Wednesday, December 14, 2011

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

Monday, December 5, 2011

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

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

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

Monday, November 14, 2011

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

Monday, November 7, 2011

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

Monday, October 24, 2011

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

Monday, October 17, 2011

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

Monday, October 3, 2011

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

Monday, September 26, 2011

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

Monday, September 19, 2011

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

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

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

Monday, August 29, 2011

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

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

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


Monday, August 8, 2011

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/

Monday, July 18, 2011

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

Monday, July 4, 2011

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

Monday, June 6, 2011

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

Monday, May 23, 2011

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

Monday, May 16, 2011

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