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Thursday, April 17, 2014

Poem for April 17



Water lilies, and
one curled red leaf, ripple
the still, green pond.

**
Broccoli spinach
kale collards turnip greens,
rusted old dump truck.

**

Hawk wing, turtle shell,
femur of forgotten fawn—
shadow box treasures.

**
Purple plum tree leaf
twists on a spider’s filament
as I brush by

Judith Stanton

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Poem for April 16



Breaking . . . Fish . . . Together



Cleaning—emptying—
the fish they’ve caught,
the couple fills itself/themselves.
Long years together. 
Years of fish.

He never said, “Wives clean fish.”
She never said, “When you’ve
cleaned the fish, bring them to me.”

Skin speckled like fish.
Wrinkles, glasses,
but emptying the fish
renews in its ritual;
sight sees again as sight is seen.

Sacred, this act.
Fish and hands in bloodied water,
liquid consecrated.  So pure
jewelry need not be removed.
They break . . . fish . . . together.

Lynn Veach Sadler

Monday, April 14, 2014

Poem for April 15



TAXES
(My apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)

Once upon a midnight dreary as I struggled weak and weary
Over a changed Form 1040 I had never seen before.

Back and forth I did the sums, looking for deduction crumbs
Hoping, ever hoping that I’d find a way to score.

But alas twas not my lot to escape an awful blot
Upon my worldly fortune, Uncle Sam keeps wanting more.

My mind grows dim with sorrow, the due date is tomorrow,
And I must find the answer else I’ll end up very poor.

Can I deduct  those gambling debts resulting from my stupid bets?
Should I try to itemize my bar bill from the club?
What about my one contribution, will that not bring absolution?
Surely I can claim deduction for the new pants that I tore.

Alas ‘tis midnight past, and the time is flying fast, and I must find the answer
To the question: How much more?

You may think my answer funny; I'll just send them all my money,
And request that they return to me all that not spent before.

It is now six months gone by, and as yet there’s no reply,
Could it be that Uncle Sam will grant me no succor?

Then the raven came rapping, rapping
The Raven came rapping, tapping at my window door.
Oh! To be so doubly blessed, a messenger from the IRS!
Surely he has come to tell me that my problems are no more.

And I said “Oh bird austere, do you bring me news of cheer?
If you brought to me a refund then together we will soar.

I am down to bread and beans, for I do not have the means
To buy a decent meal.  Tell me Raven,
 Am I affluent as I was in days of yore?

Quoth the Raven, “Never more!”

Al Manning

Poem for April 14



Texas  Roadhouse

Do you remember
      that little roadhouse dance hall
       in Waco where the waitress
       wore red cowboy boots
       and a skirt short enough
       to serve as a coaster?   
I saw you look.

We were there
from the double bronze doors
of the Brownings Museum.  
O pomegranates and olives.
O Little Portuguese.  (And she was!
Her desk the size for a child.)
Those lovers who fled
as we fled parents who said
wrong, wrong, wrong
for each other.  What did they know?
Fools we were taking life by the spoonful.
God, we were crazy in that blue Plymouth
streamed with tin cans and shoe polish
words, pink tissue.  I was so embarrassed!

And hungry.   The best hamburger
in Texas.

Across the road a Sox Outlet.  We read
the word wrong, but you bought a dozen
pairs of black sox that never wore out.
Truly.  I washed those socks forever.
The elastic died a thousand threads.
We could have buried you in them.  
Maybe we did.

Are you dancing now in Waco
with that red haired waitress in her red
stomping boots.  O my darling, dance on.
Dance on.   

 Ruth Moose

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Poem for April 13



                                                                                    Gone

                                                                    Dirt brown and moist fell
                                                                Broken scattered on the cream
                                                                    Surface, honed and shined
                                                                   Forming a universe separate
                                                                                   Alone
                                                                        His eyes, deep blue
                                                                        Happy eyes, smiling
                                                                  Now closed sewn together
                                                                 Fine thread running through

     Robin Whitten