Shepherd's Center Poetry Group

Shepherd's Center Poetry: February 2012

2012-02-10T09:45:00.000-08:00

Several of our number were away this past Thursday, and so I thought I’d post a summary of our discussion on the “Learning and Becoming” poems.

We had guessed the previous week that William Logan’s “Mysteries of the Armchair” might be a recollection of a less-than-perfect upbringing—I think we can be absolutely certain that is the case with the poems by Sharon Olds and Franz Wright. Perhaps a better title for the session would have been the last line of Olds’ poem: Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.

In “I Go Back to 1937” we see her parents at their college graduations, perhaps in different parts of the country (him definitely in the west, maybe California, where Olds grew up), the father arrogant, the mother vulnerable, both unfit for the marriage and parenthood that followed. There is anger in this poem, but also regret and sadness. After all, she did want to be born; this was her life, her growing up. The poem moves rapidly, sped along by commas. Olds does not reveal much autobiographical information in her interviews, but there is reason to think this poem is based mostly on fact.

Franz Wright’s “unavailable” father was the poet James (not Charles) Wright—they constitute the only parent-child combination to win the Pulitzer for poetry. But his childhood—an absent father, a hostile stepfather and, again, a vulnerable mother—was wrapped up in books. The key seems to be the line “I get down on my knees and thank God for them”—them, referring both back to the"loneliness, boredom and terror" that formed his motivation, and ahead into the four texts mentioned in the last stanza. Du Fu was an 8th century BCE Chinese poet. The last two lines present the reverse of what we might have expected. Carolyn summarized the poem nicely with a quotation recalled from “Dead Poets Society”: we read to know that we are not alone.

“School Tie” served as a footnote to the themes discussed above.

We heard a poem by Audrey Elmore that had a lovely movement to it, noting the milestones in three generations of a family.

We had several visitors last Thursday from a class that was not meeting that day. Remember that there is no class next Thursday (February 16), and we will meet February 23 for our last session on “Images of Place.”

We have learned that the Shepherd’s Center does plan to offer the poetry group again in the spring, starting April 19 at First Baptist Church.

Icarus Myth Informs Poetry, Science, Popular Culture

2012-01-27T08:58:00.000-08:00

In our January 26, 2012, session on Icarus poems, we found that while the three poems all involved the myth as told in Ovid, they had different emphases, with both Auden and Williams noting a "rueful recognition of the world's indifference to martyrdom" (Williams stressing the compression of later free verse and limiting himself to the Icarus painting) and Mary Jo Bang, telling a personal story of loss that we found extremely powerful.

As was suggested, the early passages of Auden's poem probably do refer to two other Bruegel poems at the museum in Brussels:

Bruegel, "Census at Bethlehem"

http://www.artbible.info/art/large/151.html

Bruegel, "Massacre of the Innocents"

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BRUEGEL_the_Elder,_Pieter_-_Massacre_of_the_Innocents_(1565-7).JPG

Both paintings seem to support the notion of "the religious acceptance of suffering" that can be understood in the first part of the poem.

As was also suggested yesterday, the Icarus story has found to be useful in psychology and psychiatry, and elsewhere in contemporary culture. For further reading, you can Google "Icarus complex" ('A constellation of mental conflicts, the degree of which reflects the imbalance between a person's desire for success, achievement, or material goods, and the ability to achieve those goals; the greater the gap between the idealized goal and reality, the greater the likelihood of failure'). Interesting sidelights: the "Icarus Project", which seems to represent a very different approach to the phenomenon, "The Icarus Syndrome," a book about 'American hubris--a century of unwise military adventures, and "Icarus Complex," which seems to be a rock group.

Shepherd's Center 2011 Poetry Anthology

2011-09-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

Poems

from the Shepherd’s Center

Winter—Spring 2011

This short collection is the fourth by our Shepherd’s Center Poetry Group.

These pages are meant to be a memento of our weeks together during the winter and spring of 2011, which I believe have emboldened us to find and affirm the poet in ourselves and others. Thank you again for sharing your talent and insight with the group.—Bob Demaree

Uncle Al

Martha Golensky

Her dad admired him,

so she did too.

He got them free tickets

to Yankees games.

They read his bylined column

in the Herald Trib.

He was famous

in the family

for colorful language—

his signature line:

“You take a pee,

and we’ll take a powder.”

After the paper folded,

he did PR for the Jets.

He invited her to see a game

at his Manhattan hotel suite.

Her dad was dead by then.

She was thrilled!

The epitome of the young

New York career woman,

she dressed with care.

He offered a drink;

she opted for Pepsi.

They sat together on the couch.

Suddenly he lunged

and tried to kiss her.

In anguish, she cried:

“Uncle Al!”

He said: “You have

to call me uncle?”

He explained it was

con amore.

She agreed to go to dinner—

not sure why.

He flirted with the waitress,

who seemed to know him.

The numbness wore off

on the train back to Brooklyn.

She called home.

Her mother was outraged;

her sister, embarrassed.

Then never told Aunt Bess.

Uncle Gordon

Elmer Billman

Actually, he was an older first cousin.

He was likable, and a favorite of my mother.

He helped his father on the farm,

But during the great depression he tried to sell kitchen utensils.

My mother encouraged him to practice his spiel on her.

She bought a colander.

The Indianapolis papers carried stories about the motorcycle bandit.

Riding a cycle he specialized in robbing

filling stations. An owner was reading a

newspaper, facing the door.

On his lap was a pistol, which he fired.

Uncle Gordon died in an Indianapolis hospital.

Bill

Cynthia Schaub

Long, elegant fingers untouched

by labor.

Work boots, muddied,

Pith helmet tilted

back, sweat-drenched,

A lock of black

hair fallen front.

A gentleman’s farm of

lawns and gardens,

mowed by a Saturday tractor

Eighth Grade

Jenny Angyal

Reading aloud

the fragile tissue of words

wrapping your small grief—

the sweet smell of hay

and the mare’s sweat,

the unbroken membrane

suffocating

what struggled

to be born—

you hear

without lifting your eyes

the snickers

and draw

about you tightly

your thin translucent caul.

Inside,

the light is cool and clear

and the air is filled

with the sound of words

unfolding

their cramped wings.

Winter Beach

Donna Torrico

A winter scene in Maine

a lonely abandoned beach

On the table, no hot dogs, no drinks

only clean, white snow

A mild wind is blowing

clouds are moving

The only sound is the ocean

slapping against the rocks

If your gentle soul listens

you may hear the voices of summer

trapped inside the garbage can

children laughing, crying and playing

adults telling stories, laughing, singing and

shouting

Sounds of sea gulls begging

for scraps of food

Now the gulls are calling to small fish

"Beware, beware, here I come."

Fertile Ground

Judy Harris

Anguish and action,

Twin consequences of the flood of oppression,

Rise like the Nile,

Seasonally, powerfully.

Plagues and pyramids,

Pharaohs and prophets

Come and go.

Let my people go.

Let my people know.

Surge and suffering

Shatter safety like the hull of a seed

Lying on fertile ground.

Jezebel’s Demise

Sandra Redding

Full of fun and frolic, my imaginary pal decreed:

“Strip petals from your mother’s roses;

To scatter across your bed.”

When Mother found us, lolling like movie stars

Tipsy from the fragrance of forbidden floribunda

she grounded me, ignored my accomplice.

My imaginary pal coerced me to slide down a fall.

I knew I shouldn’t. I wore new jeans.

“Take them off,” she said. “No one will ever know.”

Mother lifted ragged panties from the trash.

Scowling she asked, “What is this?”

I started, “My imaginary pal…”

Stopped, stared at my sneakers, who would believe?

My imaginary pal bullied me to ride my bike

Far, far away, fast on a busy highway.

I protested; she controlled the pedals.

Home after dark, I faced my silent mother.

She peeled a hickory stick.

“Why don’t we go deep into the wild woods?” I asked

One stormy day. “Okey dokey,” answered my imaginary pal.

Wicked wind howled; we stumbled over roots and bone.

When we sighted drooling dogs, I shivered, flew away.

My imaginary pal skipped on, foolish, unafraid.

Glider

Dave Upstill

Snatched up from witting,

Towed into space and freed to fly

At a speed above the edge

Where flying becomes falling;

Held up only by the love of wind,

For the planes’ form

Which took three centuries

To discover

And confirmed by

The tandem company of a hawk,

Wings also motionless.

We move together

In perfect freedom,

Knowing and accepting

Freedom’s limitations.

If I Should Die

Jane Kirkman-Smith

How did that childhood prayer go?

Something vague about the soul?

I seldom went to bed without it;

no wonder I have insomnia.

I remember a friend from the city who came to visit, and it was the early morning

rooster that caused her difficulties.

Then there was the neighbor boy who named

his pet rooster “Fi Shu Die” because the sharp

piercing crow cut through his sleep and dreams

long before the sleepy kid would have chosen to rouse.

But no cock crow do we hear today; no Chanticleers

within miles of this retirement housing, nevertheless

“If I should die before I wake..” is of major concern,

and a portion of us living here is almost surprised

every morning, on waking, to do just that,

One dear, poor friend, with fading patience

Daily faces that morning disappointment.

But as for dying before waking or otherwise:

May it never be said that I have passed away.

Nothing that submissive, that acquiescent for me, ever!

No euphemisms, please, especially—God forbid—

May it never be said that I have passed.

The teacher in me demands that it be said:

Life is not on a pass/fail basis:

no final grade you pass at death

by failing completely. I have passed

some of life’s exams, failed some, and would

prefer to have passed them all if I could have.

And, for Heaven’s sake, let no obituary report

that I have gone to be live Jesus.

(Jesus must feel terribly crowded) but above all

let me decisively, boldly, actively, die

or I will not play.

Chicago 1968

Mary Vick

Such fine college students,

My minister proclaimed.

They sought a place to sleep...

My day care would work well.

Such committed young people,

I decided,

As we talked earnestly

Of politics and change.

Such polite guests...

They left at dawn,

Infiltrated the crowd

Trashed the Democratic Convention.

Such lovers of peace

The Seven professed to be..

Until their violent acts

Blazed across the headlines.

Antiques

Bob Demaree

My mother and her friend

Loved those New Hampshire auctions,

July afternoons

Sixty years ago,

Wooden folding chairs

In the warm meadow,

Outside a white barn:

I’ve got two, who’ll give me three.

Cream cheese and olive sandwiches,

Brought from home,

Preferred to a hot dog

From the caterer’s wagon.

I’ve got three, going once for three.

My mother collected nothing in particular,

Loved those mysterious boxes,

Saucers without cups, perhaps a small

Unsigned oil landscape, hidden

Under an old Life Magazine.

Her friend would offer sagacious bids

On Chelsea, Flow Blue,

Even Carnival Glass,

Storing up wares

For a retirement shop

Which, of course,

Never opened.

Spring Term Considers Huddle, Dennis

2011-04-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

The spring term of the Shepherd's Center Poetry Group is underway, meeting Thursday mornings April 28 through June 2 from 9:30-10:30 a.m. at First Baptist Church in Greensboro.

In the first session we considered two mellow and reasonably cheerful reflections on the senior years:

No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off,

Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hoping

To meet by then someone who'd love to join you,

Two seats near the front so you catch each note

--Carl Dennis, "A Maxim"

As David Huddle puts it in "Roanoke Pastorale": I dream this life, walk this world.

We also heard fine poems by Jenny Angyal, Elmer Billman, Donna Torrico and Dave Upstill. Those who wish to bring poems are encouraged to do so, but the participation of those who prefer to comment and listen is valued just as highly.

Our main subject next week will be the long poem by Campbell McGrath, an acerbic comment on 'the way we live now'. Please check your e-mail for the text of additional poems that will be read next Thursday, May 4.

Final Session February 24; More on Ellipsis

2011-02-22T05:32:00.000-08:00

For the final meeting of the Winter Term we will look at poems by Philip Schultz and Katha Pollitt. Shultz's poems are expansive, conversational. Last year we enjoyed "The God of Loneliness," in which fathers wait in line at a toy store. Schultz's father figures in today's poem, in which seemingly casual takes on pop culture are again juxtaposed with deeper questions of identity. Pollitt writes in a more compressed fashion--"not afraid to write beautifully," as one critic observes--and the key to her reverie about a New York apartment lies in the last two lines.

We talked last week about ellipsis, both a mark of punctuation and a rhetorical and poetic device. Ellipsis in the middle of a line of text clear denotes an omission. But we sensed, correctly, I think, that an ellipsis at the end of a line suggests something else, a sudden silence to which the poet gives meaning. There's a name for this--aposiopesis (accent on the second "o")! I think, too, that the distinction we drew between a dash and three dots at the end of a line was worthwhile, although some discussion of punctuation seem to lump them together.

Further reading on Philip Schultz http://belindamckeon.wordpress.com/2009/04/21/an-interview-with-philip-schultz-poet/

Another poem by Pollitt, with brief discussion by her, from her new book:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/06/19/AR2009061901704.html

February 10: More on Eavan Boland

2011-02-10T14:30:00.000-08:00

SCROLL DOWN FOR INTRODUCTION TO SHEPHERD'S CENTER POETRY GROUP

A couple of notes gleaned from further reading on Eavan Boland, which may or may not advance the understandings of "The Blossom" we arrived at this morning. First, the suggestion that Boland's mother-daughter poems (this critic was writing specifically about two collections from the 1990's) relate to "two underlying myths--the Biblical story of Eden and the Fall, as well as the classical myth of Demeter and Persephone."

In another article, I saw the suggestion that "The Blossom" has to do with picking her daughter up from a party at 7:30 a.m.

Dave Smith's work is dense with imagery, and I especially enjoyed how we were able to pool insights and arrive, I think, at his perception of fathers and sons.

We heard fine poems this morning from Dave Upstill, Jenny Angyal and Sandra Redding. We will want to talk a little more about the titles of poems next week.

I hope you will enjoy Grace Paley and Jean Valentine.

Winter 2011 Under Way; "Phone Booth" Considered

2011-01-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION ABOUT THE SHEPHERD'S CENTER POETRY GROUP, CHECK UNDER "WELCOME' POSTING FOR 2009

The Winter 2001 session is under way for the Shepherd's Center Poetry Group, with 23 participants. Thus far we have looked at work by Frank Bidart and Phillip Levine (on war); this past week we looked at a spare and affecting poem by Linda Pastan on "The Burglary" and Brenda Hillman's "Phone Booth," about which more could perhaps be said.

"Rimbaud's vowels" is a reference to a specific poem ("Vowels" or "Voyelles") by the French poet considered to be a precursor of free verse, in which he assigns a color to each vowel.

The first part of Hillman's poem deals with the past, down to "onto the glass door while talking". The central idea of this section seems to me tied up in "While we gathered our actions/wits For magic and pain/The destiny twins." Then she shifts to the present--to cell phones--and reintroduces the idea of nouns--for things sublime ("the clotting of numbers in the sky") as well as the current and mundane: "a word for backing away/ from those who shout to their strings."

I like the ending, which trails off in a "whorl," following the image of the "perfume in the mouthpiece" (and what is a "Grecian sash"?) and just before it the sombre message: "We are solitudes aided by awe."

Would this poem be better served with stanza breaks and punctuation? What are we supposed to think of the narrator?

Brenda Hillman is married to Robert Hass, a past U.S. Poet Laureate, and is interested in Gnosticism. More information about her at www.memorious.org/?id+284

Welcome to the Shepherd's Center Poetry Group

2009-04-24T16:45:00.000-07:00

The Shepherd's Center Poetry Group explores the imagery and meaning of contemporary poetry. Bob Demaree, a retired teacher and school administrator and the author of Fathers and Teachers, Mileposts and two other poetry collections, draws on his own work and the work of favorite contemporary poets, such as Jane Kenyon, Ted Kooser and Billy Collins.

Members of the class who wish to read and discuss their poems, in an atmosphere of collegiality and support. New topics and poems are regularly added, making each session appropriate for those who have taken Contemporary Poetry before and those who have not.

Each year the Shepherd's Center Poetry Group publishes a collection of poems by members. Scroll down for the 2010 and 2009 editions. Copyright is held by individual poets. We hope you will enjoy.

2010 Sessions Completed
The Shepherd's Center Poetry Group, part of the "Adventures in Learning" program, spent twelve weeks during the winter and spring terms discussing accessible poetry. Fifteen participants took part; poets studied included Mary Jo Salter, Donald Justice, Margaret Serpas, Jeffery Harrison, Linda Pastan, Ted Kooser, Philip Schultz, Billy Collins and others, including group members whose work appears in the anthology below.

We expect to reconvene in January 2011. New members are always welcome.

Member Anthologies

Below are the third and fourth collections by members of our Shepherd’s Center Poetry Group, We began in 2007 with “The Rainbow People,” after a poem by Ted Kooser.

The collections below are meant to be a memento of our weeks together during the winter and spring of 2009 and 2010, which I believe have emboldened us to find and affirm the poet in ourselves and others. Thank you again for sharing your talent and insight with the group.—Bob Demaree

Shepherd’s Center 2010

The Backside of Liberty

Cornelia Baker

Lady Liberty holds the torch high

For all the world to see,

Still, we stand in darkness

On the backside of Liberty.

America has stumbled

Because of her iniquity,

God is calling us to repentance

Testing our uprightness and our sincerity.

Awake, awake, America!

Wake up to reality.

At stake is the integrity

Of our democracy.

Until there is justice for everyone

And the oppressed are set free

We are all standing

At the backside of liberty.

Irises

Nancy Baker

The day she thinned her iris bed, she thought of me.

She must have known my flowerbeds would lack

The morning sun an iris needs to thrive

And yet she brought twelve hybrid orphans to my door.

Her irises were famous near and far

Tall stately beauties and in colors

We had never seen before.

I worried that her gifts would hat my shaded plot

and languish, if indeed they could survive.

I tilled a patch of sunlight and added sand and loam

I did the best that I knew how to make a happy home

For them and lo, when spring rolled round again

I found them to my wonderment alive.

Just three years later you would seek my gracious

Donor and her iris bed in vain. My neighbors marvel

At the stand of irises that greet the eye as

May comes surging in to bring her legacy awake

For me to cherish in her memory.

My Grandfather Kept Bird Dogs

Elmer Billman

I was visiting my grandfather.

He kept bird dogs in a fenced pen.

My BB gun was harmless.

It operated by a spring and required cocking.

I seldom hit my inanimate targets.

I aimed at a robin, perched on a fence post, And pulled the trigger.

The robin fell to the ground, to die a slow death.

With tears flowing, I pumped BB after BB into the quivering body.

At last it was still.

I dug a shallow grave.

Nomad

Joan Bradley

How did I find my way in an arid desert sand, dusted by wind,

Shifting,

Blended into the many sunrises of vibrant colour

A scorching sun sent white rays to toughen my skin

Sunsets of different hues yielded to darkness

Where planets, constellations, stars frequently wished on gave direction.

Miles traveled, hunger coupled with thirst,

As oasis sighted, a hopeful spirit effervesced,

Spontaneous strength ensured a kindness, a gentleness,

A language if emotional appetites satisfied

For decades empty is this nomad’s journey.

Poeny

Kathy Coe

Sentinel of my door garden,

Bobbing on spindly stem,

Prim, tight spheres

Concealing infinite gifts.

Tomorrow you will fling open

Your tissued pink extravagance

To dazzled eyes and gathering hands,

To ants burrowing in fleshy

Layers too deep to behold.

Once

I saw an armful of them

In Isak Dinesen’s dining room,

Spilling over themselves and

The rim of their vase,

Nonchalant.

The Danes – born understaters –

Call them simply

Farm roses.

If April is the cruellest month,

Here is the cruellest flower,

Bursting all bounds of beauty,

Then fleeing,

Raining petals in velvet carpet,

Leaving me longing.

Abenaki Lament

Bob Demaree

musical setting by Marnie Ross

after hearing a lecture by

Dr. Robert Goodby of Franklin Pierce University

It is our n’dakina, our homeland.

We were the people from the East,

Here long before you came,

With your famous ships,

White chapels, village greens,

Your right to pray as you supposed

And insist that you were right.

You thought we vanished

Except for the names of places.

We were not Gypsies, the dark French

In your demented plan

To cleanse the stock.

Traces of our lives still

Linger in the rocky New England soil

And other places you do not know to look,

Invisible:

We are still here. We never left.

Obstinance

Nancy Gates

A single leaf trembles

on the slender branch

holding on, holding on,

too stubborn to

let go. Some people are

like that, ignoring all

signs that the end has come.

I’ll be like that leaf

Hang on to that damn

Limb no matter how hard

the gusts whip me around.

I never knew nor cared

which way the wind blows.

A Pacific Memory—Monterey, 1987

Martha Golensky

You sit on your rocky throne,

precariously contemplating the sea,

almost daring the icy waters below,

confident your dark-fingered handmaidens

will break their frame

to come to he rescue.

The mists swirl about you like a lacy party dress,

one minute a shroud, then all-revealing,

with an air of mystery befitting a medieval fairy tale.

O, sly fox!

Did you orchestrate this surreal scene just or me?

My reward, perhaps, for navigating

the peninsula’s sinuous curves to court

the famed Lone Cypress Tree?

How long I stand there

alone in my admiration,

transfixed by enveloping stillness

I cannot say.

In the end I feel restored and at peace.

All these years later, I draw on that memory at will

whenever life deals me a blow,

threatening my equilibrium,

and silently thank you for the timeless gift.

Photo Attachment

Caren Masem

Rhododendron bloom from an email

he sent. Northwest coast pinks speak,

their voices heard over three thousand miles,

their beauty clearer than words.

Some blossoms, white-tipped Pacific waves,

remind me of that time, like seas, repeats.

I am the mother. He is the child.

Once I was the child, she the mother.

Postcards and pictures I sent her then

meant what his forward click evokes

in me now. He remembers.

Photos share his day in a park.

His love sweetens my week.

My Mother’s Flowers

Jane Kirkman-Smith

One of the things I noticed

when Mother began to fail

was her puzzled expression as she said,

“I can’t remember the names of my flowers.”

It was as if she had forgotten

The name of a sister.

She would stand there

Groping for the right word.

I was no help. I had never

Paid attention to their names

But loved them in ignorance;

Their brilliant color, or subtlety

Of shade, their grace of line and form

Had been enough to bless me

In my yard and on my table.

Yellow were buttercups, and a rose

was a rose. Beyond that—I knew a few.

Then, gradually, out of

some hidden corner of my life,

they appeared before me,

affirming our kinship.

And I, surprised

but not surprised

named them one by one

Wygelia, Sweet Syringa

Joseph’s Coat, Dusty Miller,

Blue Bells of Scotland,

Snow on the Mountain.

Oh, Honey

Cynthia Schaub

Oh, Honey.

Wrap me in a rug and

throw me overboard.

Put me in a dog suit and take me to

the vet a final time.

Don’t let me live without

Dignity.

Promise.

Where is Love?

Dollie M. Smith

I looked up to the sky and down on the ground,

I went to the house and looked all around;

I drove to Wal-Mart to search and see,

But I still couldn’t find it—where could “love” be?

“Love” must be a feeling, a closeness, not a place,

Perhaps it’s a smile, a touch, even a word no one can erase;

It’s enjoying being “together”—simply eating or watching TV!

It’s caring for another and sharing “things” only we can see.

The Chase

Mary Vick

Search…sigh…snore…

Bandit’s in his bed,

Dreaming doggy dreams.

Scritch…scratch…snuffle

Bird’s in the bird feeder,

Stealing succulent seeds.

Slam…shuffle…slide…

Bandit’s on the deck,

Routing rodent rustler.

Smack…skitter…scurry…

Squirrel hits the deck,

Fleeing furious feet.

Scent…salivate…stalk…

Bandit’s in pursuit,

Tracking twitching tail.

Spring…swoop…soar…

Squirrel goes airborne,

Targeting towering timber.

Scramble…streak…skid…

Bandit’s at the trunk,

Lathered, leaping loudly.

Strut…sashay…settle…

Squirrel’s in the treetop,

Languid, laughing lazily.

Scowl…straggle…sprawl…

Bandit’s back in bed,

Grim in gathering gloom.

2009 Shepherd's Center Anthology

BEHIND THE DUMPSTER
Cynthia Schaub

Behind the dumpster,
Leaning,
Richard Wayne Ammons, Marine.
Killed in the first Gulf war.
Who remembers that?

The flag folded,
A triangle.
His picture, smiling
In uniform.

Who loved him?
Who tenderly framed
This memory?

And why, now, not
Quite in
A dumpster?

MICHAEL
Elmer Billman

Sue and David’s divorce had been bitter,
and now Michael lived with his mother.
On a visit to Sue’s parents, Michael had
been playing marbles with his grandfather.
A part of the design in the center of the
large Oriental rug served as a pot.
When grandmother brought the ice cream,
grandfather was ready for a rest.
They sat with their bowls of ice cream,
legs outstretched, backs against the sofa.
“Your name is David,” Michael said.
“No, my name is Elmer,” I replied.
“My heart tells me your name is David.
And my heart is always right.”

THE HOUSE ON THE CORNER
Martha Golensky

She spoke to me of years gone by,
but with her dignity intact and
her pinkish-gray brick still jaunty,
the gnarly crabapple tree in the front yard
a survivor of all those harsh winters.

Once spring arrived—never early—
I’d make my daily pilgrimage to the garden
to inspect each new shoot and flower,
as the water meandered, with a measured pace,
down the rock face into the small pool.

Then, with a contented sigh, having
done my duty and paid my respects,
I went inside, to my kitchen,
so proud of its idiosyncrasies, and
set about making dinner.

THE CLIPPING
Peggy Longmire

The lock of hair
could not be kept,
pains too sharp
to press inside a Bible.
Why had I asked to be brought
this lock of hair,
snipped from my brother, 17,
as he lay in his coffin?
At the time I thought
to comfort my mother,
but the lock of hair
might become more --
a shrine
She would go to each day.
Even at 14 I knew the price
of holding fast to those blond memories
always past.
I meant to keep part of him with us
Remembering the happy times.
But in letting go,
I could help set my mother free
from the unbearable weight
of her tragic loss -
Her unending sorrow.

THE BIKE DREAM
Jane Kirkman-Smith

Today I put on my cycling clothes,
rode to the place that Markie dreamed.
a shopping center now.
Department stores and pavement
replace blackberries and cows.
Can’t you see him, sweeping
over the terrace, his four-year-old
legs barely reaching the pedals,
taking the stand-up hills with ease
as joy spills from his face.
The earth, rising and falling
beneath him, belongs to him alone.
He breaths omnipotence.
Why should he not speed to the top of
the world and fly down the other side?

BURIED EYES
Joan Bradley

Low stool, back bend, face pensive
Thick wide hands take knife from pocket
Cuts last year’s potatoes
The blank eye chosen with purpose

Brother and I follow our special parent
Horse harnessed, hitched with patience
Black earth waits, month of preparation
Slightly stooped as we lug filled pails.

Glistening, sharpened shear of the plough
Aiming, judging depth, now it plunges
Against furrow, eye upright, space perceived:
Plant potatoes.

BROKEN EGG
Nancy Baker

Maybe because the shell is the very color
Of a freshly washed morning sky
And the revolting mess protruding
Came so close to being a robin
That the catastrophe the blue jay made
Here beside the driveway
In the waxing of summer
Evokes a cry of pain from the chronically tender-hearted.

Already the ants have found the boon
And examine it gingerly
And the billions trillion lives and deaths
In the handful of soil beneath the egg
Will flourish and wither differently
From those in the next door handful

As the effluent moves down micro millimeters
Into realities beyond my knowing
My consciousness soars outward into
Thinly populated space
To escape the teeming dizziness fulminating underfoot

Do the bacteria of the soil sing?
Is it possible?
And do they make eggs the color of the sky?
Does anybody matter? And if so
For whom is it appropriate to cry.

AT THE SCIENCE CENTER
Bob Demaree

The drift of the exhibits registers only vaguely
As I wander, sadly incurious myself,
After my grandson, age nine,
Marveling at the rapt, informed zeal
With which he tries each game and gizmo
Meant to show how the world works.
At length I am struck
By the metallic iridescence
Of the blue Morpho butterfly,
Whose life is measured in weeks.

THE SUPERSTITIONS
Arizona
Nancy Gates

The mountains, beige and bland,
transform themselves at dusk;
consume blood-red rays
from the sun hovering
on the far horizon,
wring the light dry
until it vanishes. Only
the sky, salmon-colored
in remembrance,
mourns.

The desert, now free
from the sun’s pitiless
glare, fades from sight,
and slumbers under
the eyes of a thousand
stars, while the mountains
hover in the dark, their
glory a mere
memory.

MY BACK PORCH
Merle Frazier

Sitting on my screened back porch
With my faithful collie beside me,
I watch fireflies flitting on a summer night,
Their lights a source of wonder, especially to children.
I listen to the sometimes deafening sounds of screeching cicadas
Calling to other cicadas in another yard.
They seem louder each year.

I also watch bugs and moths fluttering in the light
From my corner spotlights.
They zoom in and out of the cobwebs that
A spider has recently spun.
Sometimes the flying insects get caught by the web,
and the spider quickly appears and wraps them
in its web for a later meal.

A porch is a comfortable hiding place to relax and remember
Special times in my life, husband and children.

I can also talk with my Heavenly father and
Gain courage for the days ahead,
A cool breeze most welcome on my back porch
Before I retire for the evening.

LEGACY
Mary Vick

A yellowed newspaper ad—the penciled date March 1949:
“Do you yearn for the soft life? Start with an Elgin Water Softener.”

The barbershop quartet score for Aura Lee—a jaunty note:
“Sing it the old way—NO Elvis impersonations.”

The Collected Lyrics of Edna St. Vincent Millay—an inscription on the flyleaf:
“April 1973-For my favorite poet: let these words of my second favorite poet inspire you”

The erased and much-folded page from a prescription pad—a barely-legible list:
“Virginia-my wife
Mary-my daughter
Ron and Jon-my grandsons”

I read the collected writings
Of an ad man, tenor, father, Alzheimer’s patient

I search in vain for words sprung from the soul of a writer:
Memoirs of a Welsh immigrant
Poetry celebrating the western skies he loved
The gritty Chicago novel whose outline he showed me

Tears for his dream too long deferred, too soon shattered
Soak this box of treasures
Legacy from my father.

CEDAR KEY
Nancy Bowers

The road plays hopscotch across the tufts of rock and scrub,
Mile after mile out into the gulf,
No sign of any destination worth the trip.

Subtly, the marshes appear to redefine the view; weathered docks and
Weathered houses perched on stilts.
Then solid land announces a place from yesterday.

Once a major port for trade to Europe, the Orient and beyond,
A Civil War prize, a pirate’s hideaway;
A commercial fisherman’s pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Now all that is gone – replaced by vacation condos and artists’ galleries,
Seafood restaurants and endless gift shops.
Only one reminder of the past remains: The Island Hotel.

Once the headquarters for wealthy traders, then a warehouse;
At times a brothel, now historically preserved,
Right down to the voluptuous mermaid above the bar.

The very walls whisper of stories yet to be told, spicy tales
Of heroes and villains, profiteers and poverty,
Weekend wealth and daily drudgery.

This is a town that time forgot, overlaid by a thin coat of dust and neglect.
Yet it stirs the imagination, whets the appetite
For juicy bits of gossip from a past that remains the present.