April Poetry Walk
Below are submissions for April Poetry Walk 2022! Thank you everyone!
Gabi and McKenzi Pereira da Silva
Luv 2 Run
PDS sisters Luv 2 Run.
We Luv 2 Run, but it's better in the sun.
When we run, we are having so much fun.
The best part of our run is when it's done.
~Pereira da Silva Girls
Who Am I
Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple and Violet too...
Can you guess who I am?
I bet you CAN!
~ McKenzi Pereira da Silva
My Underwater World
Rushing blue-green tide,
Slip smoothly through tinted waves.
My underwater world.
~Gabi Pereira da Silva
Poem by Alyssa Duch
WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME!?
CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?, LISTEN TO ME!, IM SPEAKING TO YOU, IM TRYING TO SAY SOMETHING. HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHY CANT YOU HEAR ME!? AM I NOT SPEAKING LOUD ENOUGH? I FEEL LIKE MY LUNGS ARE ABOUT TO BURST. I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY, ABOUT THE LAST COUPLE OF MONTHS, I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE WEATHER AND THE WAY I MISS YOU. I WANT TO TELL YOU I AM DOING WELL IN SCHOOL; I WANT TO ASK YOU HOW JAPAN IS, ARE YOU STILL DRINKING THE SAME? I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT IM GETTING THE SURGERY IVE ALWAYS WANTED. I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT THE DAYS DON’T SEEM AS BRIGHT WHEN YOU’RE NOT HERE. I WANT TO SAY I LOVE YOU AND HEAR YOUR VOICE ON THE OTHER END OF THE PHONE. WHY CANT YOU HEAR ME!? AM I NOT SCREAMING LOUD ENOUGH? I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I STILL HAVE THE RING, I WOULD NEVER GET RID OF IT. I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I AM GETTING SO MUCH BETTER, NOT EVERYDAY IS SAD ANYMORE, THE NIGHTS DONT FEEL SO LONELY ANYMORE. ARE YOU STILL WORKING OUT? DO YOU EAT WELL IN JAPAN? DO YOU STILL LOVE ME LIKE I LOVE YOU? DO YOU STILL HAVE THE CALENDAR I MADE FOR YOU? ARE THE PICTURES OF US STILL IN YOUR PHONE? DO YOU STILL DREAM ABOUT A FUTURE WITH ME LIKE I DO WITH YOU? WHY CANT YOU HEAR ME!? PLEASE IM BEGGING FOR YOU TO HEAR MY VOICE! DO YOU TALK TO YOUR MOM AND DAD EVERYDAY? IVE BEEN WANTING TO ASK HOW THEY ARE, IS YOUR SISTER DOING WELL IN SCHOOL? WHY CANT YOU HEAR ME!? Oh yeah..that’s right, my mouth never opened.
Poem by Amber Buss
Breaking Away
They say the apple does not fall far from the tree
Some would say that the odds were stacked against me
Watching most of my family succumb
To addictions that would nearly cost them their lives
Lost jobs, lost time, and for some lost loved ones
Watching new love interests come in and out
Like a revolving door, as if love were dispensable
Watching yet another family fight
During a holiday celebration
Always wondering if this too was my reality
Could I possibly break away from a life full of despair
Over the years, I have done my best
I have stayed away from any addictions
I became a devoted wife to my husband
I have been blessed with two beautiful daughters
That give me a reason to wake up each day
We celebrate holidays surrounded with laughter and love
Today, my children watch me
They watch me devote time to our family
They watch me as I study in order to reach my dreams
They watch me as I work to help provide for our family
They watch me live a life full of hope, not despair
They say the apple does not fall far from the tree
But I am living proof that it does not have to be that way
We can overcome the odds
If only we try
We can break the cycle and live our best lives
If only we try
We can achieve our dreams
If only we try
Poem by Angelina Vu
At Home I
At home, I hear the tongues of my mother,
a language I should have learned but
never did.
Never more than a sentence
exchanged between
the 95-year-old stranger
my Matao
I have lived with all my life.
ຂ້ອຍຮັກເຈົ້າ we say to each other
but how can you love someone when you don’t know
their stories
their dreams
who they really are.
At home I see my parents:
The American Dream.
They fled re-education camps,
dodged bullets,
swam rivers,
made it to the land of opportunity and took
every
single
one.
They did not risk their lives and
their families so that their daughter could be a poor struggling artist.
My parents tell me stories of
unwelcoming pale strangers spitting phrases with sharp teeth
“You don’t belong here”
“Go back to where you came from”
“Go back home”
home.
Something they had to create in this foreign place of freedom.
freedom.
something I feel I do not have.
This home a secret prison
and I a prisoner
chained by the expectations of perfection.
Perfect grades.
Perfect attitude.
Perfect daughter.
Their constant criticism is like a chisel,
shaping my stone heart
but all they are left to work with now is
broken bits of rock.
At home I realize
what a failure
I am.
So I will stay in my room among
my pastel pink walls
my cluttered desk
clothes creating mountains on the floor
laying in the softness of my bed
that comforts my cracking skin
and the warmth of the blankets
soaking up my tears.
Poem by Barbara Laabs
Holiday Hangover
Hurry get ready…busy busy busy
Halloween with its decorations of gold and black
Candy for the children
Costumes
Ghosts, goblins, witches, and superheroes
Could be snow, could be rain, could be a warm summer night in OCtober
Hurry get ready….busy busy busy
Thanksgiving food
And more food
Turkey, cranberries that remain despite dislike, pies, stuffing, sometimes ham
And green bean casserole
Gatherings of relatives and friends
Maybe some drinks
Could be snow, could be rain, not likely to be too warm
Hurry get ready…busy busy busy
Christmas glitter
Houses decorated with red, green, gold, silver, and white twinkling lights
Too many gifts
Under the twinkling Christmas tree
Fine food and drink
Gatherings of relatives and friends
Snow throws a white blanket on the land
Time to rest and sleep
Holidays are gone
Winter is here
It snuck up on us
Due to pleasant distractions
Of holiday cheer
Keeping busy
Celebrating the holidays
Unsuspecting of the lull
Happens every year
Hibernation like a tired bear looking out from the lair
Snow, cold, wind and icy roads
Negative 1 to negative 20
Looking out from the lair like a tired bear
And it drags on
Valentines and Saint Patrick aren’t enough to calm the Holiday Hangover
Waiting for spring
Looking out from the lair like a tired bear
Maybe another piece of candy
Or cookies
Or cake
Will help the boredom
And add to the holiday hangover weight
Too cold to take a walk outside
Looking out from the lair like a tired bear
Sad and bored
Blankets of snow are getting old
And gray
No comfort
For the bear in the lair
Looking out
After the holidays
With a hangover
Of fat and boredom and sadness
Waiting for confinement to end
Sometime in February it might be 30 degrees
But it’s just a tease
The snow and negatives are back the next day
And the waiting bear goes back to sleep
Hoping to wake to a different morning
Nursing the holiday hangover
Maybe some wine or beer would help
And some cake
Or candy
Or cookies
The wind picked up
Blowing the snow
Turning faces red with the cold
Negatives, not many positives
A thaw pokes the bear in March
Not to last
The road turns to glass
Drivers play bumper cars
And crash on the ice
Stay off the roads
Stay home
Like a bear in a lair looking out
Blankets of snow cover the roof
And the bear sleeps in the lair
Waiting
Poem by Barry Carter
How far is the
God of war from being
Mortal, I to being
Divine, can I make real
Miracles rehearsed. How
Close are graves
Of war to heaven and
The angel to it's
Shadow that falls across
The watchtower that
Dreams about
Being blind.The ghosts
Of war are land locked.
Poem by Bill Kelly
Damaged Book
I could blame the cat.
An easy thing to do and usually true.
But the incorporation of good wine
into the book was totally my fault.
If there is a cost for replacing the book,
please let me know.
You should only contact me, not the cat.
(The cat doesn't have any money.)
Poem by Bryan Guzman
The warm embrace of “home” was something that I quickly learned to love
The sense of “family” that seemingly just fell right into my lap at birth
The outward love for my family; I've always shown
But, bad times seemed to come as often as a bad thunderstorm
Far apart enough that you got used to the beautiful weather, but
close enough together that you didn’t forget the damage that the previous storm left
My life as a small and young person holds the most precious memories,
but not only that, the most valuable feelings
Feelings that I couldn't even dream to feel again
Feelings that I couldn’t buy back no matter how much money I had
So there they stay- in the distant past. What feels like fading,
is just them sinking deeper into the oblivion of my mind.
Sometimes I ask, “What created me?”
Not what created my physical being- because that’s simple enough to understand
But what created the thoughts that I think?
What created that “thing” that is in operation of my personality 24/7?
Is it my experiences that created those things?
Is it the people that I’ve surrounded myself with?
See, I find that hard to believe
because it seems almost as if this person that I call “me”, has existed long before I was even conceived-
that I would have always been this way regardless of what happened or didn't.
Well, I suppose that’s just life
Even with all this, I still wonder what it looks like- right before I fall
Why it feels as if I’m just guessing my direction, or even worse- that I can’t see at all Sure, sometimes it gets cloudy outside- but maybe we should like that better
Some people say that they want to live forever, but to me, that's way too long-
i’ll just get through today
Poem by Carolyn Horton
JOYS OF BEING A GRANDMOTHER
On the day you were born,
Our family wanted to blow a horn,
I am forever gladly sworn,
Your grandmother to love you and adorn.
Then as each day did start,
I realized deep in my heart,
I never wanted us to be apart,
I always knew you would be smart.
Watching you play made my heart leap,
You made memories I would forever keep,
My love for you grew more deep,
As in your bed I watched you sleep.
I’m so proud of you my first grandchild,
We played with toys in a corner piled,
We had fun outside when you ran wild,
We both loudly laughed and smiled.
And now that it’s your 18th birthday,
I’ll to the Lord each day pray,
For him to keep all evil at bay,
While you live, work and play.
Poem by Chad Mann
Don’t Think He Left You Untouched
How could you,
how could you tell me such horrific things.
Like i’m expected to brush it off,
and fly away with what wings?
Like i’m not supposed to pick up the phone,
but yet it still rings.
What am I supposed to do when my favorite things are truth and you.
The truth is scary but you may be too.
Poem by Dan MacArthur
Now
The sparrows play about the windows of the museum.
I sit and think of the takeoff from Norfolk in the SNJ,
While bored children stand, waiting beneath the wing
Of an old bomber.
Poem by David Casper
What Blind Eyes See
Are you blind, can you see?
Is dark and light, black and white?
Start to fight, take back your life.
You don’t sway, stay on course.
The glass is weak to shedding tears.
Look to the mirror, it holds proof.
Eyes closed or open,
What is truth?
Minds and eyes, closed and vain,
Blind with lies poised on shame,
Do not fear your duty is not too hate.
No mirror can bore beauty by this gate.
Your eyes open with mind find connection,
Out or in a pleasing reflection.
Poem by Deb Martin
Good Trouble
Before an action, I have to think.
Some thoughts may lead to drink
so I choose good ones to double.
Good thoughts lead to good action.
To stop others from bad action,
I also want to get in good trouble.
Poem by Debbie Laffin
What Happens Here
Rippleless once in a while slightly
Green oh hey really green
Sometimes churning spitting wild
Crashing glorious colors usually often
Bluebird sky winged eagles eat
Rotting fish dogs
Roll in tiny houses on pine tree roads
Angry piles of freeze threatening
Sparkles fade in warm
Mushy bugs born of water squish more
Green ears full of buzz
(There is such a thing as free lunch) the
Dock goes in old man watches
Jumping splashes
Its what happens here
Poem by Donna Altepeter
Redeemer
Across the dark, barren hill
I kneel and gaze at you...my hand outstretched.
I reach for you.
High upon the wooden tree
Your bruised depleted body bleeds
You eyes so full of emptiness
And of your father's love
Deeply, you look through me
Our hands outstretched
We share humanity, the crumbled residue of choices made, of promises broke by our beloved, those who betray,
those who fell asleep, as you breathed in solitude
While you, gazing through night waited for the end, the promise, Life
Now, I , thinking to breathe, look to you as the Father's word, Redeemer
My only hope, my hand outstretched.
Poem by Harmony Obiala
I have a dream that one day I will not be judged by the color of my skin but for the content of my character.
I have a dream that one day George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, Ahmad Aubery and so many more won’t have to leave so early.
Because when your skin is seen as a weapon, you are never unarmed.
I have a dream that someday I won’t have to breathe for my brother and sisters who can’t.
I have a dream that when we tell people to say their names, they won’t ask which ones.
I have a dream that protests will be seen as cries for the unheard and not as non compliance. But I will always speak for my people because silence is violence and passive is complacent.
I have a dream that one day being able to say “I see color” isn’t a bad thing because I’m proud to be black.
I have a dream that one day my people not becoming hashtags isn’t something to rejoice about because it’ll be normal.
As Frederick Douglas once said "If there is no struggle, there is no progress.
Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground.
They want rain without thunder and lightning.
They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters.”
My job is to speak for those who can’t, but my hope is some day I won’t have to.
I have a dream that one day our intolerance for injustice will not be seen as black crime.
I have a dream that one day black history can be a major and not just an elective. Because, you see, my people have made oceans move by courage and made light with song.
They turned water into wine because my people are gods on earth.
I have a dream that justice for all will be a movement, not just a moment.
Because injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
I have a dream that one day my future children will not be judged for the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
And I have a dream that one day, the rest of the world does too.
Poem by Hope Whitney
under the same moon right?
He tells me night after night every day we’re apart that he won’t forget how it was in the start,
but every day it gets dark and i don’t know if we’re supposed to be so far apart.
I tell him night after night every day we’re apart that I won’t forget how it was in the start,
but the start was the time in the dark where no sun would shine because we weren’t apart.
When we’re apart the only thing left is one singular spark.
Ever so bright,
but hey at least we’re under the same moon right?
Poem by Kathy Chapman
Bike Ride
Under the cascading Catalpa Tree,
A magnificent groundhog perched,
Devouring a luscious blossom,
For which she had carefully searched.
Passersby paused to admire her
But humbled continued was she.
After all, what is bliss,
But to be here like this,
Beneath a Catalpa Tree.
Poem by Lexi McCarthy
A new pup sent our way
Can a spirit
be born anew?
After the earnest, honest, innocent
face of a loved one
fades to ash,
in that time of shadowed grief,
with uncertainty and hollowness
lingering in the air,
can you find another way
towards certain joy?
I see her soul again,
rising from the embers,
when I hold this new joy in my lap.
She seems to have your sienna fur,
and your stubborn wit.
She also has that same scar along your haunch,
which curves impossibly identical to yours.
She curls up the same
under my father’s arm
rekindling a bond
which your absence left extinguished.
She welcomed me at first sight,
and jumped up to greet me,
as if we had knew already,
and oh how my affection grew,
as she leaned into my comforting touch,
soaking in all the adoration
she seldom had before she was rescued.
And yet, her frame is petite,
whereas you towered higher,
so I could hold your front paws
and dance with you in the kitchen.
Her ears are nearly too big for her face,
and the curves of her features aren’t the same.
And yet, I see you in her big, adoring eyes,
and my love burns stronger, everlasting.
And oh, how she can run!
She ran right into my lap when our eyes first met,
and she can soar across the snow,
even with her dachshund frame.
She skips around the house to play,
and settles to nap right after.
You never really ran or played.
You were more content
to find that perfect spot on the couch
which cradled you and your dreams.
The peculiarities and coincidences of life
amuse and confuse me.
We rescued you, my first pup,
from Texas when you were one year old.
Four years later, after you were torn away,
we rescued our new joy from Texas too.
I ponder how she came to be with us.
She has your spirit burning under her rusty fur,
and yet she was six years old when we got her,
two years older than when you passed on.
At four brief years old,
you were too young to die.
Some days it feels like your phoenix spirit
burned bright and hot,
but sputtered out all at once.
Did you know we would miss the warmth ensnared in your spirit?
Did you send along your secret sister in your place?
I treasure the memory of you,
burned deep within my heart,
but I’ll hold my new joy
with all of her quirks and oddities,
and a heart somehow bigger than her ears,
a little closer when she comes near,
because my love for you can be born anew
in every moment that I love her
Poem by Linda Hassel
The Elephant in the Room
I gave my aunt an elephant. She gave it back to me:
“I must be firm, a pachyderm is not my cup of tea.”
“They snort and stomp, cavort and romp, whenever they are able,
And sadly lack one bit of tact when eating at the table.”
“The hens you sent help pay the rent; I sell their eggs in town,
The chimpanzees, with expertise, have sewn me a gown!”
She said, with smile, “The crocodile, fits nicely in the tub,
The geese, the ducks, and both woodchucks have formed a swimming club.”
“The horse was fine, I’m fond of swine, the monkeys couldn’t be cuter.
(I let them wear my feathered hats and play on my computer)”
“The brown emu and kangaroo were very welcome presents,
They like to weed the garden, and tend to all the pheasants.”
Aunt shook her head, and softly said, “It’s sad but it is true:
You must take back this elephant, MY HOME IS NOT A ZOO!”
Poem by Linda J Lechtfuss
You've heard of the Grinch and his Christmas day,
Well this is Thanksgiving, and I'll have my say!
To tell you the story of the Truesells and Truthers,
No one was spared, not sister or brother.
It happened the year after Grinch found his heart,
that's the real story worth telling
to the tiniest part!
As they sat at the table ready to feast
No one was thankful
Not in the least.
There they all sat with food high on the plate,
Shiny new cars ,a warm house with a gate,
When in walked the Grinch, asking "Am I too late."
A Truesell child answered "Come in have a seat"
"There is turkey and ham and of course the roast beast."
So as he sat on down and was bowing his head
He realized not one word of thanks would be said.
And at this Mr. Truther who was sitting near by
Noticed a tear drop in old Grinches eye.
"We know what you're thing, but we all had the flu,
the dog ran away, my wife she did too.
The company is down and so are my stocks,
Next it will be the jewelry we'll hoc.
The weather is bad, my back always aches,
Rush rush hurry hurry, it's all I can take."
"Stop" said the Grinch, "Count your blessings now!!!
If you can't think of any, I'll show you how!
You got of bed, some people cannot,
so we'll start to count here, at this very spot.
The food at the table, fresh air that we breath,
To be able to look at the sky and the trees.
Are minds are all healthy'
We hear with our ears,
The sounds of a newborn, the crying of tears.
So let us give thanks to the Lord up above,
For family, friend, peace, and hearts full of love.
Let bygones be bygones, and from this very day,
Bow your heads daily and learn how to pray.
And as this was said, a smile appeared,
On a young Truesell child, then a Truther, and another in the rear.
So from that day to this, when the Grinch comes to call,
They remember the best Thanksgiving of all.
When the Truesells and Truthers each sister and brother,
Learned to be thankful for one and another!
Poem by Lynn Kuhns
Riding the Waves
It’s some morning, and I’m down at the lake,
sitting atop the old picnic table,
legs dangling as big, undulating waves sweep, lap, lick smoothly.
And always, there are more.
I mimic them, kicking my legs out to those lakeshore rhythms…
back, forth, up, down, more-more… until ⎯
In my mind’s eye, a much younger me rides
atop the sturdy saddle of my father’s ankle…
back then when I’d hoist a chubby leg over dad’s offered foot
and lower my pajama-ed bottom onto its worn worsted sock
and I’d ride, ride!…ride!!!… up, down, bouncing for more.
I’d wrap one small pudgy hand around one fat finger-rein of his;
my other hand waving a pretend cowgirl-hat. “Giddy-yup!”
Dad would smile, his watery blue eyes
twinkling under overgrown brows
up there above his big smile
where small creases spilled waves of love.
I owned it all — a whole kingdom is my horse is my rhythm
is more, and always more,
there, astride dad’s sturdy ankle-foot.
“Don’t worry, Cookie,” [He called me that…] ⎯ “I won’t let go.”
Well, not THEN…. is what he must have meant.
Because today I watch the waves alone,
my feet swaying slowly, slower now,
and then …
( no more.)
Way too alone too long.
Poem by Mandi Butterfield Isaacson
Where Our Sidewalks End
Let us get this cemented in our heads, sidewalks
are concrete, the bricks and mortar upon which
we walk on downtown’s Main Street.
Pedi-cured foot traffic shows the spring in our steps
greeting friends and neighbors, day or night
you can bank on it.
Shop windows display how brides can furnish
their homes, where you can spin your wheels
buy nuts and bolts, and beer varieties flow
more than mere drops in a bucket.
Tempting scents of caramel corn, burritos,
gourmet brats and burgers pull us in and fill us up
and just in case you’ve missed anything, we’ve got
the perfect prescription: take a quick hike to the library
during April Poetry Month where you can learn about
everything, if you’re not averse to lines, stanzas and verse.
Poem by Nicole Steinmetz
I am a deep well and a wilted flower
I wonder what magical creatures exist in the deepest depths
I hear the repeated clang I see the foil burn
I want to discover the realest connections
I am a deep well and a wilted flower
I pretend to be whole
I feel the drums of the war
I touch the soul of the youth
I worry that I’ll fall back into old habits
I cry when I think of her and the life taken away
I am a deep well and a wilted flower
I understand that I’m strong and resilient
I say in a world where you can be anything, be kind.
I dream of overcoming my obstacles
I try to help others battle familiar demons
I hope to be bigger than my past
I am a deep well and a wilted flower
Poem by Richard Wachtveitl
Prayer
Lord, I see your handiwork
In the first pale light of day.
No human hand could ever paint
The sky in such a way.
Lord, I hear the music
Of the softly, falling rain.
No human hand could ever write
A gentler refrain.
Lord I feel the warmth
Of the sunshine on my face.
No human could enfold me
IN a lovelier embrace.
Lord, I know you’re listening
To the whispered words of prayer,
That end the day so peacefully
In the quiet timem we share.
Lord, your love surrounds me
Like nothing else I know.
A love that lasts eternally,
No human could bestow.
Poem by Sister Bernadette Marie Palma
A Walk in the Woods
The damp smell of moss and decay
intercepted my thoughts
as I ambled along the path
deeper into the woods
Near the wandering route
I came upon hundreds of fir trees
sprouting up in every conceivable place.
Perfect miniatures of promises to come!
Poem by Spencer Skivington
Responsibility and Restitution
Responsibilities are a difficult thing to deal with.
The only thing I want to do when I hear my
morning alarm is hit the snooze button.
I wake up for, yet again, another hard day,
after staying up late doing homework after work.
How long does it have to be like this?
How long until I finally feel like all of my
hard work has paid off?
Is the reward better than the pain one endures to get there?
How do I skip ahead a few years to the part
where I am set up with a stable job and have less
belongings to take care of?
I can’t.
Exhaustion is becoming a better friend of mine.
Some mutual friends we share are physical,
mental, and emotional exhaustion.
It’s strange, really, the comfortability that I
have gained when it comes to our friendship.
But, better days are ahead.
Atleast, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The goals that I have set for myself
are what keeps me from hitting the snooze button.
I get up, brush my teeth and complete the other
tasks needed to get ready for the day.
I smile in the mirror, even when it takes
everything inside of me,
and I go conquer the hard day that is unavoidable.
It’s important that I acknowledge the things that I have.
At least I have a class to go to.
At least I have a bed to get up from.
At least I have a mirror to smile in.
At the end of the day, I am here.
I am living.
I am me.
And, the day to day struggles only cause
for more room for restitution in the long run.
Poem by Terri Schlack
HISTORY OF THE MILITARY VETERANS MUSEUM & EDUCATION CENTER
Five men were sitting in the coffee room
At Jim’s hardware store one day.
They talked quite a bit about what to do
With their army stuff they’d stashed away.
“What can be done with it?” one exclaimed.
Our kids have no interest at all.
There’s got to be something we can do.
Can we display at some Veteran Hall?”
“We’re actually on to a darn good idea!
We’ll ask others to do what we’ll do.
Let’s throw a couple bucks in and make a pact.
Then find a place with a room or two.
In ’91 a proper Board was formed.
The paperwork was all set up.
Now came the planning and the layout
And more coffee in a coffee cup.
Some places like an armory were looked at,
An old library in Menasha also found.
There was space in an Oshkosh shopping mall,
And the county offered a spot on their grounds.
Bit by bit the idea took shape and form;
Lots of dedicated work was done.
Then one year City Center said they had to move out;
Their backs against the wall, but they didn’t run.
Lo and behold! Something wonderful came about!
Gabert and Rusch donated a plot.
The land’s location just couldn’t be beat.
Next a building, surely can be got.
How to get funding was next on the list.
The museum’s board worked night and day.
John Kuenzel stepped up with a plan in mind.
“We’ll hear him out. What else can we say?”
“I will help you with some of the funding.
I have vehicles I have in my care.
Keep ‘em shined up and protect them from weather
And display them with other things rare.”
2014 was the year that it opened.
The Board of Directors were proud as could be.
The day finally came they could share history’s wealth
Of people’s artifacts and military memories.
If it weren’t for these five men of vision.
And you wonder what each one might say.
We say thank you for making this happen.
Here’s hoping we made you proud today.
Dedicated to: The Five Founders of the Military Veteran Museum & Education Center
Russ Mueller Jim Webb Cal Zernicke
Bud Hjerstedt Jim Lauderdale
Poem by William Keown
For every wicked word that we’ve spoken,
Every sound that we’ve ever uttered,
Every act that we’ve committed,
We are now condemned,
What reward have we gained from this?
We thought they would love us forever,
Because we gave our friends what we thought was true,
But it was really our own soul that we slew.
Dividing like a hole between flesh and God,
Between sin and righteousness.
A hole no devil can prevail.
Trapped on one side in solitary,
Suffering in hell for eternity,
Crimes such as idolizing, blasphemy, adultery,
Homosexuality, pride, and fornication.
All these are corrupt works of Satan,
He will eat anyone that disobeys,
Using temptation to seizes us astray,
As our blindness leads us away,
But there is only One who can free us,
Repentance is preached in His name,
As a fiery furnace burst into flames,
Sinners will be thrown to death,
As the righteous ones will finally rest.
Wicked and darkness will rue the day,
As sinners will be cast into flames.
Poems by Abigail Klemko
A Letter from the People Above
I’d first like to say that I made it okay.
With fear in my eyes and pain in my heart,
God laid his hands on my shoulder and told me,
“My child, it was your time to meet me”.
With that, I followed the path he laid for me.
And when I heard his call, I so gracefully let myself fall.
Fall into the arms of the greatest savior known to man.
I don’t want you to worry and wonder about me. Because I am always okay.
I want you to laugh, scream, gaze, love and play.
I wish you all the sunshine in your day tomorrow, and to never let your heart fill with sorrow.
But just so we can be clear, God chose where I was going to be.
And he said,
“My child, I want you free”.
Through the System.
I stepped out of my home into the thin September air at age 5.
I reach bus #42 at the end of my driveway.
Turn, wave goodbye to my mother and step into a whole new world.
A world where you don’t know where you belong.
Is it seat 12?
Is it the front row desk?
I don’t see anybody I know.
I guess I’ll just wait to be told what to do.
My teacher comes in and tells everyone to find a desk.
In 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Pull out your math book and get started on page 1.
Quickly, turned in to
Pull out your laptop and take the pretest for AP Psychology.
But don’t forget, you make me look bad if you fail.
Which turned into test anxiety.
And then academic burnout.
But then we had to apply for college, because that's what we are told, right?
More tests. More tests. And more tests.
Waiting on the day you get the acceptance letter.
I GOT IT!
My life was seemingly perfect now.
It was what my family and society wanted.
But what about me?
Where does my opinion as a student come into play?
This is how it feels to go through an education system for 13 years.
And I want to make a change.
I will be an educator.
Thank you.
Poems by Abigail Lemke
wildflowers
I’m in my bed of snarled vines
where lawn gnomes do figure eights
gliding on my dad’s humid whistle
The summer air cuddles bumpy cotton chalk-dust skies,
and my fingertips scrape the edge of the sidewalk to
dance below the wildflowers- beheaded carelessly just for me
lemon-sweet green drops stumble down
protesting the weeping pinks and crooked blues
that shivered and fell from under the red and rusted rumble
Lake Nostalgia
ice shoves lake air
sloth and sharp
like the taste after biting your tongue–
a whiff of pennies on the hand of a child who’s become rich
looking under couch cushions
Poems by Alexandra Douglas
Writing
All writing is beautiful.
Whether it is a poem, or a haiku,
a story, or a tale,
or even
just a splotch
of ink.
It's all writing, with a story.
A poem can be so much more than words on a paper.
It can be love, feeling, sadness, and joy.
But most of all, writing can't be burned or frozen.
It is always felt from the heart.
Glow
The world is a cloud.
War.
Unsettlement.
Fighting.
It will stay that way if there is no light.
So be the ray of light that shines through.
With your happy light, flowers will grow, people will live in peace.
And love will be shared.
Be the glowing lantern that brings the world to peace.
Love.
Joy.
Peace.
Care.
Calm.
Happiness.
Relax.
And most of all,
Glow.
Poems by Alexis Palmer
Woman of Strength
Woman of Strength
I can see it in your eyes
In the way you act with grace
In the midst of your trials
You minister in love
To those who are in need
To help feed hungry souls
And to stir others away from greed
Woman of Strength
The world may not understand
The life you choose to live
Or your destiny at hand
The Daughter of a King
To whom no man compares
You know who you are
Therefore you move without fear
Woman of Strength
I love who you are
And who you are becoming
Radiates light like a star
Your treasure is in Heaven
As you await to take your throne
To live for all eternity
In your Heavenly home
Mom
Mom
There’s no one like you
We appreciate you
For all that you are
And all that you do
For all of your time, sweat, and tears
For doing all that you can
To raise us
All these years
Your determination to succeed
We so much admire
And your heart to serve others
We so much desire
Nothing we could say
Could truly express how we feel
The gratitude in our hearts
For a mother with so much zeal
To raise a family is not easy
As we have come to know
But you always do your best
And your efforts truly show
Thank you for your support
Your love, kindness, and trust
For being an example
Of a mother’s love to us
God bless you
And keep you happy, healthy, and strong
For all the days of your life
Until you return Home
We love you very much
And this you need to know
Yes, our dearest mother
We love you very so
Poems by Amy VanBrocklin
Forgive, heal, move on
To forgive, is to set yourself free.
Your power is retrieved.
Your pain may be to deep.
It's that pain you shall release.
Hatred is crippling.
Not them,......you.
Forgiveness is not easy,
really,... you don't have to.
Forgiveness can be silent.
They don't have to know.
They can go down, the captain of their guilt.
So, you can start to grow.
It's time to heal.
Your shame and hatred has
jailed you for to long.
Let it go, move on.
Move on, live, enjoy.
There will be many hurts
In our lives.
Many nights, loved ones listened to our cries.
The initial sting will fade.
Our hearts will start to unbreak.
To much time wasted..
Ones we loved....hated.
You were not wrong to love.
You saw good in a person.
Then you saw them worsen.
They were only seasonal.
I've made some bad choices.
I am so much more than those.
Crazy highs,
Crazier lows.
I've caused harm with my reckless momentum.
A derailing train,
Wreckage sure to come.
Burnt bridges, broke laws.
My drunken silence,
Ignoring all phone calls.
Resenting the world.....
praying to change...
freeing that little girl.
Toes forward, seeking anew.
Amazing things will happen..
I'm only part way through.
Stepping lightly, soft yet
mighty.
A feeling of peace...
Ability to feel, release.
Making better choices.
Here I am.
Way too often our children are dying
Leaving their mothers grieving and always crying.
Wishing you could protect them forever.....but like birds they leave the nest
You pray for their safety and wish for the best.
You went to ball games, fishing, concerts
Nursing their wounds and soothing their broken hearts.
If only you could turn back time and change their fate
Taking blame,yourself you berate.
Well meaning people tell you " it takes time, I know how you feel"
But the depth of your despair is up front and very real
Their bedroom a shrine
Clothes, toys , size 11 shoes
All left behind
Afternoons spent ,you laying in their bed
A comfort from their smell, their music, ( ugh, their music) you grasp a small moment peace ...
thoughts of their presence, you have that at least.
What they also left... is way too soon
May your hearts heal, your smiles reappear..... And your memories always remain clear.
Every drink is a new regret.
The start of another wasted day......
you'll only just forget.
I was four regrets in,
when I chose to not lose..
but to surrender and win.
A different outcome in the works.
Licking my wounds and talking about what hurts.
It's not right..but it's okay.
Slowly but surely changing
every day.
Catch a different train...
take a new way home..
write a letter,
instead of using the phone.
Learn to cope, learn to stand up....learn to fly.
Learn to smile, appreciate, and take time to cry.
Wipe your tears,
embrace your fears.
Speak up, speak loud,
if need be SHOUT.
Let it be known,
ask for help,
trust in GOD,
trust in someone else.
Learn to trust in yourself,
your mind, and your choices.
People don't read minds, ..
but they can hear voices.
Don't drink that drink,
don't force that regret.
Think it through,
there's hope for "us" yet.
Poems by Ashley Baldwin
Magenta rainbows rock me to sleep
While cyan sunshine laps at my feet
If you are mountains, then I am long winding roads
Your face sings a symphony on late rides home
If the world stays dark will you be my star?
Rosemary yellow and dandelion red
Can we forget the things we never said?
Scrambling for your warmth
Please father, spare me the time it will take my wounds to heal
When you lock me in the closet for the wrong I've done may I come out just once to steal a kiss?
Can I find myself and my worthiness in the illusion of your bliss?
Don't tell me to leave, I'm still holding out
Tell me you love me and I'll lie here forever
Heart to floor, knees to chest
Don't leave me to rot
I'll wait here as long as you want
Caught in a dream you said
I'd never leave your bed
And I lay here now, slowly falling down
I remember that night, you sat and cried
And I held you close
I spoke to angels and they said
You're more than the monster that you've created in your head
Well if you can stand to wait outside
I'll be there
Somewhere in the wide expanse
And if you feel like falling apart
I'll hold you together
I promise loving you's not hard
I do it all the time
You said that's my brother, he looks just the same
And I said no, that's a body that's holding his name
You can't tell me the sunken face and the closed eyes look just like him
Why torture ourselves like this?
Who's it for?
Smile at funerals and cry behind closed doors
You tell me that's my brother,
But there's no soul inside a corpse
Poems by Ashly Garner
Awaken
God’s acts stir in us
a sense of self
Remember who you are
We begin to hear
to see
to feel
until we know
unending love
Learn The Way
and choose your thoughts
least they choose you
and your spirit drops
God’s words
As if a lamp, light your way
be stirred for it is your very salvation at stake
We begin to hear
to see
to feel
until we know
unending love
Awake;
sin no more
allow love –
Remember who you are.
Day After Thanksgiving
Broad sweeping statements
define no one,
for the completeness of your soul is in the details
Take a look,
take the time
and you may just find
the completeness of your soul
in the uniqueness of their soul
Pick up your room,
sweep out the dust;
broad sweeping statements define no one,
you are unique, a child of God
so Love on…
Free Will
Match the inside out,
light a flame
with your thought
What you see
is what you get,
what you got
is what you are
How you think
is what you be,
be what God desires: surrender to it all.
Home
Swing high, swing low
back and forth on the playground
Back at home,
soft pillow rest ease;
lilacs hang high out my looking glass
Bedroom eyes laze,
as the maple sways slow;
thank you for spending time with me.
Poems by Brianna Krahn
I wish I could live in a world of my own
I wish I could finally stop chasing the bone
Stop chasing the bone of the newest trend
Stop doing everything I could to twist and to bend
To what society thinks a young girl should be
I don't understand why I can't just be me?
What makes me so stupid, so ugly, so hated?
Why are my thoughts considered so weird and outdated?
I just want the world to accept me for me
I just want to finally let myself free
Of the cage I've been in since the day I was born
When I learned that words hurt like the pierce of a thorn
I'm sick of the hate and the endless struggle
Of trying to keep myself inside of a bubble
It's terrible to think that a girl who's only seventeen
Is forced to hide herself behind a screen
A screen made of lies and full of fake beauty
All because she believes that it is her duty
To fit in and be what the world expects
Even though the last time that she checked
The person inside her is perfect and true
So maybe it's time to let that girl through
The girl who knows that she's beautiful and worthy
Even if she's told that she may be "too curvy"
It's finally time to break out of the mold
It's time to open up and finally be bold
This girl is perfect and she is now free
To be whoever or whatever she desires to be
One day she hopes that the world will grow
And that spark inside everyone will begin to glow
Until that time, she will continue to fight
So that one day everyone may show their true light
you've gone and left me here
with no one to hold my heart
you've gone and left me here
and I don't know where to start
you've gone and left me here
please tell me where to go
you've gone and left me here
I miss your smile so
you've gone and left me here
I need to see your face
you've gone and left me here
without you, where is my place?
you've gone and left me here
I'm longing for your love
you've gone and left me here
are you flying high above?
you've gone and left me here
I'm lonely and I'm lost
you've gone and left me here
wondering what was the cost?
you've gone and left me here
I need to find my peace
you've gone and left me here
the pain has yet to cease
you've gone and left me here
yet, I know it's not your choice
you've gone and left me here
I just need to hear your voice
you've gone and left me here
and someday, I will be gone too
You hide behind your smile, you lock away your tears
you put on an act, but I can see your fears.
You're scared to let go, you're scared to be free.
If only you'd be willing to open your eyes and see.
There's a world out there full of beauty and light,
you seem to keep it just out of sight.
You believe you deserve the pain and the hate,
you carry your mistakes around like a weight.
I wish you'd let go, I wish you would see,
the difference you've made in the world and in me.
I hope that one day you'll let someone in,
for loving a person is not a sin.
You have so many things that make you, you
Don't be afraid to let your light shine through.
You're worthy of all that life has to give,
please stop hiding and finally live.
Love isn't just me, love isn't just you,
love is for us, love is for us two
Love makes your heart soar high above the clouds,
love grows infinite, there will never be bounds.
Although there may be many trials and errors,
just remember, my love, that what we feel has no barriers.
I know that now until death do we part,
every smile, every laugh will forever live in my heart.
For everyday I feel my heart growing with you
and I know every sweet word that you whisper is true.
My love for you will forever be etched on my soul.
To be with you forever is my ultimate goal.
So never forget how much you mean to me,
for my darling in my heart you will forever be,
the man of my dreams, the one I will never forget.
The man who now holds my heart, every teeny, tiny bit.
So even though some say I'm too young to know what love is,
I say, "no soul has ever touched me like his".
Poems by Casper Faust
Gratitude
Thanks for the memories of old.
They are valued more than gold.
Thanks for the loved ones we have known.
They are perceived by us alone.
Thanks to all who in this life,
Lessen the burden of grief and strife.
Thanks to those who now are sharing,
Our joys and sorrows, ever caring.
The Epoch of Civilization
The rise and fall of civilization can be compared to the accomplishments achieved in the life span of man. Their duration varies with the ability to cope with the conditions they create.
Like a child, man has, since the beginning of time,
Been intrigued by the unknown. The mysteries that confront him are a continuous challenge. It is in the quest for knowledge and understanding that he rises to greater
Heights of performance.
As in youth, experiences and knowledge are honed to
A degree of achievement often surpassing the generation
Before him.
As in maturity, the education gleaned, provides the
Opportunity to utilize and to further develop the
Resources of his world.
As in the “golden years”, images of past achievements
Predominate. The exhilaration of exploring new
Horizons diminishes. Contentment with the success of
Past exploits prevails.
The ultimate result is death.
Throughout history, civilizations have attained
Varying degrees of fulfillment, like human beings, they
Have grown old and faded into oblivion.
It is unfortunate that at this point in time, man
Has not learned from the past. There is a proverb in
“The Old Farmer’s Almanac” that supports this reasoning:
“Curiosity is looking over other people’s affairs and
Overlooking our own.”
A Mother’s Love
A mother’s love is a potent force,
Freely given without recourse.
It gives us strength to persevere,
Freeing us from doubt and fear.
A mother’s love brings reassurance,
That we may proceed with endurance.
It inspires courage to transcend trials,
Provoking a cry and provoking a smile.
A mother’s love is a wonderful thing,
Making us happy and making us sing.
It is most effective when accepted,
But a tragic loss when rejected.
Strength and Courage
When in our lives we complain
That we must suffer grief and pain,
Strength and courage are the wares
That help us proceed without despair.
They are developed as part of living,
By supporting others through caring and giving.
Poems by Cathie Books
I Can Be
I can be that crazy cloud you said looked like ice cream
I can be that scary movie you said was a real scream
I can be that faded T-shirt you say you'll never toss
I can be that certain store that has your dental floss
I can be that favorite drawer that holds your candy bars
I can be that rubber pad you use to open jars
I can be that sturdy bike you ride like no tomorrow
I can be that fluffy pillow that soothes your every sorrow
I can be that any whatever and all of the above
I can be that certain someone your heart will choose to love
My Thoughts
My past thoughts
Are like sunsets.
Sunsets are like endings.
But endings not to keep,
My brain
From restful sleep.
My present thoughts
Are like sunrises.
Sunrises are like beginnings.
And beginnings give
My eyes
A joyful new surprise.
My future thoughts
Are abstract.
Abstract
Way too much.
But hidden in a sunrise
They are a warmth
My skin
Can touch.
I am
I am a person, not a thing
I am verb, my heart can sing
I am the bud and the flower blossom
I am this way because I am awesome
The flower bud is the essence of unbounded energy, exuberance, and curiosity:
my inner kitten
The flower blossom is the essence of maturity and wisdom in that it knows and understands
That it cannot exist without the support of everything around it
Because everything is awesome
And it never ever forgets that its soul is that flower bud:
That unbounded energy, exuberance, and curiosity
This oneness fuels my awesome
Poems by Charles Mortell
One False Word
Turning recycled words into poetry
is pretentious.
Poets must don body armor, exercise extreme care.
The brilliant line
in the poet’s mind
Becomes an IED
to the reader’s psyche.
Vaporizing the poet’s career in a pink mist.
Composing a poem is like defusing that device.
Sweat in the eyes,
shaky hands,
snip the wrong wire
and you end up writing for Fox News.
Adagio for Wind and Water
When the night terror woke me, darkness lay all around.
As I swam toward consciousness, a pure music flowed into my waking.
First the languid wind swished through the weeping willow
Leaf dense branches sweeping the sky like ethereal whisks.
Next the waves chortled on the jagged shore,
Tumbling white over the broken rocks
Verses I can’t quite make out, lost in their clatter.
Then the insistent wind semaphored me.
But then the waves crescendoed.
The wind and then the waves,
until they wove an idyllic Adagio.
Like the Philharmonic went swimming, instruments in hand,
Now were playing Samuel Barber half submerged.
Came the dawn, the wind whips up and shifts due south paralleling my obsession.
White haired waves quick-march by
Bustling somewhere significant only waves could know.
Pelicans ride the bucking waves together, yet respecting each other’s avian space.
Then at a clandestine signal from Pelican Control, lurching attempts to gain flight.
Clumsy flapping, their absurd beaks flashing like machetes.
Raggedly, they struggle to climb, dragging their ungainly bodies toward the sunrise.
But when altitude is made, they, improbably, morph into The Blue Angels,
wheeling on a dime, moving as one, and making after the fleeing waves.
Three Generations of Dentistry
The Oral Surgeon is describing how he will remove my daughter’s gnarly wisdom teeth
at the cost of a Steinway Grand.
Perhaps his daughter is matriculating at Julliard.
My eyes glaze over, my mind leaps back
to middle school when I had my wisdom teeth yanked.
Back then, that iconoclast dentist was a trifle eccentric
which I know to be true (or am allowed to construe)
because he was also my father.
One night after family dinner, he drove me to his familiar, modern dental office.
But all had changed! It was dark and deserted.
No vespers of patients or swish of white coats.
The street light shining through the blinds providing the only illumination.
Until he flipped on the flaring dental light,
the one powerful enough to signal boats on Lake Winnebago.
I sank into the dental lounge chair and he pricked my gums to make them numb.
Then he picked up what looked like, nothing less than, a mechanic’s pliers
but gleaming, chrome plated rather than smeared with grease.
I only had time to think, ‘What is that tool doing here?’
With an expert twist, he popped my wisdom teeth out.
This man who never touched liquor, never wore ties.
Couldn't carry a tune if he tried.
It was then that over me, came a huge epiphany:
that it’s not the flashy office, nor the bustling staff
But simply the skill that resides in the mind and hands of a father
caring for his son.
The Horse
Yes I weigh 900 pounds and could crush you like a bug,
or kick you through the wall of the barn.
But I choose not to.
If you feed me, I will do pretty much, whatever you want.
If you groom me, I will work for you.
You can ride me and jump fences!
Besides you offer that carrot so sweetly.
Poems by D. Oswald
Dreams
I’ve had my dreams of greatness
And a dream or two of sin
My dreams have been of winter days
And springtime in the woods
Dreams have woke me up at night
And scared me half to death
Some dreams come back a time or two
So you can get a better look
And the dreams that I remember most
Are the dreams I have of you
Christmas Day
It’s the hallowed eve of Christmas Day
The rain is pouring down
On the hill at Atwood Farm
Orange flames lick the sky
It had stood for three life times
This barn of beams and boards
The laughter of children has filled its air
Man and animals shared its warmth
People came to dance and smile
Neighbors met and talked
A funny woman sold her baby hats
Young lovers made their plans
But tonight on the hill at Atwood Farm
The old red bard is leaving this world
And of all the things that will be lost tonight
Our greatest loss of all
Are the memories that were yet to come.
Wire
Six strands of twisted wire
Pulled across rusted green posts
The bottom part covered by grass and weeds
In places that never get mowed
It’s not very long as fences go
The beginning can be seen from the end
Built in the heat of the summer
By an old man and a boy
Built to separate two pieces of land
But not the families on them
You can see it as a sculpture
You can see it as art
But I just see what is there
A six wire fence on rusted green posts
Built by my grandfather and me.
Possibilities
Possibilities of love and hope
Stretch through your life
Like some old ragged rope
Moments now and in the past
Some we cling to desperately
Some fly by so fast
Possibilities of love
Possibilities of hope
Love, hope, and caring
Our lives are for sharing
Poems by Eileen Sateriale
April Dancer
A torch-like beam brightens
tender spring foliage. Sunlight
projects dancer images prancing
on weathered branches against
the agreeing, unclouded blue sky.
Gnarled roots drink up the remnants
of the previous evening’s merciful
rain shower. On this April morning,
earth, tree and sky twinkle in harmony.
Aurora Borealis
Pale green light in sky
blushed by tints of pink and blue
and rare violet hues
spindly pine trees tickle heaven.
Flowery Epiphany
Bulbs planted along the foundation last fall
in hopes of a colorful spring palette
that will signal that winter’s gone
so happy gardeners see the ground again.
In hopes of a colorful spring palette,
tulips flowering all colors of the rainbow
so happy gardeners see the ground again
and tiny crocuses peep above the soil.
Tulips flowering all colors of the rainbow,
magnificent rhododendrons in full bloom
and tiny crocuses peep above the soil.
My garden, an epiphany from winter.
Foreshadowing
A few months ago,
the sun danced what
seemed like forever
emitting warmth and
bright light.
Now, late afternoon,
the sky dark turns gray
foreshadowing an
ominous time of year.
When the days get cold
The distant beaver moon
provides no comfort
in this darkest hour.
Poems by Elliott Baas
Sideshow
Did you hear? The
Bearded lady rear-ended
a pair of Siamese Twins.
Police have ruled it a
freak accident.
Writing Flow
I’m working a novel about π,
though the project took an irrational turn.
I began a poem on stoicism but
it evoked far too much emotion.
I started an existentialist sonnet, although
fitting the scheme proved a Sisyphean task.
Previously, I had worked on a stage production about puns.
It was a play on words.
I was going to write about Nihilism,
but what’s the point?
Around the Block
They’re arguing again.
Neurons.
Can’t help but overhear
shouts surging between synapses.
Neurons
strolling along cracked sidewalks.
Shouts surging between synapses,
never to cease.
Strolling along cracked sidewalks
slick with January sleet.
Never to freeze.
Pellets of day-old salt
melt away January sleet,
revealing tan patches of grass
killed by day-old pellets of salt
and the resilient winter’s snow.
Tan patches of grass
clump onto well-worn boots
the resilient winter’s snow
degrades leather of a pig.
Clomping of well-worn boots.
Can’t help but overhear
one pig degrade another.
They’re arguing again.
Lady by the Pond
Back and forth she wanders
cobra streetlights
shine dull incandescence
over trails of slime
Days spent
peering inside
windowpanes
iced with frost.
Days spent
holding a disposable
coffee cup
wrinkled with shame.
Nights spent
coiled in cardboard.
Soiled by stench, and dirt,
and skin.
Nights spent
reflecting, ruminating,
muttering, monologuing
pontificating, philosophizing.
Nights spent
alone.
Toxic venom
pulses inside
emerald veins.
She wanders back and forth.
Poems by Gabriana Hernandez
Defining Yourself
You are creative
You are resilient
You are strong
You are funny
You are capable
You are powerful
You are, who you say you are;
So how will you define yourself today?
21
At the age of 21 you have been through
A lot, but despite it all
You are still here
Existing, living trying
I am so proud of you
Poems by Hannah Allen
Checkmate
Advances countered
Remain futile without risk
Of losing the war.
Silent strategies
Prevail when veiled by friendship
And honest deceit.
Wit accompanied
By skilled luck is required
To beguile one’s foe.
Painted composure
Masks premonitions revealed
By intuition.
Imminent defeat
Leaves one without a retreat
To escape checkmate.
Little Bird on My Sill
Little bird on my sill
Free to wander at your will
Unconfined and unrepressed
With wanton dreams unexpressed.
A quiet life you lead
Taking only what you need
To create your humble nest
And provide a peaceful rest.
Day by day you remain
Hoping only to sustain
A secluded existence
Without fear or resistance.
Ever blissful you stay
And continue on your way
Forgetting all you may lack
Never ever looking back.
Poems by Jenna Rindo
Step Over Cracks
so I don’t break her
back or her mother’s before
her who stands four-feet-eight.
She has permanent ridges
furrowed into her shoulders
from the weight of triple D
against gravity. Even so she
two-steps a polka. Smells the
stink of bad karma. Scours the
rust-stained sink with blue Ajax.
Vases peppery roses
to light duplex gloom. Births
five babies upstairs
in the middle bedroom with or
without a midwife. I watch amazed
as she strikes a wooden match
to flare the gas flames blue,
studs a ham with cloves in star patterns,
then bastes it with Mountain Dew.
Roasts a cheap cut of meat ‘til it falls
from the bone. Works third shift at
the Xerox plant. Walks the dogs, rocks the
cradle, entertains all variety of strangers.
Chants in Latin, cusses in German,
throws back a cold beer. Brings down
the sudden onset of fever. Alters
the atmosphere. Shovels the walk,
throws seed to the birds, marks the inside
cover of paperback romances with a code
before returning. Hopes for a
heaven brighter, lighter than her private
Ohio, frozen litter in layers, memories
muddled, infused in jam and sauerkraut
jars, lined up on shelves, basement stairs
too steep for her to descend.
On a Parcel of Land
in a single wide trailer in some universe
the farmer’s first wife has hidden letters
from her cyber affair with a monk. He disperses
Mandalas and sends her grains of sand, redder
than the Hereford’s heart. Slabs of beef
streaked with rich secrets, stocky bodies white
on the brisket and dewlap, graze on the sod’s grief.
They are bred for both maternal insight
and carcass excellence. Fertility ratios
affect the family farm’s chance to keep
solvent. Windows are open to ebb and flow.
The price of feed remains in flux. Sheep
hear a multi-mission Reaper move through haze.
Silos hold evidence--classified yet decayed.
Seven Mile Loop Past the Cemetery
You run in pre-dawn dark, vague moon overhead,
cratered ovaries spit race enzymes.
Fifty-mile-weeks- on spongy footbeds
pound porous your bones. You repeat hill climbs.
A charm of finches gorging thistle serenades
each crescent regret you cycle within.
The raw stench of cow manure and piss sprayed,
then held in factory lagoons unpins
family farms, rural charm, once unparalleled.
Your feet go on moving, sweat gritty with mistakes.
You arrange words, fracture stanzas, compelled
to interpret the roadkill, its rib cage bleached opaque.
Acid rain etches each infant tombstone.
Day breaks, lines fade into our pocked ozone.
Hmong is No Romance Language
My laminated alphabet falls
from the cinderblock wall.
It is defeated by the Secret War,
the Mekong River running red.
Meekado sketches stories from
Wat Tham Krabok, a Buddhist
temple turned refugee camp.
Razor wire circles his stick
people. Rats are roasted over
burn barrels. My American
ears strain to hear the full
range of his home language.
I am paid to teach speaking,
reading and writing English,
a language of consumerism
promising priceless moments
and worldwide acceptance.
Hmong overflows with oral
complexities. Eight lexical
tones shift meaning between
short words. White and Green
dialects disregard phonemes,
while Shamans bridge
the living to the dead.
Poems by Kathleen Collisson
Drizzle Day
It’s freezing, the drizzle
coating the sidewalks
and roads, making slick
work of walking, putting
hips at risk, forcing most
to stay blessedly in all day.
I leave the drive unsalted,
the shimmer ice glistening
beneath the rain already
freezing on its way down.
Why put on spikes when
I can put up rich jars
of golden lemon curd,
light a licking fire, hold
the woolly blanket close?
I think of all I can’t do:
the scheduled achievements,
the errands and obligations
of this palindromic day, twos
repeating back and forth,
circular reminders to let
the drizzle freeze and then
let it melt, evaporate back
into the atmosphere to return
again on the next day, just
one digit closer to oblivion.
Three Hundred Thousand
Walking through the ravine
this mild December afternoon,
it’s easy to forget the dead.
Sunlight still reflects off the simmering lake
at the end of the path. The clouds are still gray
with the promise of true winter.
Only the dry leaves, disguising the deep
crevices of the earth, invite a tally.
One leaf for each exhausted nurse,
each lonely grandpa, each teacher, each bus driver.
A leaf for each storekeeper, delivery worker,
meatpacker, paramedic, frail elder, robust athlete.
A leaf for my Uncle Ken and all the dead uncles everywhere.
For each homeless person, each immigrant, each refugee.
Would there be enough leaves, here in this one ravine,
to lay on the grave of each of the three hundred thousand,
with many more thousand to come?
This is a place I’ve come to escape my sorrow,
but today there is no respite.
And still the leaves keep falling.
Poems by Kenya Jones
Unconditional Love
I feel you when the wind blows or when it rains.
I see you when the sun shines
and when the ocean waves.
I hear you whenever the thunder roars or when the birds sing.
I know it’s you that allows me to make it through each day.
Even know you’re listening when I pray.
I know you exist because I feel you in my heart.
I know your love is real, you’ve proved it from the start.
Willingly you gave up your life for me and died on the cross to set me free.
There is no limit to the miracles you do and the many problems you see me through.
You’re real, a true friend indeed who never leaves.
Through all, I recognize how unworthy I am of your grace
but yet you’re always there, supplies for all of my needs,
and never lets me fall.
Partial Self Portrait
My face tells no tales
Blessings and a curse
Immediate and bluntly responsive
Each expression innocently delivering loaded retorts
Eyes outlining painted scenes
Breathing patterns laying foundation of tones
Body language confirming thoughts
Emotional truths playground
Facial canvas narrating wordless storylines
Overloaded mind anxiously formulating replies
Experiences showcased as tattooed arms always exposed publicly
Life’s Experiences
I’m dancing on air and the grass flat below me.
Flying over fields while reaching for the sun.
Crying with willows and releasing my fears in misty chilly winds.
Walking on clouds and waving back at the sea.
Lying in the sand while the waves kiss my feet.
Connecting stars and chasing the footsteps from the moon.
I am living out life’s dreams and disappointments.
Poems by Kristin Zwetller
Weeping Willow, Weep for Me
Weeping willow, weep for me
For I have no tears left to shed
Even my bones are dry.
Life is passing me by as I hang my head in shame
The depression ever grasping to keep it’s hold on me
Getting away from it isn’t possible
As it wants to follow me everywhere I go,
Sleep being the only escape from the emotional pain
This psych med change has been really bad this time
Leaving me feeling like a dirty scrub mop
That’s been thoroughly wrung out.
Sunny days are unwelcome in my bogged down state
For they shed too much light on the shape i’m in
If I could weep perhaps some weight would be lifted
So, Weeping willow, would you please weep for me?
Olympic Ode to Diane
It’s been wonderful these last few days
Of the 2022 Beijing Olympics
To feel as though I’ve been spending time with you,
For I feel your presence as though you haven’t passed.
For it’s Olympics season once again
Our first Olympics without you
And I really feel the void of your absence as I
Enjoy the Olympics which always meant so much to you.
So whether I’m listening or watching the Olympic events
It feels as though you’re in the room with me,
Your presence being palpable, sharing your joy with me
While watching Nathan Chen nail the Olympic gold
With his skill and precision
Then according to the old ABC commercial
We watched others and shared in “the agony of their defeat”
As dreams were obliterated
The Olympics being a time when we have no real idea
Of all the hard work and effort that goes into training
To become some of the best in the world
It reminds me that your were one of my best friends in the world!
What Would Herodotus Say?
Oh, Father of History, how must you feel
To know that modern man seemingly at times,
Has learned little from history while continuing
To make the same blunders and mistakes
Over and over again?
While you recorded history as a learning tool
It must pain you to see how little that men of history
Have learned from many of the lessons history has to offer.
Instead continuing on the wrong path
As proven in times gone by,
Not having learned from what’s happened in the past.
Rather than foraging a new path based upon
Lessons learned from the past.
One should instead want to forage a new path
Where they’re actually making efforts to move forward
Rather than staying stagnant and divisive being more
Concerned with busting the other party.
When what’s most important is what’s best for all Americans
For it’s not about being Democrat, or Republican or some other party
That’s important when legislating for America.
It’s about being “American” where we should be working together
With the same goals in mind. History doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
When it comes to my own country of the USA
I cringe to think how little our legislators,.......
….our lawmakers, know of historical circumstances
That effective policies in government
Whether circumstances be they foreign or domestic
Asking themselves what effects their attitudes could have
In addressing the goals of said legislation
It’s nothing but detrimental to not be willing to acknowledge
That what they want to do has never worked before and
Creates more problems than solutions,
Admitting there’s more work to be done.
Being True to Oneself
Being true to yourself isn’t always an
Easy thing to do.
Sometimes we may think,
“This is the way others expect me to be”
“Easy” is for the day dreamers for
A life well-lived is full of ups and downs
And of many lessons learned.
Being oneself is to take on life as it is
And runs with it
Poems by Lucy Cannon
J.R.
A little baby girl, I wanted so much.
But wouldn't believe until I saw her butt.
She looked like her brothers,
But really was, one of the others.
She would wear pink, instead of blue.
I just couldn't believe this little girl
Was true!
What was her Dad going to do?
It took a while to name this child,
Cause mom's names were way too mild.
They wanted something that had some meaning,
thought the initials J. R. would be re=deeming.
So this little one became Julie Reann.
Named for her Aunts, becacause, we can!
Having four big brothers, is not easy.
They can drive you nuts, with their teasing.
They were always there for her.
And the years flew by in one big blur.
How can this little J.R. girl,
Now be married in her dress of pearls?
Ben, she is now there for you to protect,
Do it wrong and you might get decked.
But, we feel she will be in good hands.
Marriage binds you with these bands!
Fights may happen, but never part.
Remember the love you had, from the start!
Joe
Joe! Joe!
We love you so.
You are great.
You are first rate!
We need someone,
Who really cares--
Someone who can
See love, and Share--
Blacks, Whites, Tan or
anyone under the sun--
We need the swamp to go--
Please, Joe!
Tom, my beloved
You are my Valentine,
you are my sunshine.
loved for 5 years,
Occasionally with a few tears!
but some were of Joy,
Like when we had our four boys,
And such a thrill, when we had our Girl!
So this Valentine day,
I want to say,
We are so lucky, to be here!
not too many fears,
But we both deserve a lot of Cheers!
Poems by Mary Ellen Wurzbach
Never Before
Never before have I felt this way. Never before have I responded this way. Never before have I ever thought these thoughts or felt these emotions. Never before have I been in a situation like this. Never before have I ever wanted anything as much as I want now. Never before have I been as happy as I am now. Never before have I been so hopeful. Never before have I been so undaunted. Never before have I been so confident yet worried. Never before.
What makes life unique? What makes happen the feeling “never before”? Yes, there are miracles. Yes, there are hurdles. Yes, there are reasons for pleasure.
But how is it that one can say – “never before” at such an advanced stage of life?
Only another soul feeling the same “never before” can understand the feeling. And only another soul experiencing the same things can understand.
The same feelings, actions and events. I am experiencing “never before.”
Simply never before.
Beyond Words
How does one express love, passion, intellect, sense of humor? How does one reflect in writing the many faces and moods of another loved one?
How does one write for numerous pages and still not be able to capture another’s soul?
That is my dilemma. I will try to capture an energetic, multifaceted soul,
but this is a great hurdle.
There are many hurdles in life. This is one that makes me sad. The inexpressible depth of another’s soul.
The opaque nature of trying in words to describe another.
These are my concerns. How do I write persuasively enough for recognition of another’s soul?
How do I depict another’s goodness, drive, intelligence and sense of humor? How do I describe another so as to be recognizable?
A dilemma of authorship.
Beyond words.
Poetry
What is poetry? The lyrical expression of an idea. The graceful expression of a thought.
Who writes poetry? We all do. In our lives we live poetry. We live a lyrical graceful expression of a thought or idea with every motion.
Physically we express poetry. Mentally we express poetry. The lyricism of our lives expresses our own personal poetry.
What makes one sentence poetry and not another? Composition of words. Does not have to rhyme. Does not have to fit a pattern.
Does have to evoke a feeling of warmth and joy. A feeling of lovely emotion.
Poetry may be actual poetry or narrative poetry as prose written elegantly. But both must elicit a feeling of luminosity.
It must uplift the spirit in a musical way. Spiritual in some sense. Evocative, sympathetic, graceful and lyrical.
Here’s to you – iambic pentameter. Or simply grace.
Poems by Mary Genack
Nature's Gift
Come and sit
And rest your mind,
Or let it wander, float and drift
Out toward the water or the sky
To ponder how or maybe why
The clouds are white and the water 's blue; or
Let yourself be a baby boat or leaf, afloat,
Or maybe you wish to soar like a bird
Or drift like a cloud or live as a fish...
Close your eyes and
Enjoy your imagination's
New-found ride.
No where to be,
But right here --
Floating,
Soaring,
Swimming,
Being.
Colors of a Summer Memory
I remember
Star filled skies
On hot Summer nights,
A million brilliant for small eyes to see.
Room to run and be a kid,
Lawn as endless as a sea.
Heirloom flowers rich in bloom,
A garden parcel ripe with food.
A Red old Barn in a sea of
Green and sky,
Like a meadow in season
Outstretched for miles.
White cotton-puff clouds drifting through
Against the deep blue July sky,
Passing by,
The red old barn.
Red, White, Blue, and Green ---
Gravel road,
Traveling through,
Past the barn,
Clad with weeds and yellow-green evermore…
Driveway to the wooded unknown.
Full – upon Summer’s Door.
Lovey Dovey
Candlelight and
Chocolate sweets,
Whispered words
And footsy feet.
Lavender and
Loving dotes,
Quiet strolls
And secret notes.
Cheek to cheek and
Warm embrace,
Holding hands
And Kissy face.
Valentines and
Birthday gifts
Dancing close
And midnight kiss.
Jewelry and
Perfumed air,
Cocktail dress
And silken hair.
Spiced cologne and
Debonair,
Sharply dressed
And tousled hair.
Diamond ring and
Ling’ring gaze,
Champaign glass
And fiancé.
Honeymoon and
Wedding bells,
Off to church
And Wishing wells
Future dreams and
Growing old,
Living life
As years unfold.
Poems by Meg McCullough
Watching You Grow in Black and White
Eye to lens.
Filming every athletic move,
every awkward, musical moment.
Images of your life without color,
like some 1950’s sitcom.
Big, heavy contraption,
creating plastic memories,
that will soon gather dust on a shelf.
Yards and yards of fragile, Mylar ribbon,
that hold the family story.
A motherless story.
Just a familiar voice in the background,
and a random thumb, to prove I was really there.
Sally
He gave up Sally.
The structure destroyed her.
The first day of school,
the bathroom made him choose.
Male was expected.
Society won't change.
He can't talk about it,
it just makes him sad.
He still loves purple,
and sparkly dresses.
But now he’s a boy,
and his Sally is gone.
He went to that school,
to have his mind broadened,
but that school made him change,
now he’s in a box.
Poems by Melody Floyd
Kiss me in the light of the methane gas release valve fire
at the foot of the giant hill of trash
look me deep in the eyes, standing in the moonlit dirt and
cornhusks, biohazard site
millions of dead bird ghosts
water my soul in the river under the early summer starlight
generations of guilt pour out of my feet into the earth, my love
(toxic)
Will the hawthorn tree transform this into beauty?
Drink up this burning swill and turn it into water?
Will the reeds still shoot toward the sky?
(the shame I feel still standing upright against such a backdrop,
survivor’s guilt tapestry sunset)
but we who grieve here
behold the plans that reveal themselves, realized within
don’t let the pilot light of the now go out
there is celebration in every moment of existence, of life
we reach toward the sun
every day i wake up and chop my own head off
lay there a few minutes before coffee
considering if i should die for a 12,400th time
or if today i just
stop
stand in the shower and sharpen the blade
my head keeps growing back, a little more warped each time
customer service smile grows in more pronounced
stick it in the corner with the others in the pile
flies and smell.
what rots more, my pile
or my self
keep dying to survive
until i’ve died enough days to deserve to be here
pour the coffee down the hole in my neck stump
drive off dead in a toyota camry and khakis
when the truck hits me
wetting my khakis
nothing flashes before my eyes
My attention fixates on what I want to appear in this world
hawk eyes locking in on its target,
encircling, ready for the kill.
This prayer of attention for the water.
For this lake to be free.
For the fish to be happy.
For the plants to breathe.
For the humans to sit contented in little boats.
For the shoreline to be freed from concrete prison.
For the insect to rise to life as if out of nothing.
Alarm
feeling that
pseudo cyclical nature of time, where
except on the arbitrary set of holidays, we
wake up
drink coffee as fast as we can
and go to work, days feeling so
grossly similar, so much that they are
The Same Day™ re-lived again and again and
we celestially return each revolution around the sun
to the summer sales event
of years and eons past
ancestors passing the advertisement in their blood
forced to find the meaning of life in the evening
exhausted, couch-locked, flight fight freeze
seeking comfort
but don’t rest too much, you’ll never
wake up
and who will read the emails and complete
the spreadsheets?
who will make the chicken nuggets?
Poems by Meredith Chybowski Mills
Tapping
Time to tap,
tap the sap,
after the tree's
long winter nap.
Spring Haiku
Forsythia buds
Waiting on brown and green stems
Will spring bring yellow?
A Cinquain
Winter
Window watching:
Chickadees chase and sing.
Squirrels are jumping from branch to branch.
When's spring?
Flowers
Pretty petals,
Sweet scent,
Enjoy it now
though--it only lasts a little bit.
Poems by Nancy Sutton
The North Woods
Pine trees standing tall reaching for the sky
Eagles with wings spread soaring on high
Woodpeckers wrapping birds singing
Chipmunks chattering, squirrels scattering
Butterflies fluttering, hummingbirds humming
Deer sauntering across the field
Such peaceful things the north woods does yield
To see such glory will rest your soul
You can dream your dreams, and set your goals
The outside world just disappears
You can just sit back and forget your fears
This is something no one should miss
A gift from God to render such bliss.
A Mother’s Love
Make a list of all the words that would define a Mother.
The list will get quite endless I assure.
But if I were to tke them all and put them into one,
Love would be my answer to be sure.
A Mother’s love is with us whatever path we take,
A mother’s love is with us with each mistake we make.
In our peaks and valleys, she’s there to help us through.
Sometimes she makes us hate her, but that’s not really true.
She’s only trying to teach us what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s fact,
But most times we don’t listen ‘cause we know it’s just an act.
How thoughtless we sometimes are to test our mothers so.
She’s so mean, she’s getting old, what do mothers know.
But as the years pile up behind us, we all finally learn to know,
That endless, undying, mother’s love, was here to help us grow.
Each day we live on earth, we should thank the Lord above,
That he sent us all a mother, to give us that special Love….
September
If ever there was a time of year
That I could stand up and cheer
T’would be the month of September
And yes, it is finally here
The sizzling summer is cooling down
The pumpkins are orange and bright
We’ve had our fill of corn on the cob
And we’re ready for frosty night.
Then the summery green will go to sleep
And awaken with the colors of fall
Bright reds, yellows, and oranges
A feast to the eyes for all.
How great it is to go to bed
And get up on a brisk cool morn
To don a scarf and sweater
And go stomping through the corn
Ah yes I do love September
But it does have a flaw you know
With a blink of an eye it’s over
Then we have to put up with the snow.
It was Wonderful
It was wonderful to see my girls come walking through the door.
It was wonderful to hear the piano while I did the kitchen chores.
It was wonderful to tuck them in and kiss them both good night.
It was wonderful once again to simply be their mother.
This will be a memory that will live down through the years.
Every time I think of it, of course will bring some tears.
Thank you Lord for granting me such a perfect day.
Now that it’s a memory I’ve just one more thing to say….
It was wonderful
Poems by Noah Ryan
Dear Russia, what will it matter, extending your political boundary, if you can not grow wheat in either territory? Drought does not grant mercy to those with a larger military. This is a pivotal time to make mends and band together with neighbors. Why spill foreign blood when the same stuff is coursing through your own heart. Why plant fear in another's mind knowing you dread the same anxiety? The stable and reliable climate our ancestors lived in is becoming increasingly unpredictable. The time has come to heal, not just ourselves and the planet, but also our relations with other humans. Reach across the aisle and lean in to opposition. Sunflowers need just as much water in Ukraine as they do in Russia. A war-torn soil will only harbor death and misery.
Thigh Vibration
run amok
notification
a mind that's stuck
trapped in a cycle
arsenal of distraction
a debilitating trifle
faint tangible traction
manic as the moon
crazy like a loon
Impalpable
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Hard to get out of bed,
or keeping the hair combed on my head,
or making sure my stomach is fed.
Most days littered with dread.
I hear it's a gift,
to be in tune with the seasons,
chalked full of doubt,
I need some better reasons.
Dear yesterday,
tomorrow will be a better day. That gash on your heart is scabbing over and that scar on your psyche has finally healed. The smile on your lips speaks radiance and the posture shouts confidence. The sun is out, or at least it will be. It's early, our favorite time of day, so much potential. The Robins make it easier to get out of bed, they are insistent, but not like the alarm clock.
Love, Today
Poems by P.J. Lang
Autumn Leaves
Ruffled leaves
Beside the path
Intrigue my eyes
To reveal another world
Where each is alone
Yet like another,
Not able to resist
I bend to clutch them
Loving them in my soul
Pondering War
If war is a game
Would it be chess
Or Monopoly?
No when our children
Are involved
Don’t play any game
When the future
Is created
Use paints of many colors
But never paint
With children’s blood
Men who make war plans
Must march them first
With their own
Before our own children
Are asked to partake
In the sacrifice.
Vowels
Been wondering
So I’ll ask you directly
What is your relationship
With your vowels?
Myself? I live with them
As creatures
Having attitudes and gender
E is a little boy
Running through the street
Hopping up and down the curb,
Always ready to some.
I is a girl child
Innocent but sweet
And filling in when needed
U is an old granny
Abrupt and evasive
Never fitting in very well
O and A could be twins
Plump and sunny
At your service
Always willing to please
But making a message
To bring sense to my world
I recognize them as creatures
All with a job to do.
Spring’s Full Moon
The moon is a rabbit
Shining on glowing path
To nights scented grass
A feast for the intrepid
The moon is a wolf
Alone searching a position
Aligning its face
Seeking an order of security
The moon is a partner
Holding the mysteries of life,
Undefined and deep,
Not knowing who runs time.
The moon is me
Searching a position
On the unknown path
To a distant world
Of comfort in feeling
And safety in thought
Poems by Pamela Wunderlin
Make your Move
Lake Winnebago is a transportation hub.
Cars, snowmobiles, trailers all travel creeping along the ice.
A tiny house village has appeared in the distance,
side by side.
From my perch the scenery appears to be a map of miniatures.
I could reach out and pick each one up and move them around
as if they were pieces on a frozen, white gameboard.
Lake Commotion
across the white, frozen game board
the playing pieces sit
waiting
the sea shanties sit in a narrow row
waiting
for the hub to begin
of moving cars, snowmobiles and trailers on the two- way path
the people sit
on the lake ready to make their move
of dropping their baited poles
inviting the fish beneath
to come to dinner
as they, the fish, do not realize
accepting the invitation
that they are to be the meal
I sit from afar
watching
waiting
for the game to end
for the spring thaw
seeing myself walking on the beach
with the sun shining down upon me
Fish Caught
I am perplexed
about the sturgeon
who has a face that
only a mother would love
Poems by Pat Kohls
Butterfly’s Life’s Lesson
Butterfly, you teach me much about life,
From your beginning as a caterpillar
Crawling inch by inch, with an endless drive,
You journey along with bumps and struggles.
Within some time you begin making a cocoon,
Moving forward with your tireless spinning,
Of silky threads in smooth gentle movements.
This supplies a soft secure place to grow in.
Suddenly awakened to newly created wings,
They provide a new, light-hearted, freedom.
Uplifting to a journey of flight from the ground,
You move along to travels of new perceptions.
Swan’s Winter Awakening
In bright morning sun
Swan cranes its neck
As it stands gracefully
On cobalt sheet of ice.
Facing into northeast wind
Exercises flying muscles
In articulate motion.
Nearby in open water
Of large marshy pond
Are ducks sitting
Quietly in sun’s warmth
Winter’s birth is near.
Have Leaf Will Travel
Under gold maple tree
Diminutive red ladybug
Creeps on to midpoint
Of yellow maple leaf,
Not knowing next move.
Autumn wind gusts blows,
Magic carpet departing
With tiny ladybug aboard,
Flying above tall trees
To mystery destination.
Leaf with traveler ladybug
Glides into perfect landing
On Fox River sloped shoreline,
With brown mud turtle nearby
Sunning on warm flat rock.
Mission of Love
Love comes from God’s Son
Shining His eternal light.
Bask in life’s sunshine:
Radiate His warmth, speaking words of love,
Listening with your heart,
Sharing a warm smile,
Giving a gentle embrace.
Love is a two way path;
Yours’ and mine together
In our Lord’s presence.
Poems by Patrick McCorkle
An Ode To The Singles
To celebrate Saint Valentine's Day
There seems to be but one way.
Anywhere and everywhere you look
In video game, film, music or book
A romantic dinner, a moonlit walk,
A thoughtful gift, an intimate talk,
Are enjoyed by cozy couple
Or in some cases, triad throuple.
Or in rare cases, the plentiful poly
More than two lovers, oh golly!
But here it's not those I address
But truth it's not to them I attest.
For all who remain single
For all not ready to mingle
For whatever reason or cause
Your love life is on pause,
Never forget, always remember
To place yourself at love's center.
To honor yourself as love's shrine.
To treat yourself with love's shine.
You are two halves on your own
You are complete and not alone.
So go celebrate the ultimate lover
And a wonderful person you'll uncover.
One Step, One Minute, One Mile (At A Time)
As my shoes are tied,
I become my own guide.
Through the neighborhood
Of true and falsehood
Forget I must not
Forget I ought not
Forget I will not
The lesson bought
With many a mistake.
I feel somewhat awake
On this ordinary run
Underneath the blazing sun.
I make a slow turn
Creeping is the yearn
To do it all, right now, today-
No, no, that's not the way!
In such a rush
I turn to mush.
I hear the pitter-patter
As my legs turn to batter.
Eager to do all,
I simply fall.
Going without pause
Hungry for applause,
Is a way most swift
To find myself adrift.
Remember, as they say,
Rome wasn't built in a day.
The lesson in mind,
Avoided is another bind.
Faster I wish I ran
But it followed the plan.
Wiping sweat off my face,
For now, completed is the chase.
I permit myself some rest
On the morrow, attempt my best.
No matter what it may be
Business, poetry, philosophy
I hope you agree-
One step at a time
One minute at a time
One mile at a time
Is the only way to climb.
To abide or not to abide
To abide or not to abide
The question begotten by my pride
Frustrations pile up, I’ve had enough
Worn down is my spirit, no longer tough
An ugly, painful truth I have to concede
With too many goals I do not succeed.
I cannot get a customer to sign
On the blasted, bolded dotted line
I cannot find a lover to profess
With me she will always stay, nothing less
I cannot will my family to repair
The transgressions beyond my affair
I cannot convince people to civilize
Their discourse, as they choose to brutalize
I cannot craft my writing to speak
To being human, its message is too weak.
Yet, as I drive upon the paved, quiet road
Removed from society's constant noise
Removed from matters breaking my poise
I witness how nature handles its load.
No matter how frigid the winter's cold
No matter how deep the spring's rain
No matter how arid the summer's heat
No matter how complete the autumn's yield
Reaching for the sky are trees serene and old
Trotting for the trees are deer silent and vain
Growing amidst the deer is grass tall and neat
Once more flora and fauna completely healed.
Nature abides, and so will I.
Oh, Oasis Oasis!
I traverse the land of blazing sun,
Unknown when I will be done.
I stumble, struggle to
avoid the quicksand.
I extend my hand
My eyes barely serve
I try to observe
What lies Ahead, Behind,
Below and Above. I am blind.
Sweat soaks my face-
of water, there is no trace.
Surrounded by the unknown,
I am chilled to the bone.
Dunes loom from all sides
Woe and misery betide
Those who ignore
The predators galore.
Stingers raised, scorpions strike
Claws clapping all war-like.
Talons extended, vultures dive
I must be gone before they arrive.
Manticores with mouths of drool,
Starving for a stupid fool.
Oasis, Oasis, where are you?
There is not a single clue.
A long and hard quest
I cannot fail this test!
I cry, I plead, I collapse.
Where are you?! Perhaps...
At last, Oasis, Oasis you are found!
Just when I was about to drown.
The spring, o where o where
did it lie? I was unaware
Of magic that is inside!
Come, let me be the guide
For all those who trek
Into the land of shifting sands.
Where the footing is uncertain
Where the visibility is poor
Where the water is scarce
Where the beasts kill
Remember, before you begin,
You have an oasis within!
Poems by Patrick T. Randolph
Sweeping the Sky
Bare tree branches jutting upwards—
Slender black silhouettes—
These Winter brooms
Work with the morning winds,
Sweeping away the clouds—
Leaving a brilliant bright clear blue;
One bird finds her voice—
And carries it cautiously across the Sky
Like the young mother holding a small child in her arms.
Depends on the Road—A Wisconsin Ballad
I once asked you what kind of music your soul likes—
Unlike any answer I’d ever heard before,
You said, “It depends on the season,
And the road I’m taking.”
Tonight, while driving home—
I imagine you on a mountain valley road,
Windows down, smiling—an old folk song
From years before your parents were born
Follows your car down a winding curve.
In the rearview mirror—an image of you
Dancing with your father in the living room—
A late evening father-daughter ball.
Sound of your mother’s applause next to an open
Summer night window—curtains clapping in the breeze.
Home for a Holiday Visit
My father sits across from me,
Holding onto his wrinkled hands
Like a cherished baseball never to be
Let go of—He looks down at his large
Fingers, moves them around to keep them
Warm on this frigid December morning.
“You were so small—my new son,” he says.
“I looked at you through that frozen nursery
Window. It was cold outside—an icy Wisconsin
Morning. I often think of you on that day. What magic.”
I listen to his gentle voice. We embrace each other,
Dismissing the space between us. The concept, the words,
The sound of “I love you,” becomes too small for this moment.
My Wife’s Simple Surprise
The heater kicks on at 2 in the morning,
You turn in bed and come closer.
My eyes open to a strange light-darkness,
It’s snowing outside— no wind.
Your left leg is warm— almost hot.
My fingers search and find your fingers.
I squeeze them and wait— you return
A strong squeeze, then soft laughter;
You’ve been awake now for an hour—
And tell me I’ve been snoring a song.
Poems by Penya Richards
Shadows
Anxiety is like a shadow
Always there, even in the darkest night when you cannot see it.
It looms, consuming the light with its hungry jaws.
You can try to battle it, but it’s never quite gone.
After all, how do you battle something that you can’t see?
It takes a spark
A gentle touch
An “Are you okay?”
That’s all it takes
To battle the invisible enemy
The shadow.
It roams in the dark,
But
It’s not all shadows
When there’s a spark.
Trees
Trees.
The trees have seen things
Rain and sun
From the moment they were planted, they’ve watched
Unable to do anything
Except sway with the breeze.
Their roots have reached down into the earth
They are steady and stable
But they can’t move.
Just like the girl
That sits in her chair
Watching out the window
Unable to move
She is steady and stable
Like the trees.
But her roots are far different.
From the trees
And the most of the world
She sits in her chair, her wheelchair
And watches.
Just like the trees.
Life
It’s a journey we take
And a song we write.
It’s a celebration
And a struggle.
It’s our hardships
And achievements.
It’s honoring the fallen
And celebrating the new.
It’s part of us
And it’s part of you.
It’s joy
And it's sorrow
It's life.
The Pine Stays the Same
Every year the seasons change
Like clockwork.
Life and death
Yet the pine stays the same.
Full of life
Inspiring.
Every year to celebrate life
We decorate it.
With holly, and lights
Ornaments, and garlands.
To give thanks.
Every year the seasons change
Like clockwork
Life and death
Yet the pine stays the same.
Poems by R. R. Sparks
Parental Yoga
All the deep breaths
In the world
Won’t cure
My yelling toddler
A Mood
Winter makes me
Just want to
Drink hot wine
Flip snowy hair
And laugh, laugh
Dial Tone
The commercial plays again
As the phone rings
I know it’s her
I’d love to answer
And say hello
But what if
I’m not ready
For the bad singing
That I’ll hear
Spring
Spring comes smelling of
Rose buds and rain
My dog rushes into the yard
Bringing prickers and mud
Poems by Rebecca Bluhm
Hair Cut
Only under the transformative power,
Of a full hair cut,
Will I shed years of weighted opinions,
Feeling each severed anchor,
Occasionally glancing,
At the mounting carnage.
I will become a temporarily lighter,
Brighter,
More vibrant,
Snip of myself.
Laughter will bubble up,
From every caress,
Of ends on once hidden skin,
A smile will etch lines of joy,
At the sight of it.
This lightness will evaporate,
When the heat of midday sun,
Becomes unbearable,
But I'll clutch,
The dissolving whisps,
For another moment.
Ingesting Silence
Do not ingest my silence,
And label me ignorant.
A plea that has hung,
In my lungs,
Since kindergarten.
I am shy,
And have a crippling fear,
Of public communication.
Traits I have yet to outgrow.
I must have brought them from a past life.
I understand forced participation,
From educational institutions that fear silence,
Because we all need verbal validation.
Unfortunately,
There are some of us,
Late bloomers,
that shrivel in direct light.
Silent prayers are sent out,
To shield me from view.
Hands clammy with anxiety,
Tongue grows thick with fear,
Thoughts vanish like smoke in the winds,
As the final form,
Of corporeal betrayal.
Eyes search past repeatedly raised hands,
Avoid eye contact -
Like lambs blood upon my door.
May result in a seventy percent chance,
That the Reaper's eyes will pass me,
Unharmed.
The Writer
I birth words from my fingertips,
String them together,
In an attempt to quiet the demons.
Rhythms and rhymes,
Perpetually turning in my head,
Waiting for lines to click,
Before committing to the page.
Words hatch,
On the back of my tongue,
Slowly sliding down to the tip,
Building,
Until they threaten to topple.
Scooping them up,
I make them dance off my lips,
Searing the choreography,
To short-term memory,
Before committing to the page.
Tilting my head,
I drip worlds,
From a wellspring deep inside,
Bleeding out to take shape,
Crafting conscious thought,
And emotions,
Before committing to the page.
Rapid joint movements,
Destroy galaxies on reflex,
Leaving ghosts of what could have been,
In places of what was,
As ink and pulverized wood,
Drift like snow,
Marking the floor with the carnage.
To Capture the Lightning
I want to capture the lightning,
To hold it in my grasp,
And call it home.
To insert it deep within my chest,
between the bars of bone,
Nestled between functioning organs,
And my skeletal cage.
Holding it closely.
Feeling it.
Harnessing its brilliancy,
To spark transformation,
Phoenixing from my old, ashen self,
I would rise in fiery greeting,
Claiming the new dawn for my own.
Poems by Rodney Flarnkey
A soft and pungent air wafted hotly on the face,
Brings redness and a sense of delirium to the place.
A stiff hold spray to keep distilled the view.
Falling in roving ringlets, it was worth it to few.
Come soon the sweetened breeze, with heavy droplets in the air.
Cast aside all interference, your form will be bare.
Ringing forth with rivulets of inky darkness
Could it be the fare?
Woven into the thwart crest- it pulses and crushes with no rest.
But way back, in the sky afar. I knew even then - how small.
Swarming with ferocity bolstered in pride, it clambers and wriggles, pulling taut the line.
Wipe your hands off just to trip
Over the barren railway slits
Torn away and cast aside
A childhood lived and died
Applause erupted from the ring
And came what from it but happy sting
A single yellowed sac they found
Full of all their dreams abound
Pour it out and find a mirror
Look inside and see your years
Poems by Sandra Fischer
Cold
The winter snow
Chalks the gardens
And
Black earth into a
Fondant frosted field
Of foreign fermentation….
Clutches of shining
Frost feathered birds
Cling to the ice glossed wires….
The boxwoods snuggle under
Their snow laces snoods…..
Lamppost lites…dimmed to
A soft glow, by shrouded snow….
The frigid ice glazed streets like leaded glass….
Winter at its best……
Days End
The sun sinks low
Into the amethyst halos…
The ochre….and blues….
Of the evening sky
A shadow moon is
Veiled nearby….
Waiting its turn
For the day
To end….
An for the sun
To relinquish….
And for the Moon
To ascend…..
Nature Diaries
Forgotten
There is an old
Dusty road
Where no one goes…..
Where the flowers still
Bloom….
And the green grass
Grows…..
The Sun still shines…..
And the weather
Is fair….
And a forgotten garden
Grows old roses
There…….
Poems by Savannah Kealey
The Daily Struggle
It is a quality of life, a daily struggle.
Living paycheck to paycheck, hoping it will be enough to get by.
Their stomach filled with emptiness, the desire for food is strong.
So hungry they would eat anything to fill the aspiration of consuming something.
As they become more ravenous they become hopeless. They go to bed with the wish that they will be able to afford tomorrow’s food even if it is just a small ration.
Their children, born into the necessitous life, clueless of the anguish ahead of them. Moving so much and not understanding why. They feel unaware of all that is happing around them. Education not reachable nor affordable. Even when education becomes at hand the fear of their differences haunting them as they walk the halls of the school. They wish their clothes were like the other students.
Clothes without holes in their shirts and big stains.
Pants that were not too tight or to lose.
Shoes that didn’t fall apart.
Clothes that could smell good, ones they would be able to wash.
Clothes that were just more comfortable and more appealing. That is all the children wanted.
Their anxiousness and hungry stomachs make it hard to focus. when the school day ends the strain is left in their brain. Children left with worry stuck in their heads.
Their health confined not just physically but mentally too. The pressure can be felt miles away. Day by day, the stress never seems to go away. Not a single dollar to be seen in their pockets, medical bills become too much. Though if they did have the money, no way to the doctor.
Their car broken down, a rustic look that is not unseen. No other way to get around.
The busses too far away.
Trains no longer running.
Taxis are exorbitant.
Bikes left with flat tires and torn paint.
They would be left to walk, in the cold weather, 10 miles in the chilling winds.
The parents feeling lost. Fighting every day just to find a job. A job that is close by, one that they can keep longer than a day. The fight is an endless fight. Every day they wonder if it is the one that they will find a job.
Wanting to be able to pay for housing, at least a small house with a bed. A bed that would be so wonderful. As they had been sleeping on the ground outside with just a blanket, one thin blanket. Time after time they had tried to get a house but even then the water, gas, and electricity would be turned off.
No showers could be taken.
No handwashing after using the toilet that you couldn’t even flush.
No washing the couple dishes they did have.
No cooking food on the stovetop.
No heat to stay warm.
No lights to be turned off and on.
No outlets to be working.
No electricity at all, no water at all, no gas at all.
They just wanted a house where everything stayed on.
They just wanted to be able to pay for simple things like education and clothes for their children. Clothes with no holes or stains.
They just wanted to be able to pay for food. Food that they could eat in more than 3 bites. Food that would fill their stomachs and make them full. Full a feeling they haven’t felt in years.
They wanted to be able to pay for transportation and medical bills.
They just wanted to be able to pay for the things that could keep them healthy and keep them happy. Just the simple things. The simple things it’s all they keep fighting for day-to-day.
Poverty, it is a quality of life, a daily struggle.
Kindness creates smiles
Smiles that go on for miles, contagious, and gracious.
So WHY NOT - WHY NOT create a world with endless kindness.
NOT a world with needless madness that created unneeded sadness.
The world needs to change and exchange all this miserly behavior, they would simply be doing us all a favor.
Just imagine - imagine this beautiful world with more people who treat everyone equally no matter how unique I believe we should no longer critique.
No longer shale anyone critique the difference in the color of our skin, eyes, or hair each one so delightfully dazzling.
No longer shale anyone critique, someone, just because they are taller or maybe even a little smaller.
No longer shale anyone critique because someone is “not skinny enough” or “does not eat enough” what we see In Our eyes should not be the size but what the heart implies.
No longer shale anyone critique what people wear or their hair. Style is just a sneak peek at how precious a person can be and how marvelous they are is what we should see.
No longer shale anyone critique others because of what they like to do, it’s an uncalled reason to make someone feel blue if someone did that to you, you would be sad too.
We need to stand up and put all our differences aside and decide to be considerate. I mean really consider it, don’t just sit on it deliver it. Be kind.
What is on the outside does not define you but what is genuinely on the inside is how people should truly find you. Find what is in your heart and in your soul. Never let kindness go and remember no matter how unique we should never critique.
Better Together
Everything feels better together and I hope it’s forever.
When I hear your voice it’s like music to my ear and it’s all I want to hear.
When I look at your eyes they pull me in like beautiful butterflies on a warm summer day.
When I see that contagious smile on your face it’s all I want to embrace in my heart and It makes me realize I never wanna be apart.
When I hold your hand it makes me understand what love truly is something that used to mean nothing but now it means everything.
When I hug you all my worries go away. The words you say always stay making me get through the day.
When I see you I know your all I need you make me feel like I’m freed from all the bad and I’m so glad -
Glad to have you in my life -
in my heart.
Everything feels better together and I hope it’s forever.
IT always comes when you least expect it -
hitting you out of nowhere -
sneaking up on you like an eerie tornado suddenly appearing during a vast stormy day.
From time to time it disappears but in the back of my mind, I know it’s there.
Waiting.
Waiting to plan its next attack.
It attacks like it has no care in the world.
It will invade you even when you’re having the time of your life, then your day is ruined.
Ruined within an instant.
It takes over your mind first.
Entering with spine-chilling thoughts fighting against one and other -
Leaving with endless worries.
Next, it takes control of your lungs.
You can no longer breathe the same as if a giant weight fell on your chest.
Then it travels to your muscles.
Some people start to feel restless - on edge with no focus to be found.
Others can´t move the fear building up inside them - frozen all concentration disappeared.
Lastly, it just hits you all at once, you are stuck left with this terrible pain that no one can see.
Sweating.
Dizzy.
Head hurting.
Nauseated.
Trapped in this feeling.
Your just left panic-stricken all because of it.
IT -
IT is anxiety.
Poems by Ted Harris
Where’d you go?
Tell me you’re okay
I suppose I’ll never know
And was it hope
That led us astray
Into pain that I must own?
This air is cold
The light is dim
As I carry this alone
And it’s all about the promise made
And the pain you left when you left that way
I want to go wherever you go
Well, it was you
Who brought me back
From darkness, made me new
But now alone
You left me here
With your necklace missing you
And it’s all about the things we’d say
And the lie you told when you walked away
I want to go wherever you go
I want to see whatever you see
Yeah, I want to go wherever you go
I want to see whatever you see
Remembering the things you’d say
We can’t talk about this anyway
I want to go wherever you go
I want to see whatever you see
Yeah, I want to go wherever you go
I want to see whatever you see
Happy Birthday
Nothing moves slower than grief
The sunrays shine on a dead leaf
I tried to save you
I tried to bring you back
I’m sorry
I keep your moonstone
Next to me
I’m having nightmares when I sleep
I cross the two, they lessen me
Today is your birthday
You’re just beyond my reach
It’s lonely
All the leaves are
Off the tree
But is it too late
To say happy birthday?
Happy birthday
Half a life for me to live with where I went wrong
I was late and you were gone
I can’t let go of the past and the past cannot let go of me
I was late and you were gone
But is it too late
To say happy birthday?
Happy birthday
I’ll never forget
The way that you loved me
Happy birthday
Right Where I Belong
Well line for line
I’m going to tell you what’s on my mind
And it’s all about you
From east to west
We can see the sun rise and set
But all that I see is you
You tell me to breathe
But I know that before you leave
I’ve got to say this out loud
There’s something stirring in the air, baby
I hear your voice
And I want to be there
Girl, if I’m your choice
I could never deny you
I’m so lost in your eyes
Please show me mercy
I lay my head in your hair
And I’m right where I belong
From time to time
I find you putting my heart in line
Somehow I feel so brand new
And all the while
I’ll be kissing your face ‘til you smile
It’ll always be you
But you’re counting it down
I better say all this out loud
‘Cause all I’m wanting is you
I see that foot outside the door, baby
I hear your voice
And I want to be there
Girl, if I’m your choice
I could never deny you
I’m so lost in your eyes
Please show me mercy
I lay my head in your hair
And I’m right where I belong
Wait
I thought I asked you to stay
I know things will change
Just one more hot summer day
Yeah
I hear your voice
And I want to be there
Girl, if I’m your choice
I could never deny you
I’m so lost in your eyes
Please show me mercy
I lay my head in your hair
And I’m right where I belong
Well line for line
I’m going to tell you what’s on my mind
And it’s all about you
And all the while
I’ll be kissing your face ‘til you smile
It’ll always be you
Yeah, it’ll always be you
Whispers
The black river whispers
Secret stories of a lover
Lost beneath her stone
Now my heavy hands
Wander for a faucet
Ever seek the drip
I mourn for the beautiful
Snuffed out inside of you
I’ll never lose sight of you
Until I’m gone
I know that you miss her
And the smell of wild flowers
She wore between her hair
I mourn for the beautiful
Snuffed out inside of you
I’ll never lose sight of you
Until I’m gone
For all you hold beautiful
I’m standing beside of you
I’ll never lose sight of you
There’s so much running away
Steadfast in passing the day
Who am I? Who am I to say?
I love you anyway
The black river whispers
Woe
Woe
Woe
Woe
I mourn for the beautiful
Snuffed out inside of you
I’ll never lose sight of you
Until I’m gone
For all you hold beautiful
I’m standing beside of you
I’ll never lose sight of you
Poems by Theodore Bucur
I creep closer and closer to the line.
It’s as if every step I take
I cross it once again
Now that line is behind me,
But it’s okay.
I take another step,
Bend down,
And draw another line.
Today
Ended up being great
It started out tough
But it got better
So put your phone down
And go find a way to enjoy the day
Cause there is no day
Like today
STOP!
this is a don’t trip check mark
If you think you or a loved one is tripping,
Send this to them
So they know not to trip
Watch your step this world is ruthless.
When our star disappears
Uncountably more sprinkle the sky
And at this time it’s hard to find your way
Because the stars will guide with lies
And take you where the demons play.
Poems by Tim Gehrt
Didn’t Have Anyone to Show Me
Didn’t have anyone to show me
Exactly how I was supposed to be
You see he left when I was five
For years barely knew if he was alive
A role model would have been nice
Or even just some fatherly advice
Eight kids hanging in our hood
There alone I stood
The feeling I never really had
Of what it was like to have a dad
Eventually he did come back
Trying to put things back on track
Saw each other more and more
Trying to settle the score?
The title dad is a bend
The truth more of a friend
Accomplishments I have a few
Wonderful kids? I have two
Trying to do what I thought I should
Times weren’t always good
Struggling at times on my way
Until sitting here today
Another curve ball thrown my way
Until sitting here today
Another curve ball thrown my way
Thing is, I don’t want to play
No more booze numbing the pain
It and anger have drove me insane
It’s time to dig through it all
Crushing down many a wall
I want the pain to go far away
And live a truly happy day
Life and death is the bet
Determination you haven’t seen yet
Replacing things childhood stole
Becoming a better man the goal
There’s only one problem I see
That’s lies in front of me
Dealing with childhood pain I’ve had
Not knowing what is was like
To have a dad
Darkness
Slowly the suns begins to set
My heart fills with regret
Never have I felt so low
My life unraveling slow
Help I cannot ask for
The dark calls me more and more
Strong as an oak I once stood
Nothings wrong only good
Til those roots start to rot
Stability I have not
Only longing for love
No help sent from above
Love standing right in front of me
My mind saying it just can’t be
Never have I thought I could be
Good enough just being me
Giving my heart away
Day after day after day
Until finally there is no more
And darkness closes the door
Abandonment and anger boils
My love and tenderness recoils
Digging my hole in the dirt
Only will my loved ones get hurt
For what I have done
Life long regret has begun
Having lost all hope
Feeling the rough cool rope
Downing some pills
With calmness my bran fills
Suddenly the noose is tight
Slowly fades the light
Now the darkness has me
Please try to forgive me
I Think the Book was Pinnochio
I think the book was Pinnochio
For sure? I don’t really know
Just laying on the bed
And then the words were said
Dad won’t be coming home anymore
My heart sank to the floor
Not knowing what I had done
I couldn’t talk to anyone
I was too young to take it all in
Feelings of loneliness begin
Years go by with barely a hello
Starting to feel ost in the shadow
Screaming out here I am
Does he even give a damn
Who just picks up and leaves their son
Worthless thoughts have begun
Then when he does come back
Feelings he just seems to lack
More like a friend
Than a dad on who you can depend
I’ll take what I can get
My childhood trying to forget
Between two families I’m lost
And what an emotional cost
Feeling that I just don’t belong
In the family for which I long
I wish I could forgive you
Right now that I can’t do
I’ll figure this out on my own
Just like when you left me alone
Could be the saddest sad
Never knowing what it’s like to have a dad
I Don’t Know What to Say Anymore
I don’t know what to say anymore
Seems to fade more and more
You’ve tried so hard so long
Where did it all go wrong
Always trying to make a smile
Slowing dying inside all the while
Moments of brilliance
Crushed by solitary silence
That’s the safe place
No one has to see your face
Alone you can stay
In your mind you can play
No one hears your cries
As you drown in all the lies
Your future only looks bleak
As you grow more and more weak
Looking only for forgiveness
The possibility less and less
You’ve never wanted any less
Then to experience happiness
But that chance has past
The truth revealed at last
No one wants you can’t you see
That’s as plain as day to me
Try and try as you may
In this place you will stay
There is no way out of here
The time begins to draw near
God you are just sick
Don’t care the method you pick
Time to end the lie we call you
Nothing left but one thing to do
Say your prayers and say goodnight
It’s time to permanently turn out the light
Poems by Tom Butts
Aububonthon
It happened over night, the traditional time slot for the fall
Of empires.
The global avian flu, trending down, imperiously morphed
Into a subvariant mutation identified as Ornochron 25, a
Novel virus which proved to be catastrophically
Cuckoo.
For the morning after Ornochron’s arrival everybody woke up
With the head of a bird.
The Media’s talking breaks arbitrarily called it the Gooney
Plague in reference to the optical oddity of those who arose
With the facial aspects of a gooney bird.
Unblinking historians with the poise of a crane about to nab
A silvery streak of truth officially named the pandemic
“The Great Berufflement”.
Concluding that unless Science found a cure the hybrid
Anomaly that as Ornochron 25 would last indefinitely.
The unblinking bottom line was as always Mankind would
Have to deal with it.
And as always Mankind dealt with it.
The irresistible weight of the need for normalcy and
Business as usual prevailed as they must.
Humans adopted a bird eye’s view of all thing big or
Small and faithful to their plumage plied their many
Trades, professions and life styles accordingly.
Owls assumed the gard and guise of judges, accountants
And academics with a keen eye for rectitude, protocol
And mice.
Hawks and eagles became cops, soldiers and flight
Attendants.
Flamingos and peacocks filled the world of show biz.
Parrots with rhetorical aplomb ministered the spheres
Of old and new religions.
Crows and vultures ably functioned as lawyers,
Sanitation workers and speedy cash specialists.
Hummingbirds as brain surgeons.
Woodpeckers as hard hats.
But within the Bird Cage of the World the majority
Of residents were plain sparrows.
Humble, hard working, obedient and anti
Ostentatious.
Their only group excitement was to gather by bushes
And foundations to twitter through the dying gleam of dusk.
When true night fell the essential business of existence
Commenced.
The nightingales came out to sing, throated full with the brave ease of melodious
immortality.
Drop Dead Dylan Thomas
It was a gentle night.
I hated its soft, rotten, placid guts.
Maybe “guts” is too strong.
Make that its “thin and shallow stomch lining”.
Anyways I needed to RAGE.
My light was dying.
You guessed it. A lousy prognosis.
Cloudy with a chance of early cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Dr. Feel Good.
I’ll be sure to haunt your waiting room forever.
Like I said my bulb was flickering and was primed to be unscrewed.
The bomb in my brain was crying to be set free to explode as overly
emotional bombs are wont to do.
Feeling unbearably I hd to DO something I decided to go out.
So out I went with RAGE leading me, no, whipping me in my raw,
Propulsive omni directional wrath.
With hands of tornadic fury I tore up every flower bed I stomped thru.
On to a warm graveyard I toppled every insipid, blank eyed stone
Angel that assailed me.
On the same wave length with teh arm strength of a Kodiak Grizzly
I hurled a brick precisely thru each stain glass window that adorned
The Church, that notorious breeding ground of insipid, blank eyed
Angels.
My RAGE still unabated I prepared to chop down a blossoming cherry
Tree. Yeah, I’ve heard that “loveliest of trees” aboreal apple sauce
Before.
Give me a high cliff. Slippery, barren with wind gusts up to 40 miles
Per hour. A stark summit where I could bless and curse till my tongue
Dropped out.
About to take my first whack a Summer sweat licking breeze
Randomly kissed my red fore head that then amingly penetrated
To the surly gates of my neglected and largely forgotten soul there
To work its wonderousness
I let loose the ax and went back inside.
Turned off the lights and went to sleep, happy as a scented candle
Pungently burning in the shadowed valley of unpaid utility bills.
Galapagos Park
The giant tortoises gradually gathered around a feeble and fading
Charles Darwin. Aboard the H.M.S Beagle that was pierced and
Sunk by a horde of devout narwhales a young adult Charles was
Swept ashore after becoming a baby again by his immersion in
Some oceanic elixir likely concocted by Neptune, Lord of Magic
And sea monkeys.
Adopted eventually by the cold blooded clan on the basis of his
Miraculous origin story young Charles became a thoroughly
Integrated in all things turtle. Epitomized at breeding time when
Charles crawled on all fours would dig the deepest egg ready
Holes in the hard pebbled sand.
Now an old Charles Darwin on the edge of his own imminent
Extinction spoke. “Goodbye, my dear family. Do survive and
Thrive. Remember one step at a time and watch your back if you
Can”.
Then a casket of silence encased the great castaway forever.
Ten minutes later a tear dropped.
From inside his hoary shell from which he never emerged the
Group’s spiritual leader commented.
“The naked one lived fast. Died young but evolved a true
Turtle’s heart. May he adapt well to the struggles of eternity.”
A strong breeze blew Darwin’s white wispy beard astray as one
More ten minute tear began its laborious descent.
Tote That
Dedicated to Jerome Kern
I heard Old Man River was on his last legs
I went to the Muddy Banks Rest Home to check it out.
I knocked and entered his brown, damp and funky smelling
Room.
The old man was in, what was left of him.
Which was a silty puddle in the saggy middle of a mattress
Of slate.
A ripple responded to my visitation.
Politely I hoped I asked , “Still rolling along?”
With a faint liquid but distinct voice the old man answered.
“Sweat and strain, Sir. Sweat and strain.”
Fixing to go I again politely spoke. “Hope you start flowing
Again when you get better, Sir”
Some agitated ripples appeared as the old man replied.
“Sir, if you think I”m bad off pay a call on the B.P oil
Spill across the hall.”
Interested that the mighty puddle was talking I set my
Cotton bale down, rested on it deciding to stay a stretch
Longer.
This old bird I thought was going to tell me something I
Didn’t know.
I wasn’t wrong.
With the rhythmic splash of a spectral paddle wheel
Outside the muddy window the old man began.
“First you git a little drunk—.”
Poems by Trinity Funnell
Garden origin
Fragile seed cloaked with grass
Bask in the shadow of conception
Droplets devour
Earth crumbles beneath
Sink to live
Close thy eye’s to thrive
Twisted fingers rip from thee
Soul manifests ‘twas a single green thread
Broken shovel chips away sealing tomb
Final rock break through
Breach blue
Climb the invisible
Secure anchor atop
Puddle drip off six corners
Overflowing pump red teardrops
Petal spiral vibrant pigment
Stigma lighthouse guides ships hither
Delicate soul sealed in shell
Mother’s grip loosens
I bid thee farewell
Oasis always out of reach
Never have my eyes lain on such a beauty!
mesmerizing maiden
Trapped a thousand bricks above
beautiful bronze fingers
Tap roughly in impatience
Along to a silent song
Sung within her head
Her hair is black as coal
Polished into curls
A crystal crown is worn
Hidden treasure, caught my breath!
Her dress is red
Embroidered roses dance along the edge
Sleeves of silk pour down like water
Oh the gods how long I’ve sought her!
Anger burns within my heart
I swear I’ll tear them all apart
Those who trapped her
Locked her away
To fly for them within her cage
I’ll free this angle!
Break the spell
Take down the dragon
Just name the hell!
Oh wait for me, my princess!
For I promise to return
Together we will ride away
I pray there be a weeding day
Cosmic Passion
Astronomical units measure the distance between you and I
Solar winds paint the sky while I lay by your side
Total eclipse is lightened by your touch
Red giant star burns like our love
Observatory searches for our twinkling bond
North star guides me back to your arms
Occultation fails to block out our pledge
Meteor shower allows me to fledge
Ylem binds us from morning to death
A Wizard’s Tail of Woe
Creeping vines
Sink teeth into stone
Eerie hut
A wizard's home
Mumbling stumbling
Is heard from inside
stained Glass window opened wide
Shimmering smoke cascade windowsill
bells and dried fruit
chime kamil
Enchanted sword
Historical tomb
A map of a cave, barley explored
Once in king’s service
Now without purpose
infant prince died
Tried to revive
created a zombie in lieu of boy
Sentenced to death
The forest he fled
His right hand clutched scrolls
His left grasped his staff
Arrows shot holes in his cloak and his hat
Ten decades alone
Twisted mind into madness
Still obsessed with reversing the damage
rotting vines
Prick flesh with their thorns
Forsaken shack
A wizard's tomb
Mummering shattering
Is heard from inside
stained Glass window distorts his lies
Poems by Troy Schoultz
Herons in Late August
Lily pads and algae painted the lake’s edge
In dirty emerald during the dog days
Clothes clung damp in the humid air. The sun
Swirled in masculine, drunken rage anticipating
Abbreviated stays and rusting leaves.
I walked my dog down the gravel trail
Taking in the shade of low branches.
In the city shorn clearing to the left,
On the cemetery edge, two herons grazed among cut grass,
Stilted, ominous, eyes of hidden consequence.
Sword beaks stabbed the ground, cries erupting
From long prehistoric throats,
Slicing and echoing through technology,
Wire, and steel, vibrating through
The vacant ribcages of the entombed
Until even my dog, Penny, who still contained the wolf
In her unrefined soul, given to the chase, the hunt,
And retrieve gave pause and respect,
Ears cocked to an ancient, unrecognized song.
Belief in Angels
The name “Buddy” is etched on a chrome bone
And enclosed in wings
On the tailgate of the cardinal red Dodge pickup
We’ve been stuck here in neutral
For what seems like an entire afternoon,
Waiting on the flagman to flip his stop sign
To a cautionary “slow.”
The scent of fresh asphalt burns nostrils, and its heat
Distorts the horizon and rises to rival the sun
on this late summer afternoon. The same truck
with the tailgate memorial to Buddy also has a bumper sticker
which informs me that angels are, in fact, real.
This world will numb us of all wonder and hope.
I hope it’s all true, but what would the truck’s owner make
Of Old Testament angels? Faces of both man and lion,
Swirling eyes, limbs of bronze.
Enough to make anyone expecting pink cherubs
or golden-haired dove-winged maidens to piss themselves in fear.
I rub my eyes trying to keep a headache at bay, trusting
In the truth of tailgates and secret codes,
Imaging God’s hands wiping away this mirage
Awakening my sight to a hill dense with horses
Pulling chariots aflame,
Lifting to a heaven we can all agree upon,
Where even Buddy will be waiting.
This Life is Fifty Per Cent Off
Everything is half-off, I consider the $2 power drills
Even though I own two already. The garage is picked over
Except for a table of beer steins, battery charger, and lawn chairs.
In the basement a woman complains about the lack
Of advertised items. But it’s Sunday, and the doors opened Friday.
You get what’s left, but what remains is dated and used, and built to last.
I know nothing about the former resident, nor do I wish to.
Don’t know if they are deceased, in hospice or retirement home.
I’m more into my own imagination.
Estate sales in autumn make me feel like a vulture,
sharp beak picking clean bones of someone’s history,
And end results of 9 to 5 40 work weeks and cookout weekends.
The house itself is wonderfully out of date, hallways smell of linen
And lemon polish. The spare bedroom’s sunlight
Spills on the quilted bed inviting you
To nap after a dinner served after morning church service.
You’d be welcomed to stay for coffee and dessert,
The silver coffee urn percolating into late afternoon,
Souvenir shot glasses waiting on brandy
Lined up on the kitchen counter
As if to say “Drink up! Cheers! Stay with us,
And watch The Green Bay Packers
Play the late game.
It was a good life we lived here.”
Lovely
The 102-year-old woman was captured on video
A few years before her death. She sat in her chair
With eyes like candle flame. She spoke
Of the daughter and the husband she adored,
And how she outlived both. Still
In her British lilt
She recited the word she used
To illustrate her life like a mantra
Lovely, lovely, lovely…
You can’t wash away the salt poured in fresh wounds,
But winters are meant to end,
And yes, it is lovely, finding the fireworks
Through the foggy pain, the sunrise
On the frozen lake.
It’s lovely knowing nothing lasts,
And even if I won’t last a year beyond
One hundred and two spins around the sun,
The snow is melting today and yes,
Despite it all
Everything is lovely,
Even when the day doesn’t break,
But awakens broken.