Poem: The Day After Christmas

The Day After Christmas

Twas the morning after Christmas

And all through the house

The children were sleeping

All quiet as a mouse.

The stockings we had hung

By the fireplace with care

Now look forlorn

Cause there’s just nothing there.

Toys, blocks and legos

Were strewn on the floor

Totally surrounded 

By wrapping paper galore.

I slumped on the sofa

My hangover was bad

As I tried to remember 

How much fun we had.

Then out on the lawn

I heard such a clatter

I stumbled to my feet

To see what was the matter.

I spotted Santa getting out

Of a big limousine

The look on his face

Was the worst I had ever seen.

He looked at me sadly

With a shake of his head

“You ain’t gonna believe

What my GPS said.”

“Nothing in this world can 

Make me get over my stress

Many presents I delivered

Were to the wrong address.”

“They want me to fix this

Now, today.

I’ve got news for them

I ain’t gonna play.”

“There’s a new outfit in town

That can take over my chore

You probably know it already

It’s called Amazon store.”


     By Al Manning

       9/30/19

Poem: We Live Like This

WE LIVE LIKE THIS

A dozen years ago you bought
this isolated farm, enticing me to
come live with you on a lazy country road
sometimes an hour or two between
cars and trucks, the odd tractor

Now the bridge over Brooks Creek
Is blocked for repairs for the next
one hundred days detours anywhere
we try to go to town to stores to meetings
tonight tomorrow, none I come to learn
more confusing  or elusive as I discover
than the pathways
to your guarded heart.

     By: Judith Stanton
     4/29/19

Poem: For my dear friend Sam, the cat

For my dear friend

Sam, the cat

I too am excited

that you are you

and I am me

and we are we

you kneading me

me needing you

you purring madly

me taking deep

relaxing breaths

as we curl up together

lifelong friends

the us in we

the we of us

 By: Judith Stanton                                                                                   

4/2/19                                                                                                    

Poem: Storm struck

Storm struck

Late May, skies darkening

all afternoon. Only an hour

ago Doppler radar said 

the storm would skirt us.

But no. Thunder rumbles

in the dark night. Far away

sheet lightning streaks the sky.

Rain falls heavy down and wind 

whistles through the chimney,

rain shattering on tin dampers.

Storm struck this afternoon 

I embark on my new life,

claiming custody of what I do, 

what I know, who I am. 

Embracing this thunderstorm

of change.

By: Judith Stanton

4/24/19

Poem: Spring Falls Down

Spring Falls Down

Spring, who cares?

Red clay mud reigns.

Mosquitoes reborn.

Hot, cold, make up your mind.

Yard work breaks my aching back.

Last fall’s leaves hide sneaky branches.

Pollen blizzard covers everything.

Birth of ticks, May flies, and blood sucking gnats.

“Basketball’s over. Get outside,” she bellows.

“Hose down the house, waterproof the deck, spread manure.”

Fishing season starts, casting with the fellows.

Scrape off the barbecue, shoo away the bats.

The grass greens. Birdies begin to sing.

Heating bills bow to cool breezes.

Lent ends. Chocolate is back.

Lay in hammock—unwind.

Give ’way garb I scorn.

Soft April rain.

Spring, I care.

“Mow the lawn. The grass is too high.

Trim the hedge.” I can only sigh.

By: Rick Bylina                                                         

4/26/19                                                                   

Poem: Death Came This Day

Death Came This Day

 ​​I

Death came this day

I felt it hovering

Amongst the leaves

Dried from winter's wind

Saw it in Megabyte’s

Unwanted meal and

In her collapsed legs

Heard it in her 

Sigh of discontent 

And her yelp as 

I lifted her

She wagged her tail

And ambled along 

Familiar byways

Death passed us by this day

​​2

Kathi called to say

Death came this day

Not Megabyte, but Bill

Too soon after

They married again

This second time 

More honest than the first

A phoenix born 

In ruins of their love

In her gentle grace

Death came this day

I felt its breath

In Kathi’s quiver

Embraced with Bill’s flame

Death came this day

By: ​Carol Phillips                                                                          

4/25/19                                                                                       

Haiku

Modest flowers, then

  wisps to wish on and scatter

     with your gentle breath.

By: Jane Rockwell                                                                 

4/24/19                                                                                

Poem: The Secretary Rant

The Secretary Rant

From where I sit, nothing much gets done unless

it lands on my desk. “Hon, make 100 copies of this agenda.”

“File these reports.” I try to hide the fact that my files

are permanently scrambled. “Don’t forget the coffee.”

They can’t even clean up after themselves, dirty coffee cups, 

waded napkins. I wonder if after Mr. Director stands to blows

with Mr. CEO do they sit beside each other in bathroom stalls

while the air in here is still punctuated with their curse words.

Do they talk to each other with civility. Over what? Minutiae?

“See the Reds and Cardinals Saturday?” And then one emission

after another leaves them with a choice: either pick up the fight

or just give themselves over to the smelly silence of sanitation

swirling down the commode chute.

Either way I know my place is behind my desk

and I watch the entire circus from where I sit.

                    By: Patty Cole                                 

4/23/19                                          

Poem: Saints Way, Odiorne, Massabesic

Saints Way, Odiorne, Massabesic


I set foot on the path, an act of faith,
one before the other, here, there.
I know the way, or find it as I go.
I follow my lead.
Monhegan, Adams Point, Plum Island

At times I view a printed page, folded,
creased, a talisman. If there are signs,
they ease my way, tho I may seek
guidance, then ignore it.
I'm not alone.
Great Bay, Pisgah, The Skyline Trail

Here there are signs, "Beware of Bears",
they're just black ones though...
I sing, and clap my hands
above my head. The birds don't mind,
They sing along.
Antigonish, Chignecto, Fairmont Ridge

Herons, loons, peepers in bogs.
A Great Horned owl flys before me
on the trail, from tree to tree.
This is the way.
Walden Pond, Cathedral Woods, Silk Farm

By: Paula Marston                                                 

4/22/19                                                               

Poem: Whirling Bird

Whirling Bird


Who has sent you to dance for me this morning?
My coffee, cold in its foam cup, my muffin forgotten.
You flit from one shining car to the next in this tree lined lot, beside iron rails where your cohorts peck and preen.
But why dance alone? Whirling in circles on each glossy hood, then pecking at nothing I can see, hopping up the windshield in search of something, you must be, you must be.
But no, silly human...
It’s for joy, the joy, you’ve shared with me, just you and I here alone together
trying to make sense of what we see. 

By: Paula Marston

4/21/19

Poem: Purple

Purple

Purple for his Sunday, 
following colors, painting his heart on canvas.

Spring anticipation of a magical image, 

the soft lights of a setting warm sun.

Purple for her Sunday,
following words, whispering her heart in poetry.

Spring anticipation of a magical phrase, 

the silver shine of a rising full moon.

Wearing the color of longing, creating, renewing. 

Lives touching ever so gently, never just passing. 

Wearing their new purple this Sunday in spring! 

By: Elisabeth Plattner                                       

4/20/19                                                           

Haiku

black dog skids on ice

crunches leaves on frozen grass

river chases geese south

 By: Carol Phillips                                                                       

4/19/19                                                                                    

Poem: Whittler

Whittler

by Patty Cole

He picks up a small block of elm from Jack’s Lumberyard.

He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, musing like God 

moving over the waters of Earth perceiving it’s void before

breathing into lifeless matter.

Whittler brings the block to his face, smells the fresh cut wood.

He projects his imagination then reaches for his six-blade

and shaves off the eight corners of the block then begins carving

out his intentions.

Whittler picks up a straight blade and soon recognizes something human,

two crowns that will become heads followed by shoulders, arms, torsos,

legs and feet. He sees one is taller, the second, shorter. 

He plays god with his knife.

Soon the shorter becomes woman and the taller, man.

Woman’s back is to the man. His arms are around her waist.

Her shoulders emerge, then her body. A simple white dress adorns. 

Woman is now wife, man husband in this symphony of body parts. 

He slices strands of hair on the top and back of their heads,

leaves faces blank. He then sculpts her right hand 

to rest on his left forearm. With her left hand 

she holds an apple to his mouth.

Man and woman are finished. Whittler puts down his knife.

He rests in his easy-chair with a Miller Lite.

By: Patty Cole                  

4/18/19                          

Poem: White Oak

White Oak

On the white oak’s

long bare limbs,

on slender twigs,

powdery new

leaves send messages

to the roots

and the sap

starts to rise

like the tide

on a twilit beach

where wavelets

brush our feet.

Should we watch

the constellations

begin to shine?

Let the warm

familiar water

rise to our ankles,

to our knees,  

our thighs,

higher until

we find ourselves

floating in stars.

 By: Ralph Earle                                                                               

4/17/19                                                                                         

Poem: I Try To See Beauty Where It Lives

I Try To See Beauty Where It Lives


I try to see beauty where it lives,
its just too hard to fake it. Through
a door open or window closed,
the stair beyond to take it,
around and down, or up so high,
I know I'll never make it come back
to me, and mind it's ways.

So let it twist and let it squirm,
it's colors and shapes affirm,
if it's made its bed to lie in
or woven wings to fly in.

Those wings of gold and silver mesh
that soar and swoop above our heads,
so far and wide it's will be known,
and we alone are filled with dread.

That never shall we see again, this
beauty, this art, this purity of heart,
that comes just once, then falters.

By: Paula Marston                                                      

4/16/19                                                                    

Poem: Taxes

TAXES

By: Al Manning

(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!”

By: Al Manning                                                           

4/15/19                                                                        

Poem: MANGOES

MANGOES

Why does the white haired woman
Plant mango trees?
Her legs have lost their power
She'll be gone before the fruits flower.
Her belly is full.
There are mangos in her breakfast bowl.
She has nothing to win.

She has no children.

What does she see?
Her eyes almost blind
Does her heart know a place
Where there is no time?

By: Leela Ellis                                                                   

4/14/19                                                                           

Poem: The Glass Heart

The Glass Heart

I went to a wedding

when the leaves fell,

her third, his second.

The wine was smooth

as old wood. I drank

two flutes, knowing

I would wake 

deep in the night.

The heart is every color

and no color. It dazzles.

 By: Ralph Earle                                                                       

4/13/19                                                                                 

Poem: A Sunday Afternoon

A Sunday Afternoon 

On a Sunday afternoon, when the cold air seeps in through the cracks in the wall,

I sit among the purples, reds and blues waiting for you to call.

You have left you say to a place where I cannot go.

It’s your revenge or idea of an independent show.

So I wait alone and left inside with nothing more 

to read except the T.V. Guide..

I wait thinking that I can survive.

My strength for the moment needs to reside,

in the sunset and your sure return.. And

just as I’m about to leave with a note of farewell,

your key in the lock assures me and my doubt does dispel.

The smiles are there and my breathing resumes.

“Where are we?” you ask, in a triumphant voice. 

“Who are we?” I respond, with the glee of rejoice,

on a Sunday afternoon.

By: Ann Carol Koermer                              

 4/12/19                                                      

Poem of the Day

April Mirror

 By: Camille Armantrout

My father

Ninety-three this month

So like me we can't relate

Sonorous memories

Bleat between us

In seething tones

Even after all these years

Like Siamese twins

We stare out from the same sheath

Out and away