, not of the path.

Hold your breath against the rot and something

that’s cramping your heart.  Let the shoulders glide

gently, so gently, along the walls.  Let it doze,

let it dream of quiet days in the sun

when a wren could light unnoticed.  Let it sleep

like a child till you reach the other side

and daylight: stained knees, manure up to your wrists,

but you’re out now, and no column fell.

And if it had, that great stack would have made no sound–

oh, a little sigh, perhaps, as it listed

a few degrees, exhaled a wisp or two,

and snuggled around me its gentle bulk.

© David Black, 2011

Haystack at Giverny, by Monet

Stained Glass

Washed in light, yet stained to screen

The light within, without.

I pray the Lord will wash me clean

Thru' death & darkest doubt.

I traced His love in a rainbow's curve;

I find it when I search.

I feel it when I'm made to serve,

A window to the church.

          © F. Carroll Harrison, 2011

Window, Canterbury Cathedral

What Will It Take

WHAT will it take...

For the world to know Itself as One?

Defiance of Unity?

Allegiance to Autonomy?

Separation as an Entity?

Confusion a Reality?

War as Eventuality?

STOP IT! Just Stop.

In terms of Being 

We are One in Spirit and Humanity

Environment lives and breathes

We aspire...

Let us be open to a vision

of differences proclaimed, 

as every flower we know

has got a name,

yet no inherent cause to blame another species grown beside.

Let us awake to a truth inside....

We are ONE

Yet, even in Nature's way 

we see that conflict lives....

The forest overtakes the field 

as saplings sprout amidst 

the grass which came to be 

after a fire which leveled all there was to see....

How do we manage our Destiny?

Seeking the Light that we all require, let's not mob the place.

Every flower needs some space 

to live and grow!

Understanding this is So, and giving each their Due, 

Unity will follow through.

© Gerry Sackett, 2011

Touch-me-not; photo by Tony Russell

After the Storm

We waited for the late afternoon downpour

to turn to mist, 

when the front garden smelled 

of old worms, new earth.  

I stepped in the wet; 

it took my footprints 

with submission.   

The weeds had taken over the yellow

in the Yarrow, the patience in the Impatiens, 

and the blooms of begonia were beaten purple 

in the falling dark.

I handed you a claw to grab brown tangle 

that braided beneath Black Eyed Susans and Sedum,

Dianthus and Daylilies.

You tugged, arms outstretched, 

sweat rose over your lip like a first mustache, 

or the blister ballooning on the side of your finger.   

Quietly, dusk gathered under the umbrella 

of the Japanese maple.

We pulled the last interloper and headed to drink 

the run of cold water

from a hose coiled aimlessly 

in the side yard. 

© Susan Muse, 2011

Dianthus barbatus; photo by AutoGyro at Wikimedia Commons

To a Young Girl (Inspired by Maureen)

I remember you…

The first time you learned to skate.

And when you skied your first slope,

I remember your determination.

Then when spring came

You raced home from school

To do your homework in a tree.

I see you on the highest branch.

In dresses, jeans and silver heels,

You become a mixed collage,

And when summer flowers return,

I remember each variety as I

    remember you.

© Shelly Sitzer, 2011

Photo of Shell's painting of her daughter Maureen

Too-Tight Pants

My pants are tight, much too tight,
And I can't imagine why. 

They dig in my waist, pull at the seams,
And they hurt across the thigh. 

They fit so tight around the legs,
I can't even bend my knees. 

They're short in length and in the stride,
And I hope I won't have to sneeze. 

I don't quite know what I shall do
If I have the urge to cough. 

I'm sure that all my seams will split,
And my pants will fall right off. 

They're far too tight around the back,
And the zipper will not zip. 

I'm having trouble breathing, too,
If I bend down from my hip. 

I can't help wondering just why
These pants are so very tight. 

  Surely a person cannot grow 

Too big for their pants overnight! 

  I notice my little brother 

Is looking downcast and grim. 

  It seems that he has problems, too. 

His pants are too big for him. 

© Joyce Broughton, 1990

Too-tight pants; photo by lengtarang on Photobucket

Harvest

In winter,

when the sun is a dandelion

seeded with ice,

all I can give you of summer

is this fading red, yellow, orange

the fall tree released.

If I offer you

this harvest of light

gleaned from long days

with firefly twilights,

will you lift your hands

 into the sky,

two birds singing

songs of praise?

© Jean Sampson, 2011

Fallen leaves; photo by Tony Russell

I Am From: Second Thoughts

I am from the center of my mother’s world

from joy and compassion and uncertainty

from love nickels placed in the palm of my hands by my Nana

from Admiral St. and Orchard St. and Dickerman St.

I am from hot bread and starched dresses lovingly created by Nana

from patent leather shoes, white gloves, and 35 cent sundaes

from cheerleading and track and nursing school

into a family that blends this country with Nevis

I am from love and laughter and tears of joy

from silly laughter when it tickles my gut

from dancing and singing and tap and drums

from sweet potato pie and apple dumplings

I am from kitchen sink soup and cinnamon twists

from dancing school and girl scouts and weekend gatherings

from teaching and sharing and nurturing with joy

to blossoming into who I am

I am from the earth and the sky and the birds

from flights of ideas that race across the page

from song that flows from my pen to fill my soul

from you and us and we and they and all that is the universe

I am from the energy of love and joy and caring and compassion

from this world and the next and what is in between

from everywhere and nowhere and here and there

to bringing me love and caring to here and now

I am from almost not being here because it was almost taken

And so it is with gratitude that I come from what I am from!

© Hilda Ward, 2011

Sky and the flight of ideas; photo by Tony Russell

Cotillion

When the moon is full,

horseshoe crabs gather for mating

in the shallows of the inlet.

Huge primeval ones,

crusted with horny barnacles,

trailing ribbons of seaweed,

join with young ones half their size.

As the spring moon rises

over the salt marsh,

whispers of living creatures

murmur in the swaying reeds.

Though too dark for human eyes,

I picture a watery cotillion

where wise old warriors

pass on their ancient lineage.

Fewer come as years go by,

but still a remnant every spring,

at the full moon’s tide,

return to dance their watery drill.

© Peggy Latham, 2011

Photo: Horseshoe crab with barnacles, http://horseshoe-crabs.com/horseshoe-crab-pictures/

Chore, with Prayer

Immersed in the dirt

I water and weed

stretch and sweat

untangling the beans from

tomatoes and cucumbers

lost in the chore

of directing and caging

and guiding plants

with a prayer

that given enough

tender care

they will produce

juicy succulent 

vegetables

fresh and tasty

to nourish my body

as does this task 

of gardening

nourish my soul

              © 2011, Anne Cressin

Photo: Tomatoes, http://www.fullissue.com/index.php/tomatoes.html

Sleepers

A sleeper, they used to call it–

four passes with the giant round saw

and you had a crosstie, 7 inches by 9 of white oak–

at two hundred pounds nearly twice my weight

and ready to break finger or toe–

like coffin lids, those leftover slabs,

their new-sawn faces turning gold and brown

as my own in the hot Virginia sun,

drying toward the winter and the woodsaw

and on the day of that chore

I turned over a good, thick one

looking for the balance point

and roused a three-foot copperhead,

gold and brown like the wood,

disdaining the shoe it muscled across,

each rib distinct as a needle stitching leather,

heavy on my foot as a crosstie.

© David Black, 2011

Copperhead; photo by David Mathley

Can’t Help Being Happy

Can’t help being happy

on a morning like this --

Just taking a breath is bliss!

I know I didn’t get here on my own,

and I know we cannot make it all the way

alone --

December’s sun loosens frosted parts,

grass and branch and post make art --

Living vapor smokes into the light--

This ain’t nothing but right!

© Gerry Sackett, 2011

Frosted parts make art; photo by Tony Russell

Turtles at Sanibel

Nothing startled me awake tonight, no dream 

or other need.  

I simply opened my eyes. 

I could just make out the abandon of clothes 

in a bank on the floor, 

palm-held glasses on the bedside table, 

dark wine barely touched, 

the whirr of fan, a sound of surf just beyond 

the sliding screen door.

Lying here, I think of the beach 

as it is right now.

There is peace in the roll of water, 

the ruffle of sea grass in the wind,

a scattering of unbroken shells on the beach,

and the scuttle of hatchlings towards ebb tide 

finding haven on tiny rafts of algae 

that will carry them away 

like refugees clinging to the dark.    

© Susan Muse, 2011  

At the beach; photo by Tony Russell

I Am the Woman

I am the woman who starves for love

And yet has no trouble giving it

I am the woman who loves to dance

And yet aches to find a place to do it

I am the woman who picks up the pen

But often feels it flows inadequately

I am the woman who appears to be altogether

But often wonders who she really is

I am the woman who feels part of the universe

But wants to fill up many souls

I am the woman who aches for comfort

But always will reach out to give it

I am the woman who laughs out loud often

But often wants to break down and cry

I am the woman who wants to feel full in her body

But wants it to keep her warm

I am the woman who writes many hours

But wants to be more contented

I am the woman who wakes up each day to say “Thank You”

But walks among you thanking each one she meets

Thank you for allowing me to be here on this earth

To touch, teach, and comfort you

So that I can be the woman who feels blessed

To be sharing her soul with you.

© 2011,  Hilda Ward

Early morning on the Rivanna; photo by Tony Russell