Visitors

Locations of Site Visitors

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors in CHatham/Lee counties


After a Month in New York
at 68th and York

We all want a fresh fruit and vegetable stand
down the street around the corner
but the destiny of the endless prairie
laid out under a sky bigger than God.

Judith Stanton

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors in Chatham/Lee counties.

Twin Fawns

Two fawns barely old enough

to graze slip inside the white

taped fence from the shelter

of the woods, their spots still

bright, their mother on patrol.


I look away and sigh

at the disorder of

my kitchen—last night’s

pasta with Italian sausage

onions and green peppers

took a lot of pots. I ought

to clean up my mess now.


But these are the first twins

I’ve seen this year, fresh

and glittering, so I look back

only to find them gone.


Any pursuit of wonder

requires obsessive vigilance.

Judith Stanton

From The Deer Diaries

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors in Chatham/Lee Counties.

For You, Daddy

One day you finally realize you’re no longer 11

and he is no longer 45, but rather 49 and 86.


And you will not always have him to correct your grammar,

fuss over how you boil spaghetti, or tell you not to spend

your money on all those hats, even though you’re an adult.


And you will not always have him to call every morning

just to hear him yawn and to tell you he’s already out of bed

even though he’s not.


But you will continue to call his number when someone else’s voice

answers the phone, and you won’t say a word.


You will be that ghost.

Patty Cole

Friday, April 13, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Works by authors in Chatham/Lee Counties.

Taxes

(My apologies to Edgar Allan 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 claim 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 an 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, “Nevermore!”

Al Manning

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
poems by authors in Chatham/Lee Counties.

Who can know?

Who can know incredible joy,

Can know incredible sorrow.

In the difference lies Hell.

The Unity is God.

Sharon Graham

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors from Chatham/Lee Counties

These Woods

What know these woods of our passings?

How could we think they should care?


We’ve done little to deserve their compassion


We've defiled them

Scarred them

Pushed them far from our lives


They should have no use for us


But as I stumble along

Head bowed below bare branches

Gathering tinder for this week’s fires


Fires to warm our now somber home

Fires to pierce the desperate chill in our hearts


These woods comfort me

Embrace me

Soothe me with calm, gentle silence

Wrap me in their blessed endlessness


For man is animal

Like fox and deer and bear

Despite our attempts to deny it

Despite our claim to be more

Man is animal


And these woods embrace all of their innocents

Even the wayward ones


They celebrate our birth with their spring

Energize our life with their summer

Acknowledge our maturity with their fall

And mourn our return to the roots with their winter


And winter is here

Winter is here


So together we mourn a return to the roots

Together

These woods

and I

Mike Sepelak

Friday, April 6, 2012

Poem for the day

In celebration of National Poetry Month
Poems by authors from Chatham/Lee Counties.

A Warm Summer’s Day

I cried for you, or did I cry for me
On that warm summer's day
The bay was calm - I drank its coolness
On that warm summer's day

As you danced your life, my life, for me
Your questions there for me to ask
Caught in my throat - the polluted sand of the bay
Your arms dancing
My tears crying
The Bay washing
Soothing, loving the sand away

But your foot caught my heart
Your foot pounding, his voice pounding
Were my heart pounding, pounding, pounding
The drum of antiquity pounding

As your partner read David’s words
And you danced our pain
Your love true, forbidden sanctity
My love, sanctified, dissolving
On that warm summer's day


Your dance ended then
The pounding echoing
The silence of my heart
You left as you came, a
Dirge that swelled my pain, your pain

The gulls were quiet
on that warm summer’s day
Soaring over the cool water of the bay
Beckoning me to with them soar
To love and freedom beyond the shore


But tears of my pain held me back
Tears of your pain called me back
Back to life, to the dirge of your feet
Walking silently in my pain
On that warm summer's day

I cried for you, or did I cry for me
On that warm summer's day
The bay was calm - I wept its coolness
On that warm summers' day.

Carol Phillips

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors from Chatham/Lee Counties.

Stone and Steel

I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer

More woodsman's axe than surgeon's scalpel

Cleave by inertia more than intelligence


I know this

And accept it for what it is

My lot


But it need not mean I'm dull

A blunt tool

Good for nothing more than rude smashing

I'm more than that


I work hard

Keep my broad edge clean with stone and steel

And with this edge endeavor to strike with rudimentary precision

For effort and proximity can carry the day

If that's what you have


We can't all be scalpels

And axes are needed in this world

They build from the ground the platforms of the knife

There's dignity in their work

Though they're seldom celebrated for it

It's the scalpel that's revered


But blades, unattended, quickly tarnish and rust

Razor edge turns pointless

While axes, when whet, work untiringly, and long

Even when blunted by hard times


I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer

More woodman's axe than surgeon's scalpel

I endure by the effort

Stone and steel

Mike Seplak

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors in Chatham/Lee Counties

Dog Days

The summer swelters are here.

Days that make me want to burrow

deep into the earth, praying hard

for the wet blessing of a rain drop.


Trees droop their shoulders,

leaves limp as fingers dangling

without purpose.


Nothing sings.

Nothing moves

but the dragonflies gliding

through the thick warm soup

that once was air.


Hard to breathe.

Hard to care.

Caught in the doldrums,

I take baby breaths,

and dream of the quiet chatter of sleet

as it hits a tin roof.


Catherine Bollinger

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by athors from Chatham/Lee Counties

The Telling that Changes Everything IV.

Christmas Day, December 25, 2011

Humor is essential when you balance

on that edge between justice and mercy.

Nothing I hate more than to see people

mistreated, but I learn that the villains

have their moments of terror, too. Rage

can blindside any of us–no matter how

watchful we are, how self-aware and

enlightened. Yet we have no choice

but to re-find our equilibrium, consider

the culprit’s ancient dread, hold firm

to what is right, but smile and forgive.

A tough act to follow. Only those who

see clearly, who have taken the beam

out of their own eyes can do it. It’s

called healing, and it doesn’t make

you popular. Your stern side is

scarifying. They want absolution

before they confess their faults.

Not possible, and anyway, the first

essential, if you want to change,

is to forgive yourself. Learn how.

Unresolved guilt compounds itself

and leads to more and more cruelty.

There’s no substitute for honesty

at exactly the right time and place.

Not too soon, not too late. How do

we know the moment has arrived?

That’s when watchfulness pays off.

A space opens suddenly, and we see

the path straight into the rascal’s

soul. In the meantime, we always

have work in front of us. People

need our clarity, our joy, how we do

a stake-out to catch the errant heart

when it suddenly opens wide.

Judy Hogan, Moncure, N.C.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Poem for the Day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by authors in Chatham/Lee Counties.

Mockingbird in the Apricot Tree

A flash of white, gray

against the pink confetti laden

braches

party sky behind

the bride

groom in velvet tux, white tie,

tails. He can sing

any song,

sing it better

sing it louder

breast as puffed

as clouds

singer,

sentry,

servant of the song.

Ruth Moose

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Poem for the day

To celebrate National Poetry Month
Poems by writers in Chatham/Lee Counties.

Voyeurs and Voyagers of Spring

Peeping, poking,

punting green antennae up,

polyhedral periscopes.

They’d turn the world

to carrots’ frothing lace,

squashes’ crawling blossoms.


You hear their chirpy patter

rippling pods, bulbs, earth.

Their accompaniment?

Rejoicing frogs.


You feel them tripping you,

vines trapping in embrace.


The smell as fresh as soft new rain,

all lavender and clean

shot through with yellow-green

tart onions.


From vernal equinox to

summer solstice,

they have sway.

Who’s voyeuring whom?


I should not beg

quantum reciprocation

but do so quantum times.


Yet, after every failure,

I still have hope to hear

the goat-footed balloonMan whistle

Spring’s voyagers to the port of me.

Lynn Veach Sadler