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Maueen Applegate... 10
Barbara Blanks....5
Marilyn Downing...11
Lynn Fetterolf...13
Ann Gasser...14
Mark Hudson....9
(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors
28 lines or less,
formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,
and other shared images.unless stated otherwise
PPS members are invited to submit.
Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received
Target date for sending out—10th of each month
“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.)
September2014201420142014
1.
Nancy Henry Kline....7
Emiliano Martin....3
Carmen Martucci....12
Carol Dee Meeks...6
Marie-Louise Meyers...4
Jacqueline Moffett ...2
Lucille Morgan Wilson...8
Chosen with extreme care from the country garden store
I now grace the front lawn near my master's red entry door
I am not a famous stone like some of my contemporaries
who reside in Buddhist Zen gardens that represent
mountains and feature moss and pruned trees
These vertical stones, shaped by nature will eventually be
placed where white sand and smooth pebbles add to their beauty
No water is visible in dry gardens
Aged gardeners rake sand in swirling artistic patterns around
the base and touch their best side in honor before departing
As a feeling of peace and tranquility descends upon them,
many tourists check the best viewing spots
They have traveled far to enjoy this famous Zen garden
and the bus ride over bumpy roads was worth the effort
I am now permanently positioned in the front garden,
not moved from place to place for customer viewing
Briefcase in hand, master pats my head as he quickly
walks to the railway station each morning
2.
photo of a Zen Garden
Daisen-in, Japan
SECRET THOIGHTS OF A TALL
GRAY STONE
-by Jacqueline Moffett
HOW MANY ? (My prayer)
—by Emiliano Martin
Lord…! May I ask you in my prayer?
How many dreams must a man hold on to,
before he loses his mind,
before passion arises and meets the sublime?
How many wishes a man puts aside,
while kissing the years-good bye,
biting his tongue, withholding his temper
while frozen like ice?
How many chances must a man take
before he can play his own game,
before his peers acclaim him,
recognize he is not insane
and perhaps if he deserves it
honor is given to his name?
How many times does a good man look back
to see he has wasted his time,
doing… undoing… eroding moments of a precious life?
Yes my Lord…! How many excuses does a man make his own
to justify he is in love,
and how many years must a poet remain
away from the public domain?
Yes. How many times was a poet called
to meet the musician and write a new a song,
for nothing?
Oh Lord! How many times… did we know all along
that, we were indeed, dead wrong?
But inevitably we must go on,
rewriting the lyrics of our daily song.
3.
A DIVINELY INSPIRED CHOIR
—by Marie-Louise Meyers
A preconceived side trip
on a forested hill side.
Echoes and gleanings
filled with Life's meanings:
images of hide-and-seek,
promises we didn't keep.
Out of the mists, a choir
of inspired angels, a blast
to the iconoclast.
With scripture and verse,
our world condensed
into a Heavenly Universe.
And the pain ceased
as if belief were enough
to assuage grief.
How much said and left unsaid,
how much dread falls away
with our daily bread.
And the rains came
as if ordained,
and our pond was filled
to overflowing.
Breathless we remain.
4.
5.
THIS AIN’T WONDERLAND, ALICE
—by Barbara Blanks
A demon’s taken hold of me—my heart
despairs of fighting it. Exhaustion wraps
its tentacles around my brain. I start
to fall asleep—and then a furnace straps
itself to me. My sheets and nightgown drench
with sweat. I scream at husband’s peaceful rest—
he levitates; his eyes bug out. I clench
these jaws that bite, my claws that catch. I’m stressed!
I’ve gotten bulgy—pants have shrunk to thong-
size. Help! Have I become a Jabberwock?
Is this psychosis curable? What’s wrong
with me? I need a diagnosis, Doc.
I’m not insane? So then the hellish cause
of this—thank God!—is “only” menopause.This poem won a 1st prize in
Poetry Society of Texas 2013
Contest
AND ALL THE DIPS AGLOW
A Visser Sonnet
with internal rhymes: abba, abba, cde, cde
—by Carol Dee Meeks
These Ursa Majors daunt their Minor friends
and wag their tails across the sky at night.
With teeth they jag a notch at zenith’s point
then move to flaunt the diamond gem displays.
Both dippers taunt the stars of Milky Way
and zigzag ‘cross the twilight’s face in view.
They twinkle brags like fire flies flutter round
until some children haunt them with a jar.
Yet distant stars ignite the heaven’s space.
As light erupts, they quilt a blanket coat
in strokes of brush from Master’s steady hand.
A nebula-like cloud in bars explodes
where stellar bodies tilt with sheen attire
and flush the ozone tiers to make them shine.
6.
photo from calgary.rasc.ca
© 2009 Carol Dee Meeks
7.
AUTUMN HAIKU
—by Nancy Henry Kline
sailboat
skims radiance
from an autumn moon
a wedge of geese
slices
the sunset
on the tree stump
a chipmunk sits
a crimson leaf falls
beached canoes
deserted picnic tables
geese take flight
on a russet leaf boat
a water strider
hitches a ride
buried in the leaves
a length of barbed wire
cat licks her paw
limestone tunnel
a fault in the ceiling
shelters two bats
dried rosebuds
from her nosegay
scent my potpourri
leaves dance
with wild abandon
a mole scampers
8.
KALEIDESCOPE
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
Bright bits of crimson glass, translucent blues
and orange fragments, brilliant as the sun,
mix with the golds and silvers. Blended hues
in infinite variety, they run
together in the tube. But if I choose
to share one special pattern, just begun,
with you, the faintest tremble of my hand
will cause the fragile droplets to disband.
Strange how these fragments, separate and diverse,
yet trapped alike, in cylinder confined
like we who float, caught in the universe--
our ways join, part again, deviate and wind
through corridors of time-- cannot reverse
to recreate one moment that the mind
might covet. Rainbow petals and gray tears
disperse and realign by turning years.
9.
FRUSTRATED WITH FRANCINE’S FRENCH FRIES
—by Mark Hudson
On Thursday, I went with my Poets and Patrons group,
to a nature center to write, somewhere near the Loop.
A Chicago writing group, we go to locations,
write poems and regather and have recitations.
We usually gather to have lunch afterwards,
So we asked at the nature center who they preferred.
They referred us to a restaurant named Francine's,
but when we went I got rather mean.
The prices expensive, I found my stomach churning,
I ordered french fries which I ended up returning.
They were three dollars, for a tiny little plate,
I refused to pay for the fries no one ate.
Another woman got the wrong sandwich twice,
She still paid twenty dollars as her price.
We gave the waitress a really hard time,
but later on, I felt like such a slime.
In church, they talked about being forgiving,
And I thought of the waitress, trying to make a living.
I asked God's forgiveness, and prayed for a blessing,
I hoped that the waitress would have less stressing.
What an ungrateful American I am,
All I ever do is blame Uncle Sam!
So maybe I can't even afford good dining,
but if I've got any food, I shouldn't be whining!
SUMMER FIELD
—by Maureen Applegate
Consider fields of corn so green
That even leafy shadows seem
To catch the verdant hue.
With tangled silk now golden brown
From yellow ears cascading down
By farmers’ prayers imbued.
Along the edge of ordered rows
A sweetly fragrant tumult grows
In flowers powdered blue.
With Queen Anne Lace’s white crotchet
Behold a living corn bouquet
For one brief month to view.
10.
11.
ELEGY AT THE EDGE OF A CITY REVISITED
—by Marilyn Downing
Gone are the random woods ringing the town,
inviting Sunday strollers into shady paths or children
on expeditions spurred only by imaginations.
Gone are the open fields, the small family farms
with kitchen gardens, fruit trees, and plotted acres
of corn, wheat,tomatoes, root crops and such.
The woods, clearcut, now stacked in great funereal piles
await logging trucks destined for pulp mills.
Bulldozers scalp the land into efficient monotony.
Cement roads and sidewalks curve through
mushrooming neighborhoods, so closely packed
no room for future trees or shrubs or lawns remains.
Brick and stone condos rise, row upon row,
far as the eye can see, resembling monstrous cemeteries.
Sacrifices to the Housing-God come at high cost.
photo from [email protected]
12.
NOT HIS HANDS
—by Carmen Martucci
I had a friend who was ever present;
not always here; not his hands.
But his soul and his response;
they were here.
Until the change in circumstance.
Of course, it was no-one's fault;
least of all, his.
It was just what time does.
Space and time and the four points in this World:
they change for all of us;
and we have no reply, and less control.
But I remember, and he is still here;
not always here; not his hands.
AMPUTEES
—by Lynn Fetterolf
They pay a dear price for dignity,
these old folks with their missing parts.
Stumps with skin flaps sewn over
the lack of calf or thigh or foot
astonish those who once walked free
with loping gait, surefooted.
Their walk now is hesitant and painful,
each step is measured in agony.
Fitted with strange contraptions
meant to substitute for loss
they must revert to toddler status
relearning the simple motions
of walking; carefully placing
one foot in front of the other.
But unlike the adored toddler,
there is no one waiting with open arms
and cameras to applaud their striving.
They walk alone to the silent sound
of their extreme effort.
13.
14.
SINGING WATER, HOPEFUL HEARTS
—by Ann Gasser
There is wild exhilaration in the sound of rushing water
as it gushes from a mountain spring to sparkle in the sun.
There’s a cry of jubilation when a new-born child emerges
to forsake the close-knit darkness of his mother’s sheltered womb.
There is bubbling reassurance as a stream becomes a creek that
will meander in green meadows and reflect an azure sky.
There is joy and adoration as an infant stands and wobbles
till the first uncertain steps become a trot and then a run.
There are many muscles rippling as the stream becomes a river
floating boats with sails or cargo past tall cities on its banks.
There is happy celebration as the boy becomes a man with
youthful strength of mind and body to embrace a waiting world.
There is rumbling drumming thunder and the wind’s wild wailing song
as the river winds its way through tow’ring cliffs and fertile plains.
And the man is buffeted by gales, by courses hard to steer
as with an anxious mind and stalwart hands he grips the groaning wheel.
A cloudless night with brilliant stars, the flawless moon appears at last
and shines upon the river as it merges with the sea.
There’s a blesséd sense of stillness as the man looks at the ageless sky
and realizes stars nor moon can match the glow he feels within.
OnOnOnOnthethethethe
Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side
September2014201420142014
Carmen Martucci....23
Marie-Louise Meyers....17
Prabha Nayak Prabhu....21
Lucille Morgan Wilson....22
15.
Bert Barnett....16
Marilyn Downing...19
Lynn Fetterolf....24
Ann Gasser...20
Nancy Henry Kline....18
THE DONOR
—by Bert Barnett
On the loss of a treasured acquaintance -
This frog I bring to bio class
Is now a donor under glass;
With excised heart, lungs, brain and spleen;
Once well concealed, but now all seen:
Though for time a pet of mine,
Dear Froggie’s laid it on the line;
As every piece of him, you see,
Is given to this school by me.
Yet, if perhaps you think I’m nuts,
Never forget – my friend had guts!
16.
17.
THOUGHTS ON TOMATOES AND APPLES
—by Marie-Louise Meyers
It's a miracle you know,
tomatoes marching in a row.
To me they represent unending
labor--planting, weeding, tending.
And to me no ifs, no buts,
when those tomatoes spill their guts
in sandwiches or pot-luck salad,
I’m inspired to write a ballad.
Apples are equally captivating,
easy to get us salivating.
I recall what the old wives say:
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away,”
which is super fine with me,
though the docs may not agree.
No longer are apples just Macs and Delicious,
there are many new kinds--and all are nutritious.
I think of Eve and her ancient temptation--
and I too, want instant gratification.
18.
MY SPECIAL RAINBOW
—by Nancy Henry Kline
A crystal hangs in the window
in the bathroom where I dress.
The morning sun shines through it.
How many rainbows? Can you guess?
Lovely rainbows dance on curtains,
in the basin, on the wall.
Rainbows frolic on the ceiling,
in the bathtub, in the hall.
But the very coolest rainbow
that I shall ever see
is in my belly button.
It's a sparkly part of me.
19.
photo from a Swedish “Toys ‘R Us” catalog
BUSINESS IN THE NURSERY
(Thoughts on an advanced birthday eve)
—by Marilyn Downing
Most childish chatter-clatter
we grownups take too lightly,
longing for our childhood
to stay as sprightly.
To stay as sprightly
all the while our dreams beguiled,
working at play, and playing at work ...
but playing is work for a child.
THE MAGNIFICENT WEDDING CAKE
—by Ann Gasser
It bloomed with sugar roses, palest pink,
spectacular as any cake I’d seen,
It was so beautiful you’d surely think
that envy would make other brides turn green.
It was a sight to make observers blink.
Atop its highest tier a groom and bride
in sugared wedding costumes were displayed.
He leaned toward her and beamed with pride,
they were as fine as any cake top ever made,
The bride who chose these was quite satisfied.
The decorator standing by the cake
admired his work—each petaled rose.
He thought of one more swirl that he might make—
stretched tall and stood up on his tippy toes.
Uh-Oh! his foot slipped—splat! He fell into the cake!
He wasn’t hurt—just frosted hands and head,
but we all heard him wish that he was dead!20.
21.
UNDETERRED
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
When summer with its threat of drought
spreads panic up and down the land
some folks there are who will not pout
instead will lend a helping hand.
22.
UNCOUNTED
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
Her voice was pleasant, soft, refined;
she knew my given name.
She asked, "...a moment of your time."
I thought, "I'll play their game!"
"...nothing to sell," I was assured.
I felt my armor slip.
"Your opinion's all we ask today."
"That's easy," my answer was flip.
"Do you own your home, or rent, or lease?"
"Is your water soft or hard?"
"Which brand of cornmeal do you eat?"
"Do you grow marigolds in your yard?"
I answered each query carefully,
aware that my replies
would help forge the average American
in some statistician's eyes.
Then came the clincher, the final stroke.
I could hear her crumple the page.
"Are you between twenty and fifty-eight?"
"Sorry, dear, but you're over age!"
23.
ODE TO THE 60 DAY REFUND POLICY
—by Carmen Martucci
And then there came an expectation,
of joyous moods and veneration.
Precisely when I rose above
the thought of everlasting love.
I'd settled in my current state,
dismissing pride and vengeful hate.
Investing in the day to day,
keeping thoughts of love at bay.
The weeds were pulled, the feeders filled;
birds spit out seed, that hadn't spilled.
I floated like a wandering ghost,
still refusing much to boast.
Then the rockets took to space,
when first I saw her lovely face.
Certain that I'd know in time
my heart's most peaceful temperate clime.
So there I was, about to change,
expanding, once again, my range.
Pricing out a diamond ring,
humming since I cannot sing.
But fear not, dear, nor worry much,
that I've been fooled or out of touch.
In retrospect, ‘twas all for naught
her love a fraud, and she got caught.
Sure, I suffered indigestion,
anticipating such a question.
But the pain, it went away,
when my refund came today.
24.
IMMUNE BLUES
—by Lynn Fetterolf
Tomatoes and chocolate,
strawberries and wine.
These are some horrible
allergies of mine.
When I come back
in my next life, please,
let my allergy be to
Limburger cheese!
