(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 otherwisePPS members are invited to submit.
Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order receivedTarget 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.)
September2019201920192019
1.
Jim Barkley,,,12
Michael Bourgo...13
Gail Denham...5
Marilyn Downing...7
Ann Gasser...11
Byron Hoot...4
Mark Hudson...6
Emiliano Martin...3
Marie-Louise Meyers...10
Patricia Thrushart...8
Girard Tournisol...9
Lucille Morgan Wilson...2
THE BLACKBIRDS BUILT NESTS WITH MY NOTES
—by Lucille Morgan Wilson
Plum branches spill their lacy froth over the rusty fence.
Their fragrance makes the quarter-mile walk to the mailbox
a fantasy of bridal veils and lacy trains, the weedy path
a carpeted aisle in my twelve-year-old mind. I sweep
gracefully toward a handsome, smiling gentleman
who looks like both the tenth grade boy who has just moved
next door and our paper boy’s older brother.
In mid-summer hard green knots hide between ovoid leaves
and sturdy thorns. I chase white and yellow cabbage butterflies,
tuck wish notes in a splintered fencepost and wait while the fruit swells.
As the leaves began a slow seasonal change, plums hang plump
and pink, their succulence attracts the bees, tests my patience.
Finally satisfied their peak has come, I gather a capful, sit down
on the roadside with my mouth watering. I bite through the thick skin
of a large beauty. The sour juice bursts into my mouth.
Tears spring to my eyes. I spit out the bite, throw the plums into the weeds.
The dry tartness puckers my mouth, its bitterness bites my tongue
and I run for cold water from the pump to dilute the sting.
Years later I am wary of springtime’s froth, test wild fruits
fearfully and seldom, while I tiptoe over the cinder paths of reality.
2.
3.
A PIECE OF WRITING
—by Emiliano Martín
for Jim Marinell, teacher, poet, editor and a dear long time friend mine
Opened minded
he is in favored of all forms,
rhyme and prose.
His blades of intellect
are propelled
by the centrifugal force
that escapes from self-experienced
and old fashioned common sense;
with a humble attitude rarely found
in the heart of poets.
His critiques are often keen
and sharp,
yet, his ability to touch
the poet’s thought,
make us see the
inside crossed section of
a piece of writing.
With his critique
it is not hard to understand
and reconstruct
deficiencies hidden in the
vanity of our verse
or thinking.
Thank you Jim. (*)
-------------------------------
( Poem published in achapbook
by Emiliano Martin“IN THE COMPANY
OF TIME”-1999page #32 )
photo from thewritelife.com
THE GUEST
—by Byron Hoot
I do not believe, know
by temperament I have
come under the influence
of the praying mantis
but rather through necessity
of which I had no need of until
the mantis was there beside me
prayerfully, silently saying Om
or Amen or Gloria over and over
again in that Gregorian chant
chamber of air that seemed
to have enclosed me unaware.
I was in silent meditation listening
to the mantis, being allowed
to overhear what patience
and deliberation probing the
universe for the right choice
in the moment felt like.
I didn't like it much
but I was drawn to it,
the way it promised
something, someone was this way,
my way coming.
I felt a rhythm
not of a heartbeat but something older,
so old it felt new
and the only thing
I could think was, "This is what The Divine
dances to."
4.
5.
KIND WORDS OR…LITTLE LIES
—by Gail Denham
Met up with poor old Frank on the way
here. He sure hits the bottle a lot,
but bless his heart, he’s real good
with those young’uns.
Bessie’s got her a new hat. You see that?
Kinda’ looks like a big bowl of overripe
fruit, but bless her heart, she does like
bright colors.
We done taken’ to shoppin’ over to Grant’s Market.
Albert’s Store is ok, sure ‘nuf; however, bless
his heart, Albert adds two, three cents to most
canned goods, didja’ know?
Anyways, real good to see you. Been such
a long time. Bless your heart, I know you got
that head-strong daughter of your’n to deal
with each and every day.
Take care now. I got to get dinner on the table,
or Ralph will be a tad cranky,
bless his ‘onery heart.
6.
THE GEORGIA GOLD RUSH
—by Mark Hudson
The second gold rush in the United States,
was the first in Georgia.
It started in 1829 in Lumpkin County where gold
was found in the North Georgia mountains.
Different stories have been told about this
gold rush, and none can be proven. Supposedly in 1540
Hernando De Soto went on an expedition in North Carolina, and a
Cherokee chief named Ozley Bird Saunosk showed him how to
mine for gold.
In Georgia, there is a story that a man named
Thomas Bowen found gold in the roots of a storm-blown tree.
Another story says a man named Benjamin Parks
found gold on his birthday in 1828 while walking
along a deer path.
The Georgia gold rush led to conflicts with the
Cherokee people, which led President Andrew Jackson
to create the Indian Removal act of 1830, which led
to the famous “Trail of Tears” story where many
Cherokee people perished.
The Georgia gold rush was a precursor
to the California gold rush, about which much more is known.
7.
BACHELOR STATUS
—by Marilyn Downing
Now, some would measure success
as a Masters Degree
in cyber security technology,
or landing a level two job
with a world class company,
or finding and furnishing the just-
right bachelor’s apartment,
or budgeting a real paycheck
for living, savings, investment ….
But for one young man I know well,
with these conditions all met,
framed diploma hanging on a wall,
tangible evidence of success is ….
A Mustang two-door sedan
torch-red in great condition,
affordable and licensed in
his own name.
8.
photo from the convers ation.com
SEPTEMBER’S SUN
—-by Patricia Thrushart
September’s sun wanes,
slanted,
weakened,
leaving morning dew longer,
lingering to reveal the spider
deep in her lacy funnel,
lined by luminous prismed drops
as countless as her eyes.
I walk to pick the morning’s herbs
and see the shining threads
woven among the sorrel,
the bent bladed grass.
I step carefully, wondering
how many times have I wrecked
something beautiful
without knowing?
Editor’s note: In case you missed seeing it in the NFSPS contest results, Patricia was the lucky First Place winner inCategory 2 of the 2019 contest which awarded her $500, and the honor of having her poem “CHURCHGOER” appear onthe back cover of the 2019 ENCORE where we can read it next June. Congratulations, Patricia!
9.
THE WIND
—by Girard Tournisol
She can always let you go hang yourself
She's always known you just won't listen
She knows you only learn by your skin
Hanging by a thread three sheets to the wind
She's told you and scolded you until the cows come home
You just don't listen like you listen to your friends
Empty vessels of brown and green glass
Hollow cheers to ghost clinks
Their quiet cabaret
10..
photo fro pinterest
*THE LEFTOVER BOMB
—by Marie-Louise-Meyers
Lulled by the fabled Lorelei, the siren song,
along the romantische Rhein.
Lured by the Weihnachten Markt, Leitmotiv,gingerbread houses and marzipan,
not the Brothers Grimm of the dark side
or Wagner's Übermensch, the Master Race.
Swastika-shaped trees
touched by the Blitzkrieg.The Viking Cruise Ship came to a sudden halt.
Rising out of the black depths like a Zeitgeist,hangers-on encrusted in the steel-jacketed bomb.
Earmarked for the city of Koblentz, evacuated.
Sunset red sky, Götterdämmerung, Twilight of the Gods.
So many secrets the river contained,
so many voices resonate, unnamed.
Like a thief from the deep,
what Nazi Geld buried beneath their feet?
But none could puncture the mood
or intrude on the calm
until the steel-jacketed bomb
stood up like a Biblical Psalm.
Molded and shaped into a Poem:
lest we forget, lest we forget!Out of the muck and mire,
bombs never retire.
*(This actuallyhappened when the riverwas low, and the cruisehad to stop and changeplans.
Naturally the peoplereceived a free cruisefor the future,)
11.
ALL ABOARD FOR “CYBORGIA”
—by Ann Gasser
Everyone seems to wonder where civilization is headed.
Will humans gradually be replaced by robots—
one part at a time?
Will the robot parts last forever,
or will that be a whole new industry—replaceable parts?
We wouldn’t need schools to learn,
—our brains could surf the Internet.
—we could re-learn how to be civil to each other.
Eventually we wouldn’t need food or clothing,
no restaurants, no bars, no boutiques.
We would no longer need lights or air-conditioning,
could cut our electric bills!
If we won’t need to eat, will we need to sleep? What will we do 24/7?
Maybe we could build houses for homeless humans still alive,
Maybe we could channel rivers from wet areas to bone dry ones.
What about good and evil?
Will our Cyborg brains know the difference?
Will they care?
Who is going to decide what is Right and what is Wrong?
What is going to stop us from blowing each other to bits?
And before this all happens, will God intervene?
12.
7 BELLS
—by Jim Barkley
in a moment of contemplation
i took a sudden walk.
franz would have understood.
a walk toward the steeple
and its moon from the west,
a walk toward the steeple
and its corals bright from the east,
at 7 bells,
at 7 bells,
“my friend, how are you,
in this fading light as aspirations begin to
sink
and spires, turn to ink?”
NEXT STEPS
—by Michael Bourgo
About death, I no longer worry much—
at least not the event itself,
which is not a distance away
though the means, often cruel,
should make me pause.
Mostly, I think I am curious
about the forever, about what
that state might contain:
will I see my parents,
fall in love again,
still listen to Beethoven,
soar among the planets,
learn to think like a tree
or feel like a flower
as a bud becomes a bloom?
Much as this seems lovely,
it seems unlikely in equal measure,
for how do we separate the soul
from its breathing flesh?
What do we say it might be
without the blood that bonds it
to our eyes and voice?
In the end I confess—
knowing would mean nothing
to the rest of my days,
but those were dear thoughts—
and I think I should enjoy them
from time to time.
13.
OnOnOnOnthethethethe
Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side
September2019201920192019
Ann Gasser...16
Mark Hudson...19
Prabha Nayak Prabhu...17
Michael Bourgo...20
Gail Denham...18
Marilyn Downing...15
14.
15.
VERSATILE MUSCIAN
—by Marilyn Downing
A musician from far off Qatar
Broke his favorite acoustic guitar.
In anguished dismay
He went to Bombay
Where he learned to strum a sitar.
Since travel had caused him such strife,
He settled down with a new wife,
Raised a family to play
Indian tunes their way,
For a musical rest of his life.
15.
THE WAY IT WAS
—by Ann Gasser
Like steps in some staid mating dance,
the “hes” and “shes” looked for romance
to lead to families, see them thrive,
to insure our human race would survive.
The ‘hes” thought women should be sweet
and cook good things for them to eat.
The “shes” liked “hes”well-built and strong
and prefer-ably lean and long.
Alas, today, how things have changed—
not only roles are re-arranged,
we must be po-lit-i-ca-lly correct,
and who in the world would ever expect
more than two—a whole bunch of genders—
some genuine, and some just pretenders?
I feel lots of stress and considerable strain
as I ponder it all in my antique brain.
MISCONSTRUED
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
She thought she’d mitigate his plight
Because he was a sorry sight
But when he took it as a slight
And seemed to bait her for a fight
She thought it prudent to take flight
Before the evening turned to night.
16.
caetoon from pingtree.com
17.
ANYWHERE, ANY TIME, ANY PLACE
—by Gail Denham
Can you write it on a bed?
Can you see scenes in your head?
Would you jot while at a diner?
Make notes while sailing on a liner?
At a desk, or in a crate,
Scribble phrases on a date?
If words are there – and if you care,
You can write poems anywhere.
On a table – in a gable,
Through the storm – that’s the norm.
Rule out doubt – try it out.
Take out your pen – with God, begin.
published in the Wyoming Poetry Newsletter, 2013
19.
SPILLING AT THE FILLING STATION
—by Mark Hudson
I was driving with a friend. He stopped for gas.
I wanted to get a Big Gulp to quench my thirst.
I went up to the counter—my drink was served fast.
Good turned to bad and then worse became worst.
The Big Gulp spilled, spreading like a mass,
I stood there, and watched and admit I cursed.
The attendant grabbed rags and wiped the glass.
I apologized profusely, as Windex was dispersed.
I bought another Big Gulp, the attendant wasn’t crass,
and I thanked him for the kind tone in which he conversed.
The area was a place that serves the upper class,
and this humble attendant put people first.
He was a kind and even-tempered gent—
didn’t yell at me for my Big Gulp accident.
19.
LOST SUMMER
—by Michael Bourgo
The rain is falling everywhere,
and it’s not fair—
that damp and wet
is all we get.
This ought to be the time for sun,
when we could run
with heartfelt praise
through golden days;
instead, we see a gloom of clouds,
too many shrouds:
this isn’t summer,
but a bummer!