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Poetry Archives 2008

Archived works are in no particular
order. If you are looking for a particular author or work then do this: On your
computer, go to edit on your toolbar. Then go to "find on this page". Input
what you are looking for and your computer will do the rest!

Three from Joseph Spence Sr.

Greater Art Thou!

Photo by Nate Bernard

Heart broken torn apart like scrambl’d eggs;

As the weak link snapp’d momentum slow’d—stopp’d

Love wherest art thou? Torment’d now begs,

This cup of scourge, drink or not—spill’d—now mopp’d.

Et tu Brute? Whisper’d from Caesar’s lips;

Yet Romeo and Juliet once lov’d,

Like Macbeth’s witches brew—don’t drink nor sip:

Fate or faith shatter’d, vulture pick’d bones—cross’d.

Heart pleadeth upward—greater is thy love,

Open Heaven’s gate with thy purest light;

Hearest thou not the meek? Awaiting thy dove!

Remove these shadows of darkness and strife:

Greater art thou in Heaven than on Earth,

Creator of creation giveth now birth!

"Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."

--Robert-Frost

Tomorrow the
Sun Shineth!

A frat asked, will you
ever forgive her?

Come! The house has a
toast for you tonight!

Now forget—this is not
the way you were!

Let’s walk frat,
tomorrow will be alright!

Let her go and have her
own way each day;

Cleanse the taint with
an aromatic bath

Let done be done
forever—God molds the clay;

Come! Stand with us—let
Him show you the path.

When entreated with her
loveliest lies

Spread your wings to
the sky with open ears;

Brittle vows and
fragile oaths always die

Shallow days, months,
years they too disappear.

Upon the rising
sun—look to the East,

A royal feast, my
frat—that’s the least!

"...when power
corrupts, poetry cleanses."

--John F.
Kennedy

Merciful
Majesty—Make Misery End!

Medieval misery
crushing citizens;

Shackled: grueling,
clanging, negativity

Middle Passage past,
plaguing, yet frightens;

Intense insanity—gangs
captivity!

Draining dreams and
desires from hearts—slashed:

Ancestral destruction,
devastating;

Bones protruding from
ribs, weakening—lashed;

Sight yet sickening,
distraught, disgusting!

Will God speak in
molding humanity?

Will His divine grace
cleanse such evil souls?

Self posed dictators,
fool’s insanity

Greed in
governing—crushing others’ souls!

Where art thou, Master
of the Universe?

Hold not thy hands
while the poor suffer worst!

“…when power narrows
the areas of man’s

concern, poetry reminds
him of the richness

and diversity of his
existence…”

—John F.
Kennedy

Joseph Spence Sr.

Two From Changming
Yuan

How Often

(after Galway
Kinnell)

How often

Have you lain in thick darkness

Imagining a white crow

That you wish to see

Or rather to be

Not until the other morning

Did you hear a wild bird crying

Like a persistent knock

At the door of your heart

Beyond your curtained window

Beyond your curtained dream

It was a crow hammering all its white
yaws

Right into your yellowish soul

Resonating with your entire
being

Spirit’s Secrets

1.
In every temple of meaning
resides a spirit that tries to become a god through
concentration.

2.
All wonders of the human world
are decorated hotels for the traveling Soul.

3.
Many already stone dead are still
very much alive, while many still very much alive are already stone
dead.

4.
Spirit is immortal according to
the law of conservation of matter.

5.
It is a strong mind that can
gather all the gossamers of selfhood and turn them into a single whole known as
Soul.

6.
If we put all the shadows of
Spirit together, we would have a different kind of
night.

7.
Dream is the only realm where
humans, spirits, ghosts and gods can meet face to
face.

8.
Every body is a spirit
cage.

9.
Does a pine tree or wild cat also
have a spirit?

10.
As an energy form of
consciousness, Spirit never dies in the universe although it may go through
numerous processes of change. If it is strong enough, it can not only outlive
the body, but also transform itself into Soul. Depending on whether it has a
categorical superpower, Soul can become a ghost or a god. That is to say, every
human being can become a supernatural being.

[First appeared in
Vallum]

The  Moon

by

Danny P.
Barbare

Like a lamp in the night,
Oh!

How it shines, enlightening
the page

Rewriting it each time--with

A halo in the sky like the

Light of Christ--rays of white

Stretched
out like arms.

Three by Ray
Succre

Visages in
Avatars

Careful!  Hold on!  These listless tokens
talk.

Listen!  Wait!  There are so many,
look.

Nudges of costume, a bit of
anonymity,

the dank symbols or lightly
frivolous—

images these people picked
like small wits

from the
wire.

Include me.  All clicks lead
away,

but look, hold on, wait, let
me seem

to exist at the fringe, in
there,

not too far, not with
you,

but a contact of some
appearance.

Here is my
token.

Careful!  Just enough
now.

Brightly
Cold

Have your cup and drink in
deep,

filling every space with cool
joys,

a phantasm approach to
tension,

the slow snack of relaxed
pleasure.

Greater sadnesses
come

to refine the mode
summoned,

a
dismay,

a heavier
disappointment.

But have your
cup

and drink
upended;

holiday,

cheers and
hellos,

holiday on and off
impending,

month after month,

and a long, deep
cup.

Motoring Toward
Holiday

Photo by: Adam
Jakubiak

Long drive— my grandmother at
the wheel,

oh, a citizen, civilian on the
branch of a town.

She confuses illegality with
wrongfulness,

is a fleeceable
home-and-gardener, but kind.

She talks, I nod, some things
about Olive
Gardens,

Dockers, Ross stores, it all
hits down as enfatuation

with price and brand and
patronage, I suppose

important things to grans— I
don’t really listen.

As we collect all of these
Oregon and Washington

bridges beneath our tires, the
steel bridges broken

out in rivets, she bloviates
jingly as an infomercial.

“Look, there’s a Costco!”  as we pass the sheared,

wandering shadow of Saint
Helen’s Mountain.

One of these folks is
Ray Succre!

Three From Joanne
Uppendahl

On the Way
Home

I want

to come back to land

after becoming sea

its breath my being

fade and shine, rise and fall

ache and be soothed until ocean

quiets, time finishes

enter the deep woods

find a land of mossed, fallen trees

my flesh earthed in their green

softness beneath my feet

walk among them

speak their prayers

emerald feathered vespers

O Dance Unmoving

I stare at your grand head eyes sleep-puffed
slits

from the moving tram through a wildlife
park,

and your thick rust fur, as dark-horned shade juts

off your round skull, cape falling to your
knees.

Bison bull, lone, prone brown beast--

black nose moist against earth's belly

(her full deep field), your cone-shaped
body

and your hooves tucked under

Once you felt the buzz of sun and the ache

of wind’s rough touch and the pressing weight

of clouds’ palms as their downward breath

melded into murmurs of wet, untilled soil.

Once you understood the deep thirst of grass,

and felt the sharp taps of rocks pelting
paths

woven into your sleep through hills at
night.

This morning you sense only pale chill,

as warmth and light have slipped away.

You crave the succulent summer grass,

not thinned-skinned, but bidding good-bye

to sun's indifferent winter light.

The Way She Wakens

Her darkened poplars

sense day climbing her sides;

horizon yields its shimmer

as they wake.

Scrub pine and fir

shamble music through searching roots,

a thousand hills distant--

they intone in cloistered woods.

Subtle is the way of her waking

forests and wetlands;

grasses linger, unhurried along her thighs--

ivy creeps beside her cheeks.

Light folds among the drowsing geese

across the wash of marshes

and deep ponds.

Jade glimmers in the shifting

trees, as branches lift to stir

arousing birds to sing

early psalms.

A maple leaf summons eyes to feast

on floors of ochre fallen leaves

she gathers to her breasts

with soft cries.

Crumbling redwood succumbs

for lives of cedar yet to come,

for ferns’ unfurling.

She embraces autumn mornings,

when slowed growth clears hours of thriving time.

Her brood peeks from within; her quiet dark,

a warmer womb.

Three From  L. R.
Humphries

Graphic by Dez
Pain

Mayfly

One slithered gleam of vivid
light,
illuminates perpetual dark,
casting shadow into brightness,
new
contours shaped by seeps of gold.
The rhythmic thrust of new born
life,
disturbs the cold, intemperate planes,
existence nurtured out of
blackness,
the gift of being in youthful bloom.

Then embrace it, like
the mayfly,
exult the brood of father time,
soar in jointure with the
daybreak,
and share in flight through boundless skies;
that reach out into
a lifetime,
from mother's cradle to the earth,
a journey deep through
gilded landscape,
and slow creeping wrath of age.

A trickled glimpse
of pale shine,
soon tumbles to tenebrous lands,
as inverse colours meld in
fusion,
the twilight born of remnant day.
And beneath, the placid
ocean
cups the seeping life of summer light,
she hews a stillness out of
motion,
a nurtured calm from raging being.

64

With peace of mind, our
dearest friend,
now passed from life, to heaven send;
whilst mournful
children sound their sorrow,
bereft of thought for their tomorrow.
And
still like time, amongst the leaves,
their love laid down in floral
reeves,
by sight of eyes that search the ground,
in silent prayer that
makes no sound.

Just 64, what age to pass?
no gentle soul was made to
last;
instead they work, and cast the day,
and give their lives to those
that pay.
They never see the sun in flight,
nor chase their dreams by
fractured light,
but curse to where the time has flown,
and muse upon how
much we've grown.

For slithered tears gleam in the sun,
whilst hands
reach out and hold as one,
and spoken thoughts, they hold no worth,
as he
is lowered to the earth.
Where God's safe hands must break his fall,
his
cradled arms must keep him warm,
as memories prick, then tease my mind
of
a loved passed before their time.

A Gleam of Pale
Moonlight in the Morning Sky

I stirred today,
to
creeping slants of morn light
from the gilded day; their pale
gleam, slow
stole in through
the glistening pane made moist with dew.
I found my
way,
toward the pallid, summer's
shine that caught my eye; a trick
of
light, emergent from the
cloudless skies and carmine hue.

What met my
sight,
not sunlit rays, but shards of
splintered moonlight from
the
silver sun; their lingered cool
enduring through ascending day.
I
thought of you,
so out of place, a glimpse of
guileless beauty in the
deep
blue bay; a temperate glow
resplendent from exalted heights.

A
wish to soar,
towards the fulsome herald
and perpetual night; a
hushed
mien, the weightless landscape
of the skyline and its gentle
guise.
But learn my place,
in awe beneath the dayspring
and its
breaking glow; a splendour
fused, faint remnants scarred into
a memory and
its silent grief.

Three Offerings From Larry Anderson

Intention

Lord, I hear your call in gentle breezes,

In an infant's cry, in healing words of love

I see your magnificance in towering snow capped
peaks,

In galaxies of light and caring faces

I know your feel through gentle hearts

Compassionate souls, creative minds

Lord, teach my heart and soul

To seek sustenance in forgiveness, peace and love

Open my mind to the voices of limitlessness

And calm the egoistic gusts that push me off course

Point me in the directions for which I was created

That I may sail seamlessly into spirit and intention

HEALING

They embraced me with warmth and caring-

And understood my sordid, destructive
life.

They loved me - I could not.

They listened to my story - carefully - my soul

Mirrored my life : stealthy gatherers of
scraps.

Well honed for lies, they put a hose to

This ferile man and washed him. My beady red eyes

Cleared -I saw myself trapped by my own
deceptions

In their earlier lives, they had

Sordid secrets - we were kin

I trusted them - and found a home.

They calmed my rage-- with soft

Touches of humor and quiet humility.

I needed meaning, I needed to love,

I needed dignity, I needed to return

To the family of man. I felt their
energy;

Through a haze, gleaned right
directions.

I now traveled uneasily. Like

A child, I began losing my lost,

Discovering my world. Another

Coin of creation's gold.

When my life became validated -

They said look - a squirrel,

A feather, a flower. Hesitently,

I put my hand through the black

Box of life and held gently.

My life had arrived - for this day;

I'll give it back -

Addicted, recovered

Fixer Upper

The conductor readied himself-

Hammers, saws, chisels, screwdrivers,
nails,

Were preening themselves -

For a new orchestration.

The baton was dropped - music

Of reconstruction began. An old house,

Fallen into disrepair, resonating

To the songs of renewal.

The house - a dirge of cracked paint,
boarded

Up windows and the musty smell of dry
rot.

Rusted gutters shed tears of remorse and moss

Tries to hide neglect.

Someone's pride had weathered away.

Or maybe someone's spirit beaten

By the little battles of each day. It's hard
to

Care when you don't.

A sorrowful past will be put aside,

Past errors now swept sawdust.

Carpenter's tools will keep singing -

And dance through rhythms of light.

Poetry
by Carol
Bevan-Bogart

Alms

Everyday, two angels hang out on the
corner.

Their wings are a dead
give-away.

Otherwise, they look like ordinary
panhandlers,

long-haired boys who pluck guitars
hoping

for a hand-out to buy a nickel bag of
dreamy numbness.

If you pass the corner quickly to avoid
their eyes,

you’ll miss the tenderness fanned toward
you

by the slight beat of wings.  You might hear
it

and think an awning has come
undone,

flapping in the hot air.

Look closely at the angels’
hands.

Are they asking for or giving
alms?

Either way, how are they
different

from anyone with palms
outstretched

blessing even those who turn away?

©Carol Bevan-Bogart,
Author

©Eduardo Schäfer,
Photographer

Poetry

by

Nancy M. Welsh,
ssj

Mirror of God

Luminous jewel of the
universe,
ribbons of
rivulets,
wave upon wave,
wrapped 'round its
sphere;

"Gaia," glorious earth,
pulsating
with life's whimsical
web,
mirroring endless
Beauty
in wondrous seasons of
grace;

sing out your praise, my
soul,
utterly amazed!

Prayer of
Presence

At dawn, I linger for a
moment,
wearing my fragile
garment
of brief
ecstacy...
in the stillness, I listen
intently
to
no-thing-ness...
in the quiet Presence of
All,
I am free...
for a delicious instant, I
know
I AM the love I
seek..
one with All,
love is who I
am...
Love is
me.

Encounter

Was it on the shore of another
lake
that I first met the Holy One, the
Christ,
or was it in a field of
flowers,
moving gently in the morning
breeze?
Or was it, perhaps, under a cypress
tree,
where He
stood,"majestic,
yet infinitely
humble?

I remember; He looked right at me
with
warm eyes, that crinkled at the
corners
and a half-smile on His
lips...
a small flame lit itself in my
soul,
shimmered and
spread
through my
being.

He walked over to me, raised my
face
to His and simply said, "I know
you,"
..."and I, You," I murmured in
return.
I found my home-coming in His
look,
He, the source of my truest
self.
Would that we could have stood
there
no less than
forever.

© Nancy M. Welsh,
ssj

Photograph © Jennifer
Tramel

Erik Estabrook's
Poetry

All Things
Holy

Believe me Lord, I've seen the
storm

but also seen your
glory

believe me I'd rather die than
turn to you a blind eye

you are the great
redeemer

you renew all
things

and in your kingdom
reign

my own tormented
vision

is one blessed as it
is

but not enough of a testament to
you

we need you and all things
holy

my cries ended when you entered
my life

my strength began when I found
Christ

it is a love that will never
fail

my warbound chains you set the
bail

we need to go forth with
hallelujah

give praise in every
way,

express to our master and
creator

that we were beautifully and
faithfully made.

Blessed
Fountain

This is where I drink the
life

this is my
breath

this is my heart beating faster
now

I drink from this blessed
fountain

your love and mercy surrounds
me

I need your
love

I need your
voice

if you believe you can make the
choice

I will be the rock on
high

strong all my life for
you

I will be your shelter in the
rain,

no joy or pain can express my
greatfulness.

His Way or My Way

When I see the cross, I know
that Jesus lives today

my way is good enough to squeeze
on through

to make it into heaven's doors
okay

but there's a thing called trust
between God and I

and thats why I follow his
way,

my way is good enough for you
and me

but ask me how I should
live?

I live with thought to Jesus and
deal with pain through him

I live upon this world staying
true to God

and echoing out he
lives

its not about what's right or
good enough,

its do you follow his way
today?

©Erik Estabrook

"Stained Glass" ©Bill
Davenport

Birdie
Houston's Poetry

Days of
Old

Do you know or have you been
told,
What happened to the days of old?
When hair was done in
promenade,
10 cents a glass for lemonade,
Family
picnics filled the parks,
Catching lightning bugs by
dark,
Screens unlatched or left unhooked,
Fathers
worked,
Mothers cooked,
Windows left up without
fright,
Children said their prayers each night,
Neighbors you
seemed to know their names,
If sick in bed, flowers they'd
bring,
Boys and girls grew up where,
Moms and Dads were always
there!

Blue

Blue skies,
blue water
Blend with my satin blue dress,
Blue dress goes nicely
With
my blue mood,
Blue mood makes me so blue,
Blue enough to shut my
eyes,
Blue enough to hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Blue hat tilted to the
side
Blue mascara runs,
Into my frilly blue hanky,
Brimmed with blue
laces,
I grab it tight with my blue,
Silky gloves,
Blue purse, blue
beads,
I will lay down by the seashore,
Blue flower you will find,
In
my dancing wavy hair,
Blue you…
Blue!

©Birdie Houston, Author

"Blue" ©Dez Pain,
Photographer

Poetry and Art

by

Sally Arango Renata

Dancing Upside Down

It isn’t a dream,
the sense that I
am blind
or that the only way to get
from here to the river
is to
dance upside down.

Fish brush my ankles as the soil
under my feet
churns,
plastic then mud it lifts and falls,
I lift my arm to keep
balance,
to show good intent.

My toes touch petals of velvet
and
I know I will fall into water.
There is peace in this, knowing
I will
sink or move with the current,

that the current knows where it’s
going.

Faith

The best time
is prayers before bed
when
Mom
kneels
with her alone.

Eyes closed,
she cups small
hands
reaching
to netherland
for a nod
of grace

Jesus is
asleep she says....
Will he wake up?
Mom smiles.
Her
prayers are answered.

©Artist
and Author Sally Arango Renata

Ode to a Terse Cactus
Flower

by

Karen Annie Powell

(Photograph created by author)

Once upon my
journey

Down dusty white-sand
trail

I came upon a cactus
patch

To enter- I
prevailed

A proud soft yellow
flower

Shy and near the
ground

Beckoned boasting buttery
hues

Upon it I stooped
down

Its petals sheer
translucent

Overlapped as if to say

“Do overlook my
prickliness

And cast your glance my way.

Although my presentation

Is lacking velvet
touch

This sun bathed bloom to you I lift-

Now
thank you very
much.”

Point of Turning
Pin

by

Keith Chandler Powell

The universe and all within
Are to our God as the point of a
turning pin
Yet on that point, that tiny dot
There’s not a soul that God
knows not
And to us all God speaks clear

His
children born (again) with listening ears
All others stand on the pin and
shout
God’s voice they’re trying to drown out
It’s not that they cannot
hear within
It’s just their love for the turning pin
Is greater than the
voice within

Magnificent God over all
I do, without ears hear His
call
When I try to describe God I fail
But of trying I will never
bail
For what I have come to know inside
I cannot hide

Awesome God
within and without
The living God who leaves no doubt
For in God we find
our breath
and height and width and light and depth
Above all is God -
creation knows
And all creation groans to show
Of how God loves us
so

It takes not - God within to find
Good things bestowed - and all
the time
It rains and shines despite ones bent
But when trouble comes our
way
The child of God sees through and prays
Not as the fool - who pleads
the trouble go around
But as one who passes through the fire
That’s the
difference in child and hire

For even though God created all
With that
we managed first the fall
And all that we have done thus far
It’s safe to
say - that we have waned
From God’s intent, we’re Eden’s shame
By now we
should be light of day
But still to other gods we pray

Gods love is
far beyond our words
Gods way covers the undeserved
And then on top of
that Gods grace
Why would any turn their face?
But I have found that many
will
What ere the reason - they turn still

Hardened will and hardened
heart
Living on their inward part
Will cause a man to live a lie
Time
to confess - he will deny

The child of faith can’t wait to see
Rewards
for all eternity
Not for anything they’ve done
"Just" for trusting in His
Son
If you are not convinced at all
That you are covered from the
fall
And Jesus is the only name
Then you will add to Eden’s
shame

I’m not trying to twist your arm
A few words of verse can do no
harm
But if I plant one seed that grows
Into a tree the Maker
knows
Then of the many I offend
I’ll take the criticizers end
To stand
before the God of all
One soul averted from the fall

As days pass by-
less time to tell
Of heaven's light and satan's hell
When all abruptly
comes to end
I’m hoping that of those I’ve met
Who haven’t made their mind
up yet
Will gladly choose to trade their sin
Than holding fast- the point
of turning pin

Somewhere Near
Evesham

by

Karen
Kelsay

December swept the
cemetery lawn;

The pealing church
bells bridged the waterway.

On ancient tombstones, near
the abbey wall,

Each epitaph was faint and
worn away.

But then that special one, in
front of me,

Had blossoms reaching upward
from the ground,

All yellow, bright as spring.
And when I read

The words engraved, a sleeping
voice I found--

It softly echoed out in hope
these words:

"Although my body is corrupt,
I shall

Once more be whole. " And all the way I
thought

Of her, while wandering the long
canal.

(previously
printed in "collected poems" by Karen Kelsay)

Inner Man

by

Judy
Crayton

What wonder
this

This something draped in
flesh

This ageless essence morphing time
by time

Changing shades of greed and love
swirl with eager heart

Splashing tears of joy and sorrow
rush to add their part

Never changes this ever changing
Zoe

For soft it rolls neath slumbered
eyes to alter even then

And starts afresh when flesh arise
to finish what has been

Kneading the heart of unseen
man

Seeking to make him all it
can

Color and fragrance changing shape
behind the outer wall

Longing the morrow though upward
climb oft precedes a fall

Marching on together their clock's
tick not the same

Both may bask in waters tame or
guest abound and walls decay

But Inner Man's encompassed all
paths these walls assayed

When shell has
cracked

This something birthed, undraped
by human flesh

Alone ascends transcendent to
ageless reign

Two From Cheri
Byard

How Does God
Choose Which Mother We Will Have?

I think it is in
her fingernails.

When I was young
I use to sit in church gently and steadily

running my index finger up and
down my motherʼs

soft, smooth,
perfect fingernails,

attached to the most beautiful
woman Iʼd ever seen,

looking
oh-so-much like a Jackie O but much more
special.

Although surely
she was trying to listen or pray,

she allowed me
to continue this ritual no matter how long I
desired.

Maybe it was how
I identified her as mine,

a fingerprint,
of sorts.

The nails were
so much her.

They placated an
insecure child,

brought peace to
a leaping mind,

begot balance to
a searching soul,

answered never
ending questions,

and cleansed
obscure childhood guilt.

I was home with
those tips, so silky and pristine,

like fine
old-fashioned linen, well-worn yet comfortably clean and
fresh.

Sometimes I wish
I could go back to that place of beauty and
rest.

I would snuggle
up to her and ask her if she would lend me her
hand.

I would cast off
my cares and cuddle up to her nails,

my sanctuary of ages, returned to
her fold once more.

HONOR

A forgotten
attribute

disregarded by
masses.

No longer admired for its
integrity.

Imparted to me by a judicious
man

(I pray he recognizes who he
is)

to pay tribute for that which is
endowed to oneʼs self

and exhibit supreme appreciation
for a phenomenal gift.

Once recognized, the
heavenʼs open,

celestial light shines
through,

angelic assertations are
heard.

This once-empty
woman

is now forever in
debt

to the supremacy that guides
her

through this sanctified
path.

A route which could have easily
been discarded,

paid no heed in the
least.

Wakefulness is upon
me.

Forevermore there will be no
turning back.

This energy called life is a
miracle,

a crossing this mere mortal never
envisioned.

A remarkable, delightful
passage

in which daydreams
pale.

An abundant endowment of
unspeakable grace

which humbles the
soul

and stills the
mind.

Praisepoem

by

Carla Martin-Wood

Praise to You by many names
called,
by none defined,
Praise to You who will not be contained,
You
of the limitless where
and the boundless here,
For You have filled my
blood with words this day,
and play your happy songs upon my bones like a
flute.
Glory be to You for the exuberance of life,
for this dance that
does not cease.
Let me see You in all things created.

Glory to You for
the gaudiness of flowers,
for outrageous roses never told
that pink and
coral and scarlet are not properly worn together,
for flamevine in passionate
abundance
dancing in the blue and golden morning,
Glory to You for this
ignorance of flowers,
for they have not been informed
that beauty commands
a price,
but display their splendor
to the poorest among us who walk the
field with open eyes.

Glory to You for the wonder of night sky,
for
the glittering extravagance of so many stars.
Glory to You for the miracle of
morning,
shattering darkness into fragments that scatter
butterflies in
glad profusion across the blossoming dawn sky.

Glory to You for this
cacophony of birdsong,
For melodies of skylark and disharmonies of
crow,
For plagiarizing mockingbird
and ineffable whisper of hummingbird
wings.
Glory to You for all feathered flight
and also for the common
caterpillar, who waking
from long sleep finds wings bejeweled
like a gift
from morning:
What excess of joy bears him up,
with blossoms as his only
fit companions.

Praise to You for marshland that stretches in oceanic
waves
of brown and golden reeds against the sky,
How filled with Life is
the tiniest drop of its water.
Glory to You for the ruby-throated
lizard
and the darkness of swamp that sings with
toad and serpent and cry
of heron,
with vulture and with snowy ibis,
each with a place and a
beauty
that You have ordained.

Glory to You for brown and russet, for
gray and indigo,
for the thousand-colored shadows
of this deepstill
meditation of reed and bog,
for the treasure of reflection:
Where water
stands, I find pieces of sky.

Glory to You for saltwater, fresh
water,
amniotic waters of the womb of Life,
For our blood that contains
the same chemistry,
documenting our heritage, our source, our family.

Glory to You for the shattering of birth,
Glory to You for the wisdom of
the pain of giving life,
for it reminds us that we enter this
consciousness
both heirs and indebted.

Glory to You for the
magnificence of stone,
for its strong and silent singing, as it teaches
us
the virtue of simply being.
Glory to You for the verdant grandeur of
forest,
for the bountiful home of deer and dove,
of rabbit and fox,
for
whom You provide unquestioned.

I sit upon the earth and feel Your pulse
beneath me.
I sit in the limbs of trees and know I rest in Your arms like a
sleepy child.
I look to the infinite reaches of space, and You are there,
laughing down at me!
I look through a microscope into a molecule of matter,
and behold:
You are there, laughing up at me!

Glory to You for all
limitless things:
for sand, for stars, for the subatomic world,
For
through them, we see You most truly;
In them, we see You most clearly.
Oh,
Inexhaustible:
You who have no limitations,
You who scoff at
boundaries,
Oh, Everlasting:
You who are,
You who have been,
You who
shall be ever,
Oh, Unutterable:
Your creations in all their wonder
are
but pale shadows of Your Most Holy Self
How beyond imagination,
the
infinite beauty of Your Face.

Who Are

You,
God?

by

Margot Brown

Who are You, God, that I should feel so small;

when what I do transmutes to
nothingness?

And What are You, that I should lie
awake

to
ponder possibilities ‘til I regress

into a sleep which fails to end my
quest.

Who are You, God, that I am so much
less?

Who are You, God, that I should feel
remorse

when I forget You time and time on end

and What are You, that though I fail Your
name

when others do, I’m quick to your defense,

as
if You need a soldier here on earth.

Who are You that my loyalties I lend?

Who are You, God, that I should feel so
safe

when I’ve no friends to count nor friends to
name

and What are You, that if You are a god

I’ve often thought that You have felt the
same

when people like myself despair of you.

Who are You God, that we should feel so
lame?

My
God!  Oh, God!  Why do I cry to
You

when I tell people I command my fate?

My
God!  Oh, God!  Why do I turn to
you

and think You’ll hear me though I wake so
late

from human sleep both conscious and not
so.

Who are You, God?  Why can’t I let You
go?

Three From James Keane

My
Hero

While you were busily

absorbed in dirt and spade work,

I
was the clean one, gardener

of
the barely begun, who, hapless

eyed your radiant smile,

grown expectant, grow

sad, and sorrow churn whatever

warmth soothed your heart

to
dread. Too warm to be numbed

dead. Your tears would blossom

when I least expected them, and anger

threw me every time they did. So when a
child

only of God

came true, plucked

by
you, virgin mother,

from a squalid death at the end

of
squalor, my resolve to be worthy of

the hero in you grew. And so, thank
you

for the dirt and spade work. For sadly

churning bitter weeds

to
flowers. For exulting

in
words that sprouted oh so quickly

when I asked you, somewhat rudely,

“Well . . . how is he?

“He’s ours.”

[Previously published in the anthology Flowers of New
Millennium]

Hey, Hummingbird

Hey, hummingbird

hovering, peering in

just outside my window

to
life,

just be there when I need you,

where my sad son

can see you. Be tickled

your soundless whirring makes

him smile a little to fly

a
little, forget to cry

alone, a little.

May he always know

he
is good, and my prayer
through his window to life

be
heard, and never misunderstood:

Keep him lovingly in your sights
all
of my days, and all of his nights.

[Originally published in Autumn
Leaves]

Buoys

When I was very young and smaller,
my father stood taller
in
the ocean water. Pulling me forward

relentlessly, my puppy legs flailing
needlessly, my blind cheek
pushing back
salty flicking, when the
licking

we were taking abruptly
halted in the wake and swell
of his
simple command, "OK . . .

now stand.". . . Stand? "Just . .
. stand." Timid
and guppy small, my feet

slithered down an invisible
slippery wall to
dryness?

Dryness . . . a cooling cushion

of
dryness. Nothing else waiting

beneath the flicking, licking
and
slapping.

Later,
buoys anchored together, we bobbed

and stood, agreeing in solemn tones,
"The weather this week for
the most part
has been very good," until quietly
probed a gentle
wave
to implore, to suggest
a silent interlude, perhaps,

though swelling
to prod my father, grinning, a bit
closer to
the shore, as if it, not he,

knew best.

When,
beyond the pulling

and imploring
of all human caring, he grinned
no longer, ever
so

smaller, and with the feeble wave

and swell of a final
command,

he rose again only to smile
somehow, and dip

to his final shore, I
understood

Buoys – 2 (new stanza)

in the end, without

a simple command
there was nothing more left
to him
to
understand. Yet,

even as
my memories of him

grow ever so young

and smaller,

and even though
I stand alone, I know

I will never stand
taller.

[Originally published in Autumn
Leaves]

garden
grammar

by

Nirveen Hope

some days are
just for editing
turning nouns and verbs like
garden compost mulch
dug under

a comma here a colon there
pluck phrases
re-arrange paragraphs
sweep away dead leaf redundance

a
day for weeding rows of idiom
for space and light of understanding

quicken mundane metaphors of life

prune stake leaning
beds of proses
while sprinkler rains on trellised lines
root deep
tendrils of reflection

not the day to harvest chapters
yet
as tender buds grow perfect meaning
my dear dearest or my
darling one

Hold My
Hand

by
Gerry Tancreda

Come with me my child and hold my
hand
I will take you to the promised land

Hold tight and float
high above the world you know

Fear not to be free of the machines
that are now you
Breathe on your own as you were meant to do

Loved ones will remember you with a smile and a pause
For you
touched the lives of many
With your sunny grin and giving heart

Come with me my child and hold my hand
I will take you to the
promised land

Meditation

by

Joe
Lyons

As I lay in bed eyes
opened

The sun creeps under the
blind

Sunlight chases around the
room

Seeking what it may
find

Rolling over, oh so slowly, the sun rests upon my
head

I now have a decision should I get up or stay in
bed

With the suns rays gently warming banishing lethargy
away

My feet reach firmly for the ground ready for another
day

This morning ritual
meditating

Recharging brain cells
calculating

How will I deal with my tasks
today

Am I fit to send them all
away

Until my feet can feel the
ground

My eyes are focusing all
around

Take a moment to quietly
pray

Then smile to chase the blues
away.

Three
from Jonina Kirton

this thin
veil

when I woke this
morning you were gone

in my dreams
last night you were there, the feel of you

as familiar to
me as if it was only yesterday you

last put your
cheek

on my
cheek

this thin veil
of reality altered in sleep

allows access to
those who have gone on

to the next
world, they beckon us

hoping to remind
us they are there

resting in peace
(not to be assumed)

yet many times
we say

they are
in a better place now (as if we know)

many have
visited me from the other side

I can tell you
they have regrets

they do worry
about those left behind

their message is
always the same

even they did
not know

just how much
they loved you

loved life on
this side of the thin veil

interior

there are no
maps for the floating you must do

to get a sense
of the whole of yourself

as complex as
any map you have ever seen

is the inside of your heart

pause

mystery hangs

sweetens the air

inviting -  ever
hopeful

suspended truth

remains untold

time passes

poets listen

pauses - sighs

subtleties surround

create circadian

rhythms in sleep

open worlds within worlds

unwrapping - unraveling

all we think we know

Two From Sandy Hiss

The Saint

Like sleeping beauty she sleeps

peacefully, undaunted by the passage of time,

her body lithe and pale

as a stone statue chiseled and carved

only to be left alone in halls of solitude

where art is to be admired and consumed

through swallowing eyes,

and in the process of being devoured

by love and envy, she emits

an odor of soft roses which

covers the sanctuary

in a shroud of sweet surrender,

beguiling, enticing the witnesses

to look upon her and learn,

to unravel their thorny lives

with kindness and compassion

for those bound by vines,

to be as soft as the rose’s petal

and in doing so, they too

will leave a sweet scent behind

Pockets of Prayers

He likes to walk alone at night.

His favorite spot a corridor

of maples, their thick trunks

resembling honey-brown bricks

of a towering cathedral.

He's never felt closer to God

than when he is there,

spilling sins from his throat

and stuffing his coat pockets

with prayers he hid in the trees'

mouths last Summer.  Stocking up

for a long Winter, warned by the

frigid nip in the air.

April Evening

by

Carl Palmer

Spring ripens summer

sun lingers low moon comes to view

The smell of a yard sprinkler

Cools the balcony air

Higher
Ground

by

Cheryl
Williams

Life is an uphill
climb,

a slow growing
vine,

a salmon swimming
upstream,

a butterfly
emerging;

Why should it be easy for
us,

the chosen
ones,

the ones to whom

so much is
given?

In just a
while,

we will
reach

that place of
longing;

Though the sun is so
distant

and the mountains loom
large,

Our spirits were meant to
soar,

not settle into the
dust

from which we
came.

We were put here for a
purpose;

Our souls have a
destination

so much higher than the
valley.

old rusty gate

by

Lenard N. Eccles

from day to day
my memory
swings
like an
old rusty gate

it squeaks
where did i put
my shoes?
where's my specs?
they were just here a bit ago

i
push the old rusty gate
opening my view
of yesterday and
the days
before

when the gate is open
a child appears
a can  of
oil
inside the gate

Lord, I
Wonder

April 6,
2008

by

Christian Motley

Lord
Sometimes I wonder how cool we would be
If you
just decided one day to come down and just kick it with me
Would we sit at
dinner and laugh
Or would you condemn my humor
Call me the tumor on
society
Depriving your lost souls safe passage to your promised land
I
promise man, woman, or what have you
If I could have you right here next to
me
All I would need is just a minute
--Time for you to hear me out
I
know a lot of people say "lawd, you know my heart"
But I want you to know my
heart!!

Its just so crazy how the start of my existence
Fell in the
mist of steeled roofs and store fronts
--Times were more simple
then
Simple when I would just take what they told me for face value
Now
I'm wondering just how to disagree with the one you placed in front of
me
What they done to me
Took my world and made it prison
When I
envision freedom and liberation in my interpretation
Of the stories I
read
Though I heed even the one's I don't quite believe
Thinking "God, I
know you wouldn't let them deceive"

Not your boi
I'm even named after
you
But the path to you is so rugged
--Not just the terrain of the
journey
But all of these maps with their various directions and
distances
Instances when I want to even deny a pretense
Set to have sent
the brightest spirits I've ever seen
To a cold and lonely hell
I'm in a
cold and lonely well
Baptized in a pool full of water
That's only fit to
keep me living, yet still trapped in this earthy version

I love these
poems, but sometimes these words just don't do the job
Either the words won't
rhyme like I want or I just can't get 'em out right
Robbing me out right
Of the proper transcription that I
need from brain to mouth--Might you
Please put my soul at ease
As I still
stand, yet with a soul displeased
…Cause you know my heart,
right?

Three From John Thomas
Clark

(What John says about the poems which
follow: "They are about Lex, my black lab service dog who has added considerable
uplift to my life. Of the 100+ published poems mentioned in my bio,
twenty-six of those poems are about Lex.")

photo ©Will Harmon

FIFE
AND DRUM IN THE MORNING

To sneak a moonrise past a coyote

is a task best left for Don
Quixote

and, as Coyote’s canine cousin
eyes

the first flush of the morn, it’s no
surprise

he’s up with it. The tinkle of his tags

sounds like an airy fife. As the sun
drags

the covers off the dark side, Lexie’s
drum

beat starts. The bed rocks to the steady
thrum

of his tail against it. If home and
hearth

do not rise with him, he adds rapid
Darth

Vader vocals. A chorus moans, “Lex.
Bed.

Too soon.” So he takes five. But as my
head

hits the pillow and his marching tunes
fade,

he’s back again to head up his
parade.

TONGUE
LASHING

By three quarters past the six o’clock
hour,

watching the news, Lex and I finish
our

breakfasts.
The storm lathers Maine,
maneuvers

back for New
York. Lexie’s sweep tongue
hoovers

his bowl –
a Lab thing – for that last bantam

bit.  He
gathers up by now mere phantom

flecks, so he takes his bowl to the kitchen

at the anchor’s next-hour news pitch. In

returning, his switch tongue still runs
riot,

and loud licks flick the air. A soft
“Quiet,

my friend, I’d like to hear what’s being said,”

and he keeps that swivel tongue in his
head.

I lean down to whisper he remains in good
grace

and he looks up at me and slathers my
face.

JAZZED UP

We were tuning up our vocal
technique

at school. I asked sweet-tempered Lex to
“Speak,”

and he sang. When I said, in a
whisper,

“Speak,” he crooned. Next, my voice a bit
crisper,

I said “Lap.” Up he bounced. On my “Off, Sit,”

he sat down. But as soon as Lexie
hit

the floor, I said “Lap, Speak.” I heard my
pup

purl the most dulcet tones when he came
up.

While there was no change in his soft, sweet
eyes,

his silky ears, revealing his surprise,

tilted. My improv – a  woofy bebop –

had Lex join me for a doggy
doo-wop.

Though, not up to Ella Fitz* or the Velvet
Fog**

I howl thinking of those riffs with my velvet
dog.

* Ella Fitz – jazz singer Ella
Fitzgerald

** Velvet Fog – jazz singer Mel
Torme

©John Thomas Clark

Two
From KJ Hannah Greenberg

Hurt
is to Healing ( A Requiem)

Streaks of lightning, skyward fires,

Dawn’s misty clouds, sunshine’s stars,

Flaming rivers, pulling us higher,

Praise
horizon line.

Desert-blown winds, desert-blown gore,

Sands of the nations, blood of the war,

Tear
stained legions, living out lore,

Praise
horizon line.

Herbs’ healing blossoms, folks’ fostered
kin,

Rainbows’ bright endings, storms’ slow
begin,

Forces felt human, forces within,

Praise horizon line.

Death, birth and passage, eternal
clash,

Mixture of history, horrid morass,

Victory’s prices, expensive peace,

Praise
horizon line.

Sleep while the wind sleeps, rest with the
sky,

Danger in fire, safe while it’s nigh,

Wheels on life’s river, breath whispers
by,

Praise horizon line.

Bloom tiny babies, bring woolly sheep,

Light scented torches, oils to seep,

Shadows encroach here,

Truth leaves us peace,

Praise
horizon line.

Hurt is to healing, blood is to tears,

Laughter takes illness, songs destroys
fears,

Living brings losses, living repairs,

Living repairs.

Song of
Oenomelian

Balance
carefully!

The
stone stands clean in rain and time,

The
riverʼs
dry, a spiritʼs
find.

The
dark clouds bring out hope and shine,

On
promises to be.

The
sun masks loveʼs
uncertain
lights,

The
wind plies free ardorʼs
rites.

The
fireʼs
passion sometimes
strikes,

Into
the briny sea.

Little
worms flush out the earth.

Flowers
bloom, bovines birth.

My heart stays sated while I search,

For
love that once  walked ʽlongside
me.

©KJ
Hannah Greenberg

( Editors
Note:  From
dictionary.com:  Oenomel 1. something combining strength with sweetness 2.
wine mixed with honey )

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