Becky Alexander...12
Maureen Applegate...6
Elizabeth Bodien,,,14
Von S. Bourland...11
Michael Bourgo...7
Selma Calnan...16
Gail Denham...10
Marilyn Downing...2
Lynn Fetterolf...17
Deborah Filanowski...4
Ann Gasser...3
Mark Hudson...9
Inge Logenburg Kyler...18
Emiliano Martin...19
Marie-Louise Meyers,,,15
Jacqueline Moffett ..5
Henry Spottswood...13
Lucille Morgan Wilson...8
FebruaryFebruaryFebruaryFebruary2012012012018888
1.
(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors
28 lines or less,
formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,
and other shared images.
PPS members are invited to submit.
Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received
Target date for sending out—10th of each month
“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..)
HOME NEVER WAS A PLACE
—by Marilyn Downing
“I learned – at last – what Home could be”
—Emily Dickinson
If childish wishes were houses,
I might have lived in a white cottage
with green shutters, Priscilla curtains,
trellised roses, a picket fence, smoke curling up
from the chimney toward a blue sky,
fluffy white clouds and V-shaped birds.
But that white cottage never left
its two-dimensional art paper on
my grade school desk.
Three states, five towns, dwellings of various
sizes and shapes, and seven decades later,
I found it takes a lifetime to finally
understand home has never been a place ….
Each house has taught me what it knows …
Home is what I took with me in moves
from place to place, house to house …
Home is constructed of memories, more
intricately designed, more lasting than
wood or stone or bricks, green shutters,
trellises and picket fences, or wisps of smoke
curling from a fireplace chimney.
Within this present house I have my home,
solid, multi-dimensional memories of family life …
“What Home could be” it has become.
2.
3.
TO THE BOY WHO DUMPED ME
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN
—by Ann Gasser
I thought of you today.
It happens sometimes
when a golden oldie program on the radio
plays "our" ancient song,
or when I see young lovers
walking hand in hand.
This time the thought
was triggered by a phone call,
a voice I barely recognized,
saying, "I am Wendy,
we were best friends in Tenth Grade—
Do you remember me?”
As she spoke, and words came tumbling out
like fugitives from Pandora's box,
I thought of some dysfunctional guest on “Dr. Phil.”
I listened as she said she is back in town after all these years,
no husband, five kids, the oldest sixteen.
She is working as an LPN in a nursing home,
taking courses when she can, to earn a B.S. in nursing.
We reminisced for a while, and she asked about you—
(she had introduced us, if you recall..)
I told her how you had dumped me soon after she moved away—
how I found the love of my life, my fulfilling career.
(For which I shall always be
overwhelmingly, ecstatically, eternally grateful
to you and to the guardian angel
who watches over me.)
4.
THE SAGA OF THE COHO SALMON
WHICH SWIMS UPSTREAM
AGAINST THE CURRENT
AGAINST THE ODDS
DODGING HUNGRY PREDATORS
CIRCUMVENTING OBSTACLES
ALL FOR THE RESERVATION
OF THE SPECIES
—by Deborah Filanowski
The Coho salmon swims hundreds of miles
spreads its sperm and dies.
And you won’t even get me another glass of wine.
photo fromFlyLife Magazine
5.
MOMENTS IN TIME
—by Jacqueline Moffett
tick tock, tick tock, when you are very young,
passage of time is not a daily concern
high school, college, marriage, new job, children,
these are major items of anxiety.
Important scenes flash through your mind,
but you are busy providing a living for your family,
every hour must be productive.
tick, tock…
when grandchildren are born, family and friends
become more precious,
events and happenings of yesteryear seem current.
How we love to reminisce.
Is this behavior normal?
Yes, it is…
our fondest memories return once again
to make us smile.
tick, tock…we now have the time.
6.
GOING HOME
—by Maureen Applegate
We stepped into our Brigadoon,
fifty years within the fog
of family tales and photo books...
our linking bridge just concrete roads,
arrow straight between the rows
of drying corn, small round barns...
and windmills waving lazy arms.
Two grand dames on county seats
still hold court on old town squares,
and vintage houses still remain with
schoolyards, fair grounds, church remains
attesting to the lives and deaths
that fifty years cannot divest.
But mist returns to cloak the years
and we must leave hometowns again.
Just one day to reminisce...
just one day... now time insists
we leave the past well guarded and
take just our memories... sharp again.
photo fom Internet Wiki MHSrebuilt.jpg
THE POET’S LAMENT
—by Michael Bourgo
Writing verse is never easy
when form must take its rightful part:
rhyme and meter make me queasy.
Perfect lines may seem too breezy
when I would aim for soul and heart:
writing verse is never easy.
Stanzas often come off lazy,
mere phrases from a greeting card:
rhyme and meter make me queasy.
Those thoughts once clear now ring hazy:
what came so close will miss the mark.
Writing verse is never easy.
Often words sound far too busy,
an artifice become too smart:
rhyme and meter make me queasy.
Crafting poems leaves me dizzy,
for sirens sing within this art.
Writing verse is never easy:
rhyme and meter make me queasy.
7.
NON-REFILLABLE
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
There is cause to mourn
for a pen
that has written its last words
an instrument from which once
vibrant bold characters
flowed in scribbles and scrolls
almost without hand’s volition
now mute
its final efforts a fading a w a y
then nothing . . .
. . .nothing . . .
and dying with it
the untold stories
of yesterday and tomorrow
of all the tomorrows
8.
Silograph Corsani
9.
THOSE CARDS
—by Mark Hudson
I stood at the post office and waited my turn;
I had nothing but lots of time to burn.
In front of me, a mother placed her order,
behind her, her daughter was young and shorter.
The woman was in front of me in line,
and the little girl looked at valentines.
They have those cards out a month in advance,
they don't want anyone missing their chance!
The mom said, "Honey, we have to go,"
The girl said, "There's a valentine I want to show,"
So the mom patiently stopped to take a view,
and the child must've known that love is true.
The child was so cute, as children always are,
and Valentine's day cads are sent near and far!
clip-art by mzayat.com
10.
GET REAL
—by Gail Denham
I speed past the dumb displays
with the skeleton-look mannequins
who sport the latest bosom-baring
styles, which could never show what
isn’t there anyway on those paper-thin,
sightless examples; someone’s misguided
ideas of what the ideal figure ought to be.
The shops ignore the normal droopy-boobed,
ample-hipped women like me, who turn their
eyes from those scarecrow shadows, while
they head toward the large woman’s
size DD cup, 2X rack, after they stop for
a small chocolate fudge brownie
with ice cream and nuts.
photo by Gail Denham
AN UNENDING TALE
—by Von S. Bourland
Caught in her amber bridal veil –
encircling glow of honey hue –
the silver moon appears quite pale
like death’s white horse. A fingernail
of light that shimmers casts the view
caught in her amber bridal veil.
Her swain, deep twilight, where stars fail
to show, wears garb of velvet – blue.
The silver moon appears quite pale
like noontime clouds which seem to Braille
their way across the sky – milieu
caught in her amber bridal veil.
Their wedding songs resound travail
while bride and groom dread morning’s dew.
The silver moon appears quite pale.
Their plight is an unending tale –
each daybreak they must bid adieu.
Caught in her amber bridal veil
11.
photo by Glenn Gasser,
Jensen Beach, FL
AGAINST THE HEADWIND II
—by Becky Alexander
Today, I am a raven
caught in a headwind;
bereft of feathers, and hollow bones,
I cannot pull free from earth’s draw;
only in dreams can I beat doctrined laws
of physics, only in dreams real as red
can I find wings to beat
the concrete chains of science.
.
© B. Alexander, June 24, 2005
12.
WHAT’S THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?
—by Henry Spottswood
Need I be so serious
about it, this nagging effort
at writing yet another poem?
It’s all been said before, the same
or similar tropes, phrases, allusions,
down to the homeliest worn syllables.
My secret, face it, hope for fame,
drop a stone down the well again:
it’s been said – but not by me.
13.
photo from thegilding.com
14.
HYPE AND STRUGGLE
—by Elizabeth Bodien
No, I can’t tell you, you already know, whisper it in your walk
coming late from the street, swiggling, swaggering,
you fall down, call the spirits
they wait it out
pull your whisper walk down, your oogly eyes in
hide that practiced drawl in your raggedy pocket
whose heart did you break tonight?
what red moon did you claim?
set your shoes down as you set to sleep
they will not go without you
all the night you will toss as if your dreams
were answered by some bigger bargain
crawl up, climb back
into the womb, the forgetting
now is not the day’s hype and struggle
now is when you, even you, submit
NEEDLECRAFT
—by Marie-Louise Meyers
The steady click and clack of needles
breaks the monotony of the clock ticking.
A kind of security written in the woven wool
wound round fingers like a bargaining tool,
inundating the mind with a patterned lift
held together by a Chain stitch
or skipping around while holding fast
to the memories of the past.
Whiling away the hours, drifting,
instead of the dread of everyday realities,
the image of patience and forbearing witness
but soon gathering momentum and vision
for some who never notice the painstaking
precision,
but feel the fullness and warmth of extension,
wrap-around sentiments,
the embodiment of self
off on a solitary raft of needlecraft
for peace of mind which takes us,
without blinders,
without the daily torque that breaks us.
15.
painting by Jozeph Israels 1824-1911
16.
A ROMEO OF THE SENIOR CENTER
—by Selma Calnan
To anyone behind him in the lunch line
his bald, round dome with wisp fringe
ironically resembled a friar’s tonsured head.
Face to face, you can see
his hair has slipped forward
to form one eyebrow, long and luxurious
like a sleepy English sheepdog.
The regulars know better.
They watch him pause,
survey the pickings
from behind his hirsute duck blind.
He morphs into a cruising bull yak—
pauses—then slowly lumbers forward
toward the unwary target of the day.
Too late she realizes she’s his prey.
from her book
“Poems Worth A Second Look”
(1939 to 2017)
HOUSE HUNTING
—by Lynn Fetterolf
Somebody lives in each house by the road.
Their lighted windows beckon.
Somebody’s dreams are encased in those walls
the place they’ve turned into a home.
Somebody sits in their favorite chair
and reads from a favorite tome.
Somebody’s flowers bloom by the gate,
their green trees are stretching tall.
Somebody’s waiting for someone to come.
They’ll hurry to answer the call.
When you pass by any house in the road,
smile as you go on your way.
For somebody’s filled each house with love.
And there’s one where you’re welcome to stay.
17.
18.
TWO SISTERS
—by Inge Logenburg Kyler
Years ago
on the junior high school stage
two cousins being in different classes
passed a big shiny tuba
to each other,
for the spring concert
under the proud eyes
of their mothers
who were sisters.
Later, in the concert of life
one of the youths became a navigator
refueling bombers in a war
while the other worked
in United States Embassies
throughout the world
that other bombers
tried to destroy.
The two sisters, again,
watched, listened,
hoped and prayed.
19.
THE MORE OF HER
—be Emiliano Martin
I woke up this morning
and felt the early rays of the sun
softly...
caressing my mood.
That light and warmth
did not come through
the windows
but the fingers of her attitude.
Slowly...
I bathed in her image
I soaked in her words
to dry off by instinct
and ready to love
everything about her.
The way that she treats me
her kissing... and more.
OnOnOnOnthethethethe
Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side
February2012012012018888
Ann Gasser...22
Inge Logenburg Kyler...26
Prabha Nayak Prabhu...28
Constance A. Trump...29
Lucille Morgan Wilson...25
20.
Becky Alexander...30
Maureen Applegate...23
Michael Bourgo...24
Gail Denham...27
Marilyn Downing..21
Lynn Fetterolf...28
TRAVEL TALE IN THE NEWSPAPER
—by Marilyn Downing
Airlines try to meet a passenger’s needs
when an adjacent seat is bought.
But according to the daily newspaper
one passenger’s wish came to naught.
Imagine the scene at a Delta flight gate
when a woman caused quite a shock,
insisting she paid for the seat next to hers
for her therapy pet – a full-sized peacock.
Delta Airlines would not accommodate
a feathered passenger with a six-foot tail.
The woman was told in very clear terms
her therapy pet plea would not prevail.
Don’t you wonder what the sequel will be:
a court case waged against the airline
to pay for a woman’s psychiatric distress
if her therapy pet had to stay behind.
21.
photo from WHYY
22.
FEBBRRRRRRRUARY
—by Ann Gasser
My feet keep slipping, my nose is dripping,
and sleet stings like little ice bees.
Now snow is snowing, a bitter wind's blowing,
forecasters predict more deep freeze.
I think I know what is going on,
I have lived through these cycles before.
Mother Nature is showing us SHE is in charge
and she's thumbing her nose at Al Gore.
23.
THE REFUND?
—by Maureen Applegate
There is no such thing as a Tax Return
for people in my situation.
A return implies that something’s come home
(with home as its destination.)
My neighbors have waited quite patiently
for me to replace the eye-sore
of my bent over lamp post, taped window screens,
and handle-less rusty screen door.
This year’s return will take care of these three
and pay for new brakes on the car.
I might even purchase an oven that works
(of course if it stretches that far!)
I WILL do my best with the refund to come
to keep the economy spry,
to “return the return” to more taxes and goods…
and the rest of the year just get by!
24.
NEW JERSEY (THE 3RD STATE, 1788)
—by Michael Bourgo
New Jersey is a crowded place—
a lot of souls without much space,
and as I read in one profile,
more than a thousand each square mile!
Long ago in a war with our royal boss,
when it was feared our cause was lost—
two victories in northern Jersey
proved our cause was still most worthy!
In its past were country charms:
fertile fields on pretty farms,
where grew the food for New York City—
but now the ambience is gritty!
Refining oil can be quite crude
and handling bets can spoil your mood,
but Jersey folk know how to chill:
it’s just their job and not a thrill,
and if it’s how your home gets bacon,
you’d better not be belly-achin’!
25.
IT’S CLEAR TO ME NOW
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
When in the midst of night I wake . . .
I’ll make quick notes . . .now where’s my pad--
lest inspiration slip my grasp,
the greatest thought I’ve ever had.
Excitement holds more sleep at bay.
till finally, with royalties,
fans’ calls and letters stacking high,
I hug my pillow, take my ease.
Then dawns the morning’s ruthless light
upon my midnight scrawl.
I’ll neither Frost nor Kipling be;
handwriting’s on the bedroom wall.
26.
GREAT GRANDDAUGHTER’S
4TH BIRTHDAY PARTY
—by Inge Logenburg Kyler
She banged the drum and marched the hall
and wobbled, trying not to fall.
The bright blue roller skates were new
and meant to strap on any shoe.
Her little sister tagged along
and sang into her horn, a song.
I stored the scene within my mind,
this best of treasure I could find.
FEAR THE JOWLS
—by Gail Denham
Bassett hound, his jowls a-drip
barks as though your limbs he’d rip,
while his soulful eyes belay
his dire threat to make you prey
27
photo by Gail Denham
WISHFUL THINKING
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
There once was a woman from Mali
Who wished to marry Mohammed Ali
She was badly shaken
When she heard he was taken
Screamed, “I’ll see I get Salvador Dali.”
28.
photo freom artsology
HERE'S THE PLAN, STAN!
—by Constance A.Trump
Punxsutawney Phil
should be road kill,
his eyes are failing him;
another 6 weeks of
freezing my cheeks
makes life look mighty grim.
Round up the old coot
and give him the boot,
before its too late to act;
so Ground Hog day
will no more delay
29.
28.
A TICKLE OF MAUVE
—by Becky Alexander
A tickle of mauve!
Now that’s quite a title,
I’ll keep working on it
‘til I get it rightl.
The best of the bunch
is the royal of purple,
so splendid and regal,
especially grape slurple.
And mauve, the pale sister
in this colour tribe,
is the candy cane winner
of this poem I scribe.
So go flaunt your greens,
and your oranges and blues,
for a tickle of mauve
rings the bell of my muse!
TRUE LOVE
—by Lynn Fetterolf
When I am told the magic never ends
My skepticism warns me, just stay friends.
That moon in June malarkey’s just a rhyme
Has nothing much to do with endless time.
Great singers croon, and poets add a line.
I think the facts have more to do with wine
Than any truth I have been privy to.
True love stays true as long as it is new.
It rarely lasts beyond when mating’s game
Fires both of you with passion’s fickle flame.
The longer romance lasts, the weaker gets.
I may be long in tooth and graying, yet
Should some handsome rogue ask me to marry,
I’d not be averse to cupid’s arrow.
29.