Candace Kubinec...12 Emiliano Martin...5 rabha Nayak Prabhu...11 Patricia Thrushart ...8 Girard Tournisol...9 Vicky Fake-Weldon...3 Michael Bourgo...13 Gail Denham...6 Marilyn Downing...14 Lynn Fetterolf...2 Ann Gasser...7 Byron Hoot...4 Mark Hudson ...10 (Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared) copyrighted by authors 28 lines or less, formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages, and other shared images.unless stated otherwise PPS members are invited to submit. Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received Target date for sending out—10th of each month “Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS, The Essence of PPS, The Essence of PPS, The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) July 201 201 201 2019 1.
Transcript
Candace Kubinec...12
Emiliano Martin...5
rabha Nayak Prabhu...11
Patricia Thrushart ...8
Girard Tournisol...9
Vicky Fake-Weldon...3
Michael Bourgo...13
Gail Denham...6
Marilyn Downing...14
Lynn Fetterolf...2
Ann Gasser...7
Byron Hoot...4
Mark Hudson ...10
(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors
28 lines or less,
formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,
and other shared images.unless stated otherwise
PPS members are invited to submit.
Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received
Target date for sending out—10th of each month
“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.)
July2012012012019999
1.
2.
SKYSCAPE
--by Lynn Fetterolf
Summer’s blank page of sky
is written on by anvil clouds
that build to evening storms
scrawling zigzag missives.
Later, on nearby Redman Lake, Fall leaves,
framed in sky’s crisp blues, Xerox
themselves onto silent waters. The air
is scented with wood smoke and crushed apples.
Before we know, the skies of Winter, dull and dour,
hover over us. We become cold creatures,
bundled like packages, breathing smoke
and rubbing hands as praying mantis do.
Then Spring tints crystal skies with crimson
outlining nature’s riot of color,
her bridal bouquet
thrown to a waiting world.
And the cycle begins again.
photo by youtube.com
3.
PERENNIAL PARADE
—by Vicky Fake-Weldon
The blooming buds of roses welcomed May,
bright red helps celebrate the holiday.
Astilbe blooms attract a small wild bee,
the tiny spikes of color—feathery.
Such beauty has rebloomed in endless rhymes
by poets living in so many times.
Near arborvitae limbs where brambles grow
a mother flies and calls her fledgling crow.
Some songbirds perch upon a wiry pew,
a singing choir exulting nature's view.
photo from buzzaboutbees.net
4.
TO HAYDEN CARRUTH
—by Byron Hoot
. . . and I cannot get away
from reading
especially words
devoted by the feelings and
thoughts of those who can't,
like me, leave things such as
beauty and truth alone.
And, of course, that from which
these spring -- love.
All artists, all true artists --
we know the difference inherently
and utterly -- have been, are
lovers of this world, this life,
its joy and sorrows and
the incessant
sigh of the beloved
given all the time.
To these, whomever they
are --
the ones I've read, the
ones waiting
to be read -- I am drawn
to,
these who Carruth says, "
know
photofrom the University of Chicaho magazine
5.
POETRY CAN BE
—by Emiliano Martin
Poetry can be fantasy… coming from a dreamer.
Poetry can be joyful… coming from a happy man.
Poetry can be inspiring … coming from a winner.
Poetry can be romantic… coming from the heart.
Poetry can be sensual…coming from a lover.
Poetry can be meaningful…coming from a philosopher.
Poetry can be religious… coming from a nun.
Poetry can be inexplicable… coming from an intellectual.
Poetry can be funny… coming from a comedian.
Poetry can be sad… coming from a loser.
Poetry can be interesting… coming from a thinker.
Poetry can be a melody… coming from her lips.
Poetry can be depressing… coming from a tortured mind.
Poetry can be political… coming from a radical.
Poetry can be crude… coming from an angry man.
Poetry can be irrational… coming from a wannabee
Poetry can be obscene… coming from a pervert.
Poetry can be senseless… coming from an idiot.
Poetry can be cruel… coming from a mad man.
Poetry can be lost… coming from the fields of emptiness.
Poetry can be… just about anything we want it to be,
but unforgotten, wise and sincere…coming from a poet
like you and... me.
6.
CAN’T WIN
—by Gail Denham
“Keep an eye on your brother.”
“Sure thing, Ma, soon’s I get my foot
outta’ my mouth.” I’d told old Myra May
she was pretty as a picture.
She hauled off and smacked me upside
the head, askin’ “Whose picture?”
Didn’t give me a chance to explain I had
a poem about roses are red for her in my
pocket. When I pulled my hand out, I still
had ‘ahold of the frog I caught last night.
She yelled, “Here’s mud in your eye.”
She wasn’t kiddin’ neither,
“so you see why
I cain’t watch little Bill what
with the mud
and the foot, plus the frog all
tangled
up in this here poem.”
photo from livescience.com
7.
PATRIOTS ON PARADE
—by Ann Gasser
When the saxophones hum
to the thumping bass drum
and brass trumpets blare up to the sky,
when guitars and bassoons
join to play martial tunes
sure to bring a bright tear to one's eye,
when a piccolo's toot
joins the trill of a flute
to compete with the trombones' cry,
when the snare drummers treat
eager ears to their beat
as two hundred feet march by,
when batons of each girl
chill and thrill as they twirl
and their bright costumes amplify...
then the crowd yells and cheers
as Old Glory appears
carried proudly and flying high,
and our hearts overflow,
we salute and we glow
on our Greatest Day—Fourth of July!
8.
HOW MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL
-by Patricia Thrushart
How much more beautiful
Than the tinny chatter in my head
Is the wind in the oaks.
A dove croons.
A junco trills.
I walk in beauty
And even my footsteps
Seem too loud.
The vireo scolds me: Here I am!
The thrush warbles: it is June!
The woods say: quiet, mind! Be still!
I am stunned into peace.
9.
BEAR CALLS
—by Girard Tournisol
The black bear called last night,
expectant randomness of black on blank.
Sauntered by my garden and chicken coup
for sugar water in the hummingbird feeder.
Places have lives like things and beings,
a birth, a life, a death and sorta an afterlife,
at worst an afterlife that won't let go,
at best one that knows when to let go.
Ten chickens could have filled his belly.
I suppose garden salad wasn't on the menu.
It was just time to remind the hummingbird and me
who's the boss.
photo from dnr.we.gov
10.
SWEET SUMMER MELON
—by Mark Hudson
On my vacation to Michigan,
I enjoyed eating Santa Claus melon
with my aunt and uncle by the lake.
I wanted to know why
it was called Santa Claus melon,
and why we were eating it in summer.
I can’t remember why
it was called Santa Claus melon,
but it was sweet and good.
It probably came from the Caribbean
and it was fresh.
Recently, my mother told me
my aunt’s mother, a woman named Dixie,
passed away. We knew it was coming.
I haven’t met her that often,
but I’m fond of my aunt and uncle
so I sent them a sympathy card.
Santa Claus is not real. Santa Claus is not real.
But one day I may taste that melon again.
We never know when we might die.
Happiness is precious moments of relief in bad times.
Don’t let anyone steal these moments away from you.
LET DOWN
a Vowelette
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
When in a huff she sent him on his way,
she never doubted he’d be back one day.
“Where will he find a better girl than me?
In no time he’ll come running back,” thought she.
There was no sign of him as months passed by.
The only thing that she could do was cry.
Then suddenly he called to say “Hello”
She jumped with joy, her face was all aglow.
But when she asked if they could start anew,
he simply said, “ I don’t love you, Adieu.”
11.
12.
SHADES OF A SUMMER DAY
—by Candace Kubinec
If I could paint a summer day
I would stroke the canvas
with shades of green –
vibrant green of new grass,
a soft silvery green
that flashes on the underside of maple leaves
when the wind blows,
neon green of sweet potato vines
flowing over the side of a large clay pot,
blueish-green of a noble spruce at the edge of some woods,
yellow-green of a Hosta, lighting up a shady spot
beside a country house.
I’d add a touch of soft blue, here and there,
with dabs of white,
then, just for fun, I’d splash it all with bits of
yellow, orange, and red.
13
THE SNAKE
—by Michael Bourgo
I startled a snake
gliding through the rocks
near the corner of the house--
or did the snake startle me?
Each of us froze in his spot,
locked in place for a long moment,
and then he moved,
as only a serpent can,
a symmetry of undulations,
sliding into a narrow hole.
There would be no discussions
with this shining fellow,
no commerce between our races,
only this silent meeting,
and then, that long separation
we have known since Eden.
14.
DREAM CATCHERS
—by Marilyn Downing
In sleep
my memories
revisit me in dreams
in disconnected seams . . .
some are stories
I keep . . .
Awake
I try to hold
tight to the fantasies
from dreamland’s store that please
like tales twice-told . . .
They break . . .
away . . .
Too soon dreams ebb
beyond my conscious mind.
My waking thoughts I find
caught in the web
of day.
photo from IndiaMart
OnOnOnOnthethethethe
Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side
July2019201920192019
Lynn Fetterolf...16
Ann Gasser...20
Mark Hudson...17
15.
Michael Bourgo...19
Gail Denham...21
Marilyn Downing...18
16.
LOVE ON THE NET
—by Lynn Fetterolf
I can call myself lissome, blond or brunette
to my phantom lover on the Internet.
He’ll never see age or fat or crow’s feet
because he and I will never meet.
What a great way to build my self-esteem.
He’s writing that I am his lifelong dream.
He tells me how lovely I sound and look
and he doesn’t even care if I can cook.
We converse for hours on all sorts of topics
till my temperature rises like I’m in the tropics.
Every kind of desire is constantly sated.
With the wizard of romance I’m Web-site mated.
I’m hooked! I’m in love! To the Net I’m addicted.
I can say anything and not be convicted.
I can lie I’m as lovely as Christie Brinkley
and he won’t laugh; he’ll merely think me
the answer to fantasies he’s had for years.
I’ve erased all his dread and performance fears.
It’s totally instant gratification
without the bother of serious relation.
For as long as this lasts, I’m in heaven each day,
enjoying love in the dreamiest way.
Should true image become a required adjunct
my love on the Net will become defunct!
photo from Riverside Bail Bonds
17.
THE HOLE
—by Mark Hudson
My family trips are rather embarrassing,
for myself, my sister, and others,
and making me laugh like a silly clown
was a favorite pastime of hers.
One trip I went on as a child,
we rode down the water slide.
As we laughed and splashed on Wet and Wild,
we noticed something that would not hide.
A hole popped in my sister’s bathing suit,
appeared on her right side butt cheek.
She didn’t see it—we thought it was cute,
but she might feel more shy and meek.
We didn’t want to ruin her day,
by making the hole a big deal.
But it started to spread and we watched, horrified
worrying how she would feel.
Finally the bathing suit exploded,
and it could no longer be worn.
My family’s laughter just imploded
as she wore the skin suit in which she was born.
18.
BREAKING POINT
—by Marilyn Downing
My cleaning lady’s a true prize.
Nothing misses her eyes ….
She cleans mold from the fridge,
dusts the top of each ridge,
scrubs dried blood from the rug,
pulls the couch out with a tug,
dispatches spiders and bugs
with her brave, blasé shrugs ….
When I heard her screech in fright,
I scurried to a strange sight.
She stood frozen in place
with a trembling white face.
A dead mouse as small as my thumb
caused her screech,, then struck her dumb.
The small creature had entered my house
where a cat plays to death a wee mouse.
I swathed said mouse in a tissue
and thereby settled the issue.
We each have a time to be bold,
or this tale could never be told!
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN (1706-1790)
—by Michael Bourgo
When young he found he had the knack
to write Poor Richard’s Almanac,
and with the money that he made—
at forty he retired from trade.
Ben was a man with great ambitions
who took on many varied missions—
as a writer or inventor,
as scientist or civic mentor,
he played each role to great acclaim
and achieved enduring fame.
He was our trusty diplomat
who charmed the French with his fur hat,
and gained their help to win the war
that chased the British from our shore.
He later made a contribution
in laying out our Constitution,
and when he died all did attest—
here was a man who gave his best!
19.
20.
EFFECTIVE
—by Ann Gasser
I sprayed my lawn with effluent
one bright and sunny day.
I must admit the stench was foul—
I’m not sure why it smells that way.
My neighbor said, "Phew! What an awful stink!
Why do you use that spray?”
And I replied succinctly,
"It keeps the elephants away!"
He looked at me as though I was daft,
had suddenly gone berserk,
said.”"No wild elephants a thousand miles of here!"
