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Prabha Nyak Prabhu 7
Emiliano Martin 14
Carol Dee Meeks 13
Marie-Louise Meyers 8
Jacqueline Moffett 4
Constance A. Trump 5
Loretta Diane Walker 10
Lucille Morgan Wilson 3
Maureen Applegate 12
Doris DiSavino 6
Marilyn Downing 11
Lynn Fetterolf 2
Ann Gasser 17
Imogene Hunt 16
Nancy Henry Kline 9
Meg Eden Kuyatt 15
(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.)
July2014201420142014
1.
BEAUTIFUL THINGS
—by Lynn Fetterolf
Some of the most beautiful things
known to man never make a sound:
A child’s smile,
the rising moon,
stars appearing,
a deer crossing the road,
snowflakes falling,
silent prayer,
kisses,
love!
2.
THE VINDICATION OF VINCENT VAN GOGH
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
The whirling has stopped now, the mad
twisting of the trees, the agonized writhing
of the universe as it flings stars,
glowing coals, into the black hole of night.
I left my brushes with Gauguin.
Even he, my closest friend, does not know.
Those who never knew me will never understand
that the bland pastels that lave the common life,
the sickly pinks that deceive the vision,
nauseate my soul. In London I knew the sting
of rejection, the violent crimson of pain,
the ugly purple of rage. In Belgium I descended
into the mines, felt the cold sweat of the workers,
breathed the black dust of reality.
Not for me the bland world of love and beauty.
Before the nineteenth century closed
I vowed to make them feel passion
through the intensity of blues and greens,
the flame of oranges and yellows, stark and staring
from the canvas, but they could not, would not.
They scorned my work, called me insane.
Ah, theirs the insanity, the blindness that ignores
the thorns but worships the rose; their ears hear harps
and miss the clanging cymbals of disharmony.
Here it is cool and calm.
Yet with my good ear I still hear the thunder of war,
the screams of hunger. More than a century later,
the earth above me heaves with the lashes of oppression
and I know I was right to paint with sharp wild strokes
from my palette of pain and despair.
3.
THE BLUE HYDRANGEA
--by Jacqueline Moffett
A love from afar was sparked when
I first noticed the exquisite blue flora
among the colorful collage of neighboring lawns
Today, its beauty was displayed before me,
wrapped in a gift on Mother's Day
Next spring, the plant emerged from the thawed
earth and sprouted sturdy green leaves
In a few weeks, a burst of rounded cornflower
blue mophead flowers appeared
One or two showed their faces each day,
until twenty greeted me one morning
Blossoms continued June until September
and changed to a softened blue/purple hue
Our Lord generously sprinkled flower
seeds throughout the Universe for His
people to experience color and fragrance
Thoughts of planting a pink hydrangea,
not far from this blue treasure, fill my dreams.
4.
MORNING MUSINGS
—by Constance A. Trump
Every morning I greet the sea
and like to think she comes to me
tumbling, swirling, full of brine,
I pretend the sea’s all mine;
her mighty spirit, wild and free
harnessed as she bows to me,
lapping gently at my feet
as I survey the majesty
out where blue horizons meet.
Kindly is the verdant sea
to trifle with a fool like me!
5.
6.
TAP ROOTS
-Doris DiSavino
Two trees
embracing on a hill,
roots, trunks, branches
intertwined.
When one tree falls, how
shall the other stand alone?
Published in ON THE QUIET SIDE
New Jersey Poetry Society 2008
REMINDERS
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
The constant drip of water in the tub
The ticking of the old clock on the wall
Are like the members of a Doomsday Club
Reminding me that soon I’ll take a fall.
7
8.
IMPRESSIBLE (FIREWORKS AT LONGWOOD)
—by Marie Louise Meyers
Scratching its way through the surface of things
to the hidden meaning beneath, my pen went dry.
What’s it like to run out of ammunition
when you try to target the prize, fireworks split between Earth and Sky,
my sensibilities arising, a feast for the eyes-----M A G N E T I Z E D.
Mapped out before me, a tracery of thought waves bursting into view,
tinted lights playing on Longwood’s bleeding fountains,
a panoramic display that encompasses the blackboard of night.
And for the listening ears, a musical blend of Broadway at its best,
Glenn Miller digging up memories that
break through the generational barrier
when “String of Pearls” sets your feet to dancing
with its persistent choreographed beat.
Everything must have meaning and staying power
as the spectacular gems M A T E R I A L I Z E
into star burst, crystal chandeliers
falling through space, psychedelic mushrooms,
reigning down on us like colored confetti
until we are ejected into outer space with thunderbolts for emphasis.
By sheer force of will power remain in our seats,
only the smallest ones among us wrenched to their feet.
As we try to recall their shapes, ashes disintegrate into nothingness,
leaving a smoky residue that takes their place,
Beauty in whatever form is a reason for being
weaving the timeless myth that intrinsic value is everything.
9.
THIS IS THE WAY YOU GET A SHOCK TREATMENT - 1960
—by Nancy Henry Kline
You sit in a circle and wait and wait in the lounge of the psycho ward and
your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're scared out of your wits
and you know you'll be number ten because nine other loonies got shots
before you did and you play stupid games while you wait and wait and you
can't concentrate and your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're
scared out of your wits and your mouth is dry as dust parched from that
damn shot Oh God! some water while you wait and wait and the nurse takes
your hand and you WANT to wait and wait and your heart is beating like a
tom tom because you're scared out of your wits and she leads you into THE
ROOM and that monstrous machine with its malicious electrodes is waiting
to convulse you and three strapping orderlies wait and wait to hold you
down and keep you from hurting yourself and one doctor helps you onto the
gurney and the other holds a padded tongue depressor in one hand and your
hand in the other and your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're
scared out of your wits and you get another shot sodium pentothal this time
and you count 100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, and you wait and wait for oblivion.
10
EARLY MORNING SYMPHONY
—by Loretta Diane Walker
Those cardinals started their recital early this morning.
Light was barely a thought when I opened my eyes
to their performance.
The wind moved like a body with clumsy knees.
It bumped shrubs and the silk plants on my patio
as it moved up, down the sidewalk.
I didn’t know the wind’s destination,
but a medley of sounds trailed it—
dogs barking, doors slamming,
water rushing like Niagara
from the shower upstairs.
I gradually tuned out their recitations
as my mind straddled those moments
between wake and sleep.
I curled my body into the womb of a warm blanket,
drifted back to the place of dreams.
11.
photo from Image Gallery /Douglass Wardwell
I n
t h e
e x a c t
center of
Cheop's pyramid
lie that pharaoh's
burial chambers, two
rooms: one to preserve
his treasures and exploits
in hieroglyphs and one for the
embalmed shell, that had carried
around his super EGO in a mortal life.
Treasure and mummy were stolen long ago,
so what remains is an enormous structure of stones,
mute testimony not to one long-dead pharaoh, rather to
a thousand thousand little lives, who labored to construct
this monument which could not lock in death, nor lock out life.
MESSAGES FROM A PYRAMID AT GIZA
—by Marilyn Downing
COLOR CONTRAST
—by Maureen Applegate
On the north side of town’s twin railroad tracks
prisms explode letting bright colors splatter
a hot yellow grocery abuts orange delis
flags are new constructs in white, red, and blue
skin tones are dark black, or white, tan, or brown
variegated people grace neighborhood porches
music is colorful, booming, reflecting off
car windows, ear drums, in scarlet crescendos
silver steel drumming from wide open doorways
all facets of life in prismatic proportions.
Then…
night lets the sleepers breathe cool, blue breezes
both sides of the town now bathed in one shadow
and darkness draws unity back from the colors
moonlight and street light dulling the contrast.
The color of night is the slumbering children
soft snores of dreamers or lovers entwined
both sides of the tracks reach harmonious union
that prisms will shatter when dawn re-awakens.
12.
13.
POETIC PACIFIER DURING CELEBRATIONS
—Carol Dee Meeks
At the conclusion of Ma and Pa Kettle
under heaven’s rug, celebrations
in pyrotechnic displays, mushroomed
into sparkles of brilliant glitter,
fireballs invaded the sky. They burst, they thrust,
like coral reefs in the sea and as green
spokes stretching from a wagon wheel’s
hub, at America’s July party. My dad held me
during those festivities. I remember blue fireworks
descended like bombs but beauty overshadowed
their combustion and pandemonium.
Between each flare, he soothed my fears
in utterances of love, rhyme and verse.
Big-gun firepower, like gems spewed
of topaz prismatic crystals and a spider-web
of white diamonds perfectly refined.
Their elegance danced across the vault
of heaven like superior Shakespearean stanzas
penned by the Master. I recall those galas, and my
dad’s ability to calm my storms in sonnet lines.
14.
CAPTURED
—by Emiliano Martin
When the wind
surrounds the trees
the leaves need a place to go.
Such it happens with my thoughts
whenever I feel I am captured
by the vibrations of love,
and sometimes I am so helpless
trying to figure out new words
I let things get out of control.
15.
OWNER
—by Meg Eden Kuyatt
A man on television with a room
full of shoes is not given a name,
only the title “Shoe Owner.”
My father says, I aspire to be a shoe
owner, only after becoming a food eater
and an air breather.
My mother says, He has no wife.
But what is my title? What
is my legacy?
Am I a poem scriber or just
a dish washer—my father is a
job worker, my mother an ex-doll
buyer, but what will they say
when they write my biography?
Will they write a biography?
16.
STIGMATA
—by Imogene Hunt
Decrying their angry swiftly tilting planet, mortals pray
for intervention, while above earth’s fire, immortals weep.
God, infinitely saddened, visited earth, vacating Heaven for us,
holding out hope for our powerful fallen star, and to silence
uncomprehended narrow thought that shadows day into night.
Can’t Mankind keep deeper darkness from entering dawn’s light?
Eden is now lost...parent tree and vacant garden still mourn.
Other echoes inhabit God’s Grief, recalling those evicted,
their hushed footfall now forgotten over time past, time spent
on war. God quietly ponders...battle scars become stigmata.
17.
BLUE REFUGE
ON A HOT SUMMER NIGHT
—by Ann Gasser
Like whipped cream satin
or clear teardrops flowing;
with strobe light pulsing,
black rainbows glowing;
warm breath steamed
over tongue-vibrated reed;
strings of steel plucked
till their blue notes bleed;
syncopated thump of
brush on drum;
melody smooth
as buttered rum;
a mellow voice
scatting Jello tones,
fantastic fingers--
piano bones;
melodic benediction
soothing the soul;
golden notes healing,
making me whole;
no inhibitions,
no razz-a-ma-tazz;
just a cool celebration
of mind-numbing jazz.
OnOnOnOnthethethethe
Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side
July2014201420142014
Nancy Henry Kline 23
Richard Lake 19
Marie-Louise Meyers 25
18.
Marilyn Downing 22
Lynn Fetterolf 20
Ann Gasser 21
Mark Hudson 24
WATER HAZARDS
—by Richard Lake
Bad-luck boating, barely floating,
we do not have a paddle or an oar.
We can't affect direction,
crucial imperfection
since strainers dead ahead don't have a door!
19.
20.
RUTABAGA QUIZ
—by Lynn Fetterolf
What do you do with rutabagas?
Do you bet with them like in Las Vegas?
Do you hit them with a bat?
Or anything like that?
Do you put them in your wash?
Are they like a Macintosh?
Apple, that is. Well, this is a quiz.
What do you do with rutabagas?
Are they like bacon you eat with eggs?
A thing you cook and eat?
Yes! Though rutabagas aren’t sweet.
They’re definitely good to eat.
Best when you put them in a stew.
Taste a bit like turnips. Now you too
Know what to do with a rutabaga.
Hooray for you!
21.
SUMMER FASHION THOUGHTS
—by Ann Gasser
I won't say I'd like to go back
to petticoats and slips,
or corsets pinching waists to push
the flesh down to one's hips.
Nor do I yearn for summer clothes
that cover neck to toe,
but fashion's gone way way beyond
those days of long ago
The pendulum has swung so wide--
we wonder what comes next.
From prudery to nudity
is what the mind suspects.
And if that state--complete undress,
becomes the new decree
I won't be fashionable, and hope
mature minds follow me.
I see some who have shapely buns
and “WOW" extremities,
wear pants or skirts voluminous
that hide both thighs and knees,
while others who own derrieres
whose weight could sink a ship,
are brazen in their summer gear--
whose length is barely hip.
We really need a "BOTTOM" line,
for King and Queen-Plus size
whose wobbling flesh is an ASSAULT
on unsuspecting eyes.
22.
COUNTING DOWN ACROSTICALLY
—by Marilyn Downing
Consider what is wise and good
Around the sumptuous buffet spread
Loaded with much yummy food ….
Oh, how I try to use my head ….
Restricting portions, choosing right ….
Ignoring sauces, starch, and cream….
Each dish still tempts my appetite.
Slimming down? Nightmare or dream!
I SEE THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY
(a villanelle)
—by Nancy Henry Kline
Stop flipping with that dental floss.
I want to scream and rant and rave!
Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.
This stuff is gross, obscures the gloss.
I cannot see to comb or shave.
Stop flipping with that dental floss.
Three times a day you must emboss
that glass with gook. You are a knave!
Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.
I hate this mess. It makes me cross.
YOU clean it. I am not your slave!
Stop flipping with that dental floss.
I wonder why—I'm at a loss.
This situation's getting grave.
Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.
I wish that I could make you toss
that waxed thread in some deep dark cave.
Stop flipping with that dental floss.
Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.
23.
THE PENNESSENCE RENNAISENCE
—by Mark Hudson
A good editor cannot be stopped,
even when hailstones are dropped.
To Pennesence, I was a contributor,
until the death of Ann's computer.
I had submitted a poem the first day of school,
I waited patiently, with the patience of a mule.
Ann had thought the poem showed potential,
but her computer needed insurance,maybe Prudential?
Her computer died within the blink of an eye,
I patiently waited, but there was no reply.
I recalled some great odes published in this format,
I began to wonder what ever happened to that.
Finally, I could wait no longer to ask,
why Ann had not published and been up for the task.
Her reply came to me when I had a bad day,
and in comparison, it made me feel okay.
So, let's not let life's problems prevent us from writing,
Turn your tragedies into poetry exciting!
24.
25.
GRANDPA'S CHEATING
--by Marie-Louise Meyers
He is winking his eye,
his expression is sly,
as he walks to the box with a shuffle.
He thinks no one can see,
he does not notice me
as he pulls out a chocolate truffle.
Gramp's a true "handy-man,"
the pill box holds more than
most boxes--it's my own creation.
And he's hoarded some sweets,
some favorite treats
to give him a cause for elation.
I just hope he's O.K.
no one takes away
my handmade pillbox gift.
His sweet secret will be
just between Gramp and me--
spirits all need a now-and-then lift.