WestWard
Quarterly
The Magazine of Family Reading
Spring 2015
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To our readers . . .
Spring can be a time of promise, and several poems in this issue celebrate
the hopeful season. But Spring can be a challenge, as well. “April showers
bring May flowers,” but April tornados can bring devastation. A few days before we write this, a monster tornado destroyed the small village of Fairdale,
Illinois, just a few miles from Kirkland where we formerly lived, and from
where we published this magazine for several years. If you live in an area
known for such severe weather, please take all necessary precautions and pray
for protection.
Our featured writer for Spring is Brenda Kay Ledford of North Carolina,
whose “bio” and poetry appear on the next few pages. And Chester is back
with his “Vantage Point” comments in this issue.
WestWard Quarterly is produced in-house; none of it is sent to outside firms.
Because your Editor and Publisher donate their time to produce the magazine,
your subscriptions and purchase of individual issues have allowed it to break
even through the years. Your financial support covers the costs of paper, ink,
toner, postage, and occasional purchase of new software or equipment. We
use Adobe PageMaker 6.5 to lay out the magazine — older software that should
be upgraded. When printing, we sometimes have three printers “chugging away”
at one time, all of them older models. By becoming a regular subscriber, you
can help us to keep WestWard Quarterly going as an outlet for the poetry you
and your colleagues create. Please see the box at the bottom of page 29.
Shirley Anne Leonard, EDITOR
WestW
ar
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estWar
ard
Quarterly
Shirley Anne Leonard, Editor
P.O. Box 369, Hamilton, IL 62341 USA
[email protected], 800-440-4043
Web site: www.wwquarterly.com
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WestWard Quarterly showcases the best work of upbeat writers and poets. Our
magazine’s philosophy is: “Adversity happens. Find the eternal purpose behind
it.” Reflect an uplifting, positive or gently humorous attitude in your submissions.
Send all letters, requests for guidelines, queries or submissions to the address
above. Send SASE for response.
Maximum length for poems is 40 lines. Shorter submissions have a better likelihood of being published. The Editor reserves the right to edit material. For more
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In This Issue
Featured Writer
Featured Writer Poems
March, ‘06
Songbird
Suddenly Spring
April
I Have Always Loved the Iris
Time Press
The End of a Day
Three Haiku
Ah, Yes
When We Were Young
Weathered Perspective
Rain, Rain
Spring
Three Small Poems in April
Cedar House Inn of St. Augustine
Looking
Les Grottes d’Ardèche
Pine Mandala
Alive Again
Opus One, or Five Easy Pieces
To Affect a Day
River’s Dream
Celebrating Freedom in Nature’s Embrace
Creation’s Song
From My Vantage Point . . .
Creative Quotations
Reading #3: Something You Don’t Know
Reconnection
The Poet’s Duty
Sempiternal Flux
To Christ Crucified (Translation)
Final Word
Quiet Observations
I Photograph My Husband on Vacation
The Forests
Can You Remember?
Alice in Wonderland
Much to Do
Encouragement
Sweet Land
Angels
Silent Presence
The Rhythm of Names
Happy Ending
Requiem
Celebration
Come Spring
Power
Time
of mischeivous mind
fans
Magic Guitar
I Arise
In Praise of Doorsteps
Conversation with the Statute of Liberty
Writer’s Workbench
Ads
Ledford
Ledford
SusanDale
Marzen
Steele
Grey
Conlon, S.
Singer, R.
Piatt
Wyler
Felder
Leitch
Ambrose
Burchett
Shallenberger
Woods
Livanos
simmers
Gallucci
Cosier
Scheinoha
Parnell
Conlon, F.
Stuart
Williams
Leonard
Chester the Cat
Kirby, Channing
Nicola
Ferreira
Zapletal
Bradshaw
Feeny
Kelsay
Pereyra
Daneman
Clayton
Sanders
Black
Simon
Fuchs
Gregg
Swartz
Sermershein
Mertz
Singer, E.
Thomas
Peck
Goven
Ross
Tate
Kopel
Palmer
Heyder
Leiper-Estabrooks
Canerdy
Tomeo
The Editor
Cover Image: Abraham Lincoln’s Home, Springfield, Illinois, 1976
Photo by Richard Leonard
April 15, 2015 is the 150th anniversary of Lincoln’s death.
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Featured
Writer
Brenda Kay Ledford
North Carolina
Writing is like savoring a vanilla ice-cream cone
dipped in hot fudge. I love to play with words,
images, and sounds. It gives me pleasure to
share with readers a universe of my making.
Writing is therapy. It helps me stay grounded and happy. Poetry connects me with God and
the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Wordsmithing gives meaning to life and it’s music to
my muse.
Writing began in the eighth grade at Hayesville School. My sister gave me a journal and told
me journaling would turn me into a writer faster than anything. It kept me in contact with myself
and helped put thoughts and feelings into words on the spot.
My twelfth grade English teacher, Josephine Thurman, introduced me to the fabulous world
of literature. She ignited an eternal flame in the hearts of her students. We memorized poetry,
performed Shakespeare’s plays, and did creative writing.
A passion for writing continued when I attended Western Carolina University and TriCounty Community College. I took journalism and was editor of Tri-County Communicator.
Dr. Carl Dockery encouraged me to submit my work for publication. I was ecstatic when my
first poem, “Evening of the Rain Crow,” was printed in Charlotte Poetry Review.
My poetry and prose have appeared in WestWard Quarterly, Appalachian Heritage, Journal
of Kentucky Studies, Angels on Earth Magazine, Our State Magazine, and many anthologies.
Finishing Line Press published my three poetry chapbooks: Shewbird Mountain, Sacred Fire,
and Beckoning. Kelsay Books printed my poetry book Crepe Roses in 2014. I have received the
Paul Green Multimedia Award from the North Carolina Society of Historians seven times for
my books and collecting oral history.
A retired educator, I give poetry readings across the Southeast. I’m a member of North
Carolina Writer’s Network, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, and
Georgia Poetry Society. I’m listed with A Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.
My first love is poetry, but I also write short fiction. I’m currently taking a creative writing
course through Stratford Career Institute. I’m learning to create credible stories with strong
characters, conflict, and scenes. As my twelfth grade English teacher taught me, “show, don’t
tell.” This is done mostly through dramatization rather than narrative writing which is telling.
I’m finding pleasure writing fiction, but will always prefer poetry.
I enjoy crafting all kinds of poetry. I like form poetry, lyrics, narrative, and haiku. Because
I’m surrounded by beauty in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I incorporate sensory in my verse to
express my appreciation for nature. I like to hike and often find ideas to write poetry as I’m
walking through the woods. Riding horses on mountain trails is another favorite pastime. This
is when I feel closest to God and nature. That’s when I often compose poetry in my mind before
writing it.
I also enjoy photography, storytelling, songwriting, Gospel music, playing the piano, harmonica, and autoharp. I blog at http://blueridgepoet.blogspot.com and promote authors on
www.linkedin.com/in/brendakayledford.
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Ceaseless Verse
Hyatt Mill Creek
The poetry of earth never ceases.
In the poplar trees,
the wind plays a flute.
I come from the coves
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
murmur by wildflowers
and tumble down waterfalls.
Hyatt Mill Creek blows the tuba
while a cardinal lifts tenor,
and the owl hits bass notes.
The poetry of earth never ceases.
Through a sea of grass,
the cricket saws a fiddle
and the crows squawk
soaring over the cornfield.
The poetry of earth never ceases.
The Hummingbird’s Flight
As I went out a mockingbird squawked,
“I have a message for you. I want
you to tell Blanche that last night
the harvest moon ricocheted across
Hyatt Mill Creek and almost froze
rubies off the hummingbird’s throat.
She just had to set sail!
But she sent word for Blanche
to wear wool socks with her boots,
and take her vitamins,
and stock up on sugar,
and promised come spring
she will return to her bird feeder.”
Beckoning
Once again the earth
offers a season of renewal.
Syrup buckets in hand,
we trek to the Matheson Cove.
A rain crow lifts
mournful songs on Joe Knob.
A crisp breeze ruffles
my hair, beckons something within.
Wild roses envelop my senses,
light ricochets through mountain laurel.
Beside Hyatt Mill Creek,
the sight fills me with longing.
Purple stains, hands like India ink,
the sweet juice of huckleberries
spilling into my mouth.
I meander through the Matheson Cove,
past Granddad Bob Ledford’s cornfield
and Ma Minnie’s sunflowers
making my way toward
Myers Chapel tucked in the woods.
Robins lift quarter notes
in the rhododendrons
on decoration day.
I flow by the Grove’s farm,
rainbow trout leap from water
and honeybees swarming
the sourwood saplings.
I bubble over boulders,
slip between barns,
beef cattle munching grass
and gurgle under one-lane bridges.
I curve and chatter
over silver stones
to join Hiwassee River
and plunge toward the rapids.
Shewbird Mountain
This land is mine,
for I am part of it.
Look to the west.
Shewbird Mountain unfurls
green fabric above
the Matheson Cove.
This land is mine,
I’m singing about it.
Great-Grandpa Dallas Matheson
planted an apple orchard
above the frost line.
This land is mine,
not one foot I have a deed.
I go barefoot over fern,
splash through Hyatt Mill Creek,
and pick wild roses.
As far as I can see,
the forest belongs to me.
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March, ‘06
Suddenly . . . Spring
Susandale, Ohio
Craig W. Steele, Pennsylvania
Washed blue skies stretch
The width and breadth
of infinity to
skies cradling clouds
of white plumes rising
to the poverty of March sun
Sending weak beams
and sparrow songs
to a threadbare earth
Suddenly . . .
sky turns blue,
sun shines through,
snowmelt flows,
green grass grows,
robins sing,
children swing,
flowers bloom,
storm clouds boom,
bugs are humming,
raindrops drumming,
trees awake,
mud pies bake,
breeze blows by,
kites soar high . . .
spring.
The earth
like brown robes
of pilgrim penitents
dragging across dirty cuff snow
Silent — Still
waiting for the throbbing
heartbeats of spring
April
Songbird
Rena Marzen, Illinois
Small and winged
ever envious
at treetop’s perch
your song I hear
a song that rings so true, so clear
with unknown power
and steady force
by strumming cords
within your voice
you stir me high
and far I soar there
quiet, small, and winged
ever envious
of sounds that ring
so true, so clear
at tree top’s perch
your song I hear.
John Grey, Rhode Island
Spring,
scattered elm pods,
curled leaves
like red efts
crawl toward water;
snake curled
up at shadow’s edge,
morning uncoiling
at wind’s behest,
lilacs’ bidding;
birds boisterous
in the cemetery,
kids headlong through
the park;
lovers sliding on lichen,
sniffing the first blooms;
spring,
these things alone
or in collusion,
melting ice on sprig,
the new
contretemps with old.
I Have Always Loved the Iris
Sandy Conlon, Colorado
Grandmother called them “flags”
and bought bulbs for the “war effort,”
Planted them in rows
alongside her optimism.
When spring came
they bloomed lavishly,
Gayly fluttered purple,
violet, gold, and periwinkle blue,
Took over things,
became dresses for clothespin dolls.
And just before rain
washed all color from the garden
They were carried in Mason jars
to the dining room table
Or county home
for all the same purposes.
Asked about the war effort one day
as she trimmed them back,
She said, “It buys uniforms, blankets,
helps the wounded,” and
Carefully smoothed the long, flat leaves,
then mixed and pressed the earth
Around each stem
like a priestess in some ancient rite.
When she died
the iris
Beloved in that garden spot
bloomed lavishly
And gayly fluttered purple
gold, violet, and periwinkle blue.
Time Press
Roger Singer, Connecticut
The image of youth fails to fade,
regardless of years.
Unquenched thirsts discover
treasures from the sky.
Legs like god’s
conquer lands and oceans
where beaches stretch into dreams.
The tick of clock
lies deep in young hearts
but chimes loud
in the breath of the aged.
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The End of a Day
James Piatt, California
The tired and worn hours of the day tumble into
the sunset as the turbulent waves crest upon
the ebony hued rocks on the ocean’s shore.
The sun dips softly, silently into the magenta
horizon as terns and gulls forage frantically to
savor the last of the tide’s tasty morsels before
blackness covers the cooling sand. The
seashore with memories of the day falling over
the cliff’s edge into the past, slumbers . . .
eventually dreams of a sunny tomorrow arise
and laughing children will once again visit and
create new memories.
Change, creation . . . time: The ever-moving
current of the vast ocean always receding and
emerging, continually bringing new possibilities
to the shoreline and our weary minds. The
cooling sea with its white crested waves
breathing into the night roars at the
pomegranate moon to tell the ocean’s angels
to come ashore and bless the land. Far out in
the vast black sea, the whales bellow to the
stars to silence the moan of weary travelers:
The world needs to move a bit slower so
children can catch up with their dreams, and
mothers can gather meaning from the hours of
the demanding world and their tedious days in
order to gain courage for the coming of another
morn.
Three Haiku
E. V. "Beth" Wyler, New Jersey
The stone bridge's arch,
a cool, welcome canopy,
spans the still waters.
A strip of flowers
borders the white picket fence
welcoming you home.
Fancy butterflies
unfold origami wings
and flutter in flight.
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Ah, Yes
Brian C. Felder, Delaware
It is early spring
and little is yet in flower,
the trails here on Roosevelt Island
but muddy paths through dormant shrubbery.
The sleeping trees,
looming overhead like the statue of Teddy himself,
seem hesitant to wake,
the passing Potomac lulling their sense to bloom.
Still, it will happen,
as it always does;
did before I was born,
did before any of us were born,
and will forever after when all of us have gone.
Ah, yes, eternal spring,
the humbler of men both mighty and small.
When We Were Young
Frances Leitch, California
When we were young
the caverns of unknown worlds
led beneath the sea’s face
to lands of coral reefs
and schools of sun fish
When we were young
lively — and full of sun-shine
We skipped on cobblestones
and splashed sand upon the papers of our mind
strewn with handprints
washed away by the sea growin
When we were young
We could laugh so fast and cry so fast
And dry our tears on napkins
or smother our sadness
in a big rag doll
that could console us all
When we were young
dinosaurs strode across the shore we trod
And our little boats played in the stream
chock to the brim with tomorrows still
So many that we were young
And full of the sun
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Weathered Perspective
Cedar House Inn of St. Augustine
Mike Ambrose, Connecticut
Spring
Orange-red clouds reflecting
on morning’s horizon
have always filled me
with inspired conviction,
but drizzle dulls my passion,
diminishing more
when rain begins to fall.
I feel better when
May’s warm breeze
sprouts buds
on barren magnolia trees –
bringing me momentary elation.
What to make of such cycles?
Whether it dulls
or dazzles,
must my emotions
always rise
and fall
with these mercurial seasons?
Carolyn Shallenberger, Illinois
Spring, Spring, what a wonderful thing
if you listen outside when the birds sing.
Spring — what a sight to see;
Look around at God’s majesty!
Fields of flowers — what a sight to see,
All put here for you and me.
Do you really know the magic,
even in the trees? This is the time
for the artist to paint a beautiful scene.
I love the Spring,
for all it gives makes me feel new,
for in the other seasons God is busy too.
Three Small Poems in April
Alida Woods, North Carolina
Rain, Rain
Michelle Burchett, Oregon
It’s raining, raining, raining.
The dark clouds like to play,
pouring “liquid sunshine”
on yet another day.
It’s dripping, dripping, dripping.
Will it never stop?
The clouds have filled their pails with rain
and now they let it drop.
There’s always mixed reactions.
Some hate it and complain.
But others love to go
a-playing in the rain.
They get out their umbrellas.
They have them stashed around.
No matter where they are,
there’s one that can be found.
Every color of the rainbow,
see them bobbing down the lane,
to lighten dark grey weather
and brighten up the rain.
Unfurling
fiddlers shed their brief mantle
waking all the wings
of sun-softened noons
breaking glacial gloom
of narrow days.
Unsated
we hunger for more.
~
A tangle of birdsong
breaks darkness
urges dawn
lighting blade and leaf.
Grey gives way
to yellow, green
magenta morning.
How did we not notice?
~
Night laps at my eyelids
revising dreams
crawls into absence.
Night hawk finds the wire,
warden of things not visible,
dives catching dawn.
He flies at the conjunction
of rivers where we wake.
Marc Livanos, Florida
To tell a story
told and retold
till it takes hold,
the Cedar House Inn
celebrates the absence
of the outside world.
Its housekeeper,
timekeeper,
illusionist appears,
smiles,
steps back,
beckoning your inner child.
Memories
of boxed games and
casual conversation
invite the calm
and civility
of the simple life.
Squirrels in a nearby courtyard
scuttle and scurry
on gnarled grey cedars
with leathered, cracked, splintered skin
down to the bark,
waiting for their next acorn.
Night slowly falls.
Traffic palls.
The street becomes silent.
Next door, a gray dog barks.
A fountain slowly drips,
sparking vapors that penetrate souls.
Magical chimes on
mystical verandas create
alternate realms.
Victorian lights glow in a lifetime outpouring
of preservation, grace and continuity
unyielding in its desire to survive.
Patrons slowly navigate to their beds,
fingering furniture, focusing on old time lights
infused by the wonder of days gone by.
A gentle aura floats all around,
dreamily repeating,
I need to be here.
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Pine Mandala
Looking
d. n. simmers,
British Columbia, Canada
“ The poem is looking at angels looking.”
— Eamon Grennan
Silver wings come down
between a shimmering asphalt
Needles of wetness
against a
clutch of birds that are
heavy in the air as
they swim in a sky dream
of angels
playing with the wind’s face.
Purple cloth sounds
as the
sun glints through
playing hide and seek
in the fabric of clouds
laughing echoes.
Les Grottes d’Ardèche
(The Caves of the Ardèche Region in France)
Raymond H. Gallucci, Maryland
Vertical’s historical when spans six million years.
Leaving scars indelible, Ardèche has no French peers.
Dolomite impregnable to all but endless time,
Gouged to cliffs unscalable to all but bravest climb.
For in caves assailable, our species ventured deep,
Painting scenes unmemorable millennia still keep.
Animals once viable, most likely made extinct
By these very artists who’ll, to us, stay indistinct.
Though ancestors venerable, we fathom not their thoughts.
Time’s thin threads were severable, whatever links are naught.
Theories beyond testable; at vanished straws we snatch.
They remain inscrutable, beyond the surface scratched.
Tony Cosier, Ontario, Canada
Lonely spearhead pines
rise out of moss or dogwood scruff or field grass.
The boldest of these stragglers has tested the ridge
to become a strangely shaped
wounded and whirling mandala.
Smothered as a sapling by snow, it curved
in a half circle back to a graceful rise.
Nicked and gnawed with gashes,
it persisted a year. Snapped sheer by a storm,
it revived again, lifting a low limb’s resilience
to soar and flourish
the way Van Gogh
(maimed and ill and still aspiring)
saw his late cypresses —
as upswept, sinuous and holy
lush green flames.
Alive Again
G. A. Scheinoha, Wisconsin
Ah, Spring returns. How long he’s waited
beneath accumulated snows and heavy heart of
winter. Though the bursting forth of buds
heralds an atmosphere choked with pollen,
he perambulates a postage stamp size lot,
mere tenth of an acre.
purple lilac blooms
cloud of scent
rises on the breeze
Many of the trees on this parcel were
planted by his father more than twenty years
ago, some just months before dad passed away.
He never felt an urge, as his father did, to
dig his fingers into good earth, feel its pulse.
how fragile a
life once
nursed here
Still, the perennial walk about property
lines keeps him in touch with something wild,
natural missed by most in the city. It’s what
connects him with both his deceased parent
and the land itself, a country person in the truest sense.
such short days
so warm
the sunshine
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Opus One, or Five Easy Pieces
Charles Parnell, Pennsylvania
The “Grand Canyon Suite” brings a burst from a cloud
The March by Sir Edward has pomp and is proud
Much music of Mahler is lengthy and loud
And Haydn quartets are quite mannered and mild
Great Bach wrote cantatas long into the night
Mussorgsky’s “Bald Mountain” is always a fright
von Reznicek’s output is ever so slight
And Gershwin’s Concerto is sassy and bright
The Pachabel “Kanon” uplifts us today
And music of Mozart can sweep us away
The Chopin concertos turn night into day
And Zoltan Kodaly inspires us to play
Puccini wrote operas that thrill and amuse
But Ellington gave us a taste for the Blues
While Strauss wrote those waltzes — so many to choose!
Yet Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody” grabs like the News
Franz Liszt gave us music to nourish a need
And Holst with “The Planets” is magic indeed
Stravinsky’s “Le sacre . . .” inspires us to seed
Such Masters of Music are still the top breed . . .
To Affect a Day
Francis Conlon, Colorado
To affect the quality of the day,
Not to rush round the store,
Not to just get more and more,
But mindful pause for an inward say.
Sun’s rise gives time for that reflection,
Beams across currents deep,
With dreams of lands I want to seek,
A discovery was once mere recollection.
Of something gained in past youth’s age,
With years there seemed to be no rush,
To enter in where was a hush,
Now beckons me as a pressing sage.
Centered now the busy heart,
To find repose the one true start.
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River’s Dream
Dr. Jane Stuart, Kentucky
How softly flows the river’s dream
A green song lit by silver beams
Of spring moonlight when first stars glow,
When rain falls over drops of snow
And all is kept inside the gleam
Of river waters splashing by
And darkest pools of thoughts that fly
But their whimper cannot be heard.
The river does not speak a word.
Only the nightbird says goodbye.
We walked beside the river bed
Along a lonely path that led
To cities that we could not see —
When time was hope and life was free —
At dawn, the sun was poppy-red.
Celebrating Freedom in Nature’s Embrace
John W. Williams, Georgia
Calls of the wilderness stir
an insatiable desire to drift
along crisscrossing trails where I am freed
from the hum of city streets, and
the impatient echo of beeping horns,
and sirens screaming into the night . . .
1 love quiet places that tug
at my heart with serenity.
Places where God’s anchored treasures spread
far and near for observant eyes to discover:
My heart throbs warm when I roam
a piece of nature’s grace where birds
in early dawn awaken me with stirring melodies
and deer move gingerly in tall grass,
eagerly munching . . .
I love the beauty of countryside, mountains,
and meadows where wildflowers stand, welcoming
bees, butterf1ies and me . . .
I think I shall always feel an urge
to explore the wilderness, and as long
as God gives me energy, I’ll push onward
celebrating freedom in Nature’s embrace.
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From My Vantage Point . . .
by Chester the Cat
“The Miracle of Life” — Photography by Terrence A. Malmgren
Find “Through the Eyes of God,” Photography
by Terrence A. Malmgren, on Facebook.
Creation’s Song
Shirley Anne Leonard, Illinois
Zephyred bird song —
merry tune of balm-sung spring
in the greening forest.
A hymn of solitude
that holds all nature rapt.
I walk softly
through the forest
on the spongy path
of pine needles
to an awakened river
that somersaults
to the valley below.
A hummingbird hovers
amidst the bushes.
I stop and hold my breath.
It turns toward me
and then floats in luminescent mist
among pink blossoms.
I walk reverently
back to the plush carpet
of pine and cedar
breathing
the incense of life
in the sweet-scented air.
It bids me go further
into the vaulted canopies
of cool shadows and mystery,
to become lost
in the handiwork of God.
Sometimes, too much concentration on the creative process can wear
you out. It’s hard to think of new ways to bat a yarn ball across the
kitchen floor, or discover where our Publisher hides his rubber bands
(which I like to chew apart, though they say that’s not good for me). I
guess trying too hard to write new poems could stress you out, too.
So it’s good to find a spot to “kick back” and relax for a few moments, and perhaps let those “creative juices” have time to be refreshed.
One of my favorite spots is this blue wing chair, where my companion is Maximilian the Teddy Bear. Max is a gentle sort who doesn’t disturb me at all while I’m resting.
I also like to rest on our Editor’s bed, but if Calliope comes I always
leave. Callie makes me nervous, somehow (and I’m a nervous cat to
begin with).
But Maximilian is a restful companion. Our Editor made him, along
with dozens of other crocheted, stuffed animals she loves to create.
Most of them have found other homes, but Max is sticking with us; he
has a permanent seat in our living room.
Sometimes I think she made Maximilian just for me.
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Creative Quotations
Take Time with Your Poems . . .
Work on several poems at once. For one thing, you won’t end up giving
too much attention to a poem that doesn’t need it — like children, some
poems do better if you don’t breathe down their necks all the time. For
another, if you’re working on just one poem and it isn’t going anywhere,
you’re likely to feel terribly frustrated, whereas if one poem is dying on the
vine and three others are doing pretty well, you’ll feel as though you are
ahead of the game (because you will be). Also, sometimes our poems are
smarter than we are, and a word or a line or a stanza that isn’t right for one
poem will often migrate to another and find a home for itself there. Poems
are happiest in the company of other poems, so don’t try to create them in a
vacuum. You probably wouldn’t try to write four novels at once, but there’s
no reason why you shouldn’t take advantage of poetry’s brevity and get
several poems going simultaneously.
Give yourself time. This is actually related to the preceding rule, since
you wouldn’t tend to rush a poem if you were working on several of them at
once. I have a friend whose daughter is learning how to cook. But she’s a
little impatient, so when she has a recipe that says you should bake the cake
at 350 degrees for thirty minutes, she doesn’t see why you can’t cook it at
700 degrees for fifteen minutes. If you take this approach to poetry, your
poems are going to end up like my friend’s daughter’s cakes, charred on the
outside and raw in the middle. If you saw a stunningly handsome stranger
walking down the street, would you run up to him and shout, “Marry me”?
Of course not — he might say yes! Poems are the same way, and if you try
to make them yours too soon, you won’t be happy with the results, I promise you. Be coy, be flirtatious; draw the poem out a little and see what it’s
really about. There’s no hurry, because you’ve got all those other poems
you’re working on, remember?
— David Kirby, Writing Poetry: Where Poems Come
From and How to Write Them (1989), pp. 27-28
Benefits of Poetry . . .
Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of
youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the
enthusiasm which warmed the springtime of our being, refines youthful love,
strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest
and softest feelings, and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions,
helps faith to lay hold on the future life.
— William Ellery Channing (1780-1842)
19
Reading #3: Something You Don’t Know
James B. Nicola, New York
When you read, are you looking for a mirror
reflecting back on you, or a window
to open onto something you don’t know,
an inner chamber lit a little clearer
where you have looked before but failed to see;
or an exotic landscape glowing through the wall
that’s sealed you in so far, like a portal
to another dimension glimpsed by reading — me?
Some say, Write what you know. Know what you
write,
I say! And likewise, many readers will
like only what’s familiar and shines light
on themselves, only as they’ve known themselves.
But we are legion, shouting from the shelves,
like shadows dancing on a windowsill.
Reconnection
Edilson Afonso Ferreira, Brazil
Poets are made by mode of enchantment,
and mine has been so an exquisite one.
It comes from our common ground,
sometimes from dark underground,
yet from sparkling highs of heaven.
Some days, somewhere, untied to myself,
world loses the poet and gains the autist,
till a good soul recognizes me,
reconnecting the mode,
like an out of order gadget.
The Poet’s Duty
Dawn Zapletal, California
With the power of compassion and empathy
We seek the truth of imagination because
It is necessary as spiritual and moral creatures
That we should be able to invent and behold
That which is noble and beautiful and know
And confess at the same time when it is not.
20
To Christ Crucified
Sempiternal Flux
Joyce Bradshaw, Texas
Mankind’s art is stiff,
hard, unmoving. But the
art of God’s creation is
flowing, undulating, ever
changing. Rivers dancing,
trees waving, mountains
catching clouds and rain.
The beauty shifts moment
by moment. Never static,
constantly renewing itself,
full of shifting and merging.
It drifts through time but is
not captured by hours. We
cannot sustain nor control
its power. If we fail to move
with it, we are certain to be
left behind. Mankind creates
solely for the present time.
God creates for the rolling
stream of His own eternity
Final Word
A Translation by Thomas Feeny
Anonymous from 1500s era.
It is not the heaven
you have promised me,
my Lord that moves me to love you.
Nor is it the fear of hell
that bids me
give you no offense.
You move me, Lord; I am
moved on seeing you nailed
to a cross and mocked.
I am moved by the sight of your
tormented flesh; the insults you bore,
your bitter death, they move me.
Finally, it is your love that
moves me, and in such a way
that even if there were no heaven
I would love you
and if there were no hell
I would fear you.
You need not give me a reason
to love you, since even if I did
not hope for all that I hope for
in the same way which
I love you today
I would love you still.
Karen Kelsay, California
He says that he cannot believe in God,
It’s asinine to scrape, and bow, and pray.
There is no evidence, to plead and prod
An unseen entity is childish play.
He worships science, medicine, the things
Concrete in nature, nothing more or less.
There are no miracles, He won’t pull strings
To get a pass when he is in distress.
But every diagnosis lets him down.
These doctors are just human. Big surprise.
He’s been to every specialist in town,
And cannot find relief, yet still he tries.
The heavens are a sketchy hieroglyph,
And he’ll stick to his story till he’s stiff.
21
Quiet Observations
Daniel Pereyra, Arizona
the plants need more watering —
their light brown turning
to dusk-like shades;
dust collects
on wrinkled book covers
dog-eared /coffee-stained
from bouts with sunday mornings
curtains dance on frayed legs
/ the tune of a breeze
coming from an open window
but my eyes remain
focused
on my son’s rising chest /
devious smile creeping as he sleeps
at once the plants are greener
the breeze brings scents
of street life
and the books — worn and
used as they are
become new
I Photograph My Husband on Vacation
Pat Daneman, Kansas
Always from behind. I have his back toiling up Diamond Head,
the crumbling trail at Montserrat, the 491 steps spiraling
through Michelangelo’s Dome at St. Peter’s. He likes to move,
get as much sand in his shoes, leave as many footprints
as daylight allows, while I, with my camera, prefer a stopand-go pace to capture a view or a close-up of a starfish
or marble saint. It is only when we can go no farther —
on the fenced balcony, the last flat rock before the cliff —
that I ask him to turn and smile, which he always does,
because we have made good time, because there is cold water
and one last candy bar to share, because I have caught up at last,
and here we are, in another lovely place together.
Drew Clayton, Pennsylvania
Yo
K
Ko i d s
rn ’
er
each leaf that falls is like a present from heaven
as the trees talk to me
the only sound is the soft breeze
tickling the plants and my face
and I close my eyes
and forget about the stress of the day, the week, the month
and forget about all the people
and forget about the community
and it is just me
P a uth
ge
walking around town
the very busy town
the bustling citizens
while I try to find an escape
I levitate towards the forests
the lush, quiet forests
my only peace
Can You Remember?
Alice in Wonderland
Sedalia Sanders, Oklahoma
Robert Black, United Kingdom
God has given us memories
That we have shared.
He gave us laughter
He gave us love
He gave us hope
That was sent from above.
He gave us peace
And the songs we sing
He gave us life
And the happiness we bring.
He gave us all we ever need
And that’s what we got
What more can we want
That’s plenty of and a lot.
He gave us many blessings
Count them one by one
Count many blessings to see
What God had done.
A parrot tulip warily moved
with wings close up to its eyes,
and looked curiously at Alice
who very brightly smiled.
“How do you do”, said Alice.
“How do you do to you too”,
said Alice on hearing no reply,
and the curious tulip parrot
quickly hid its eyes.
er
rn
Ko
Ki
ds
’
“I can still see you”, said Alice.
“I can still see you too”, it replied,
“to you too”, it then added,
which confused Alice as well.
23
Much to Do
Rona F. Simon, Ohio
I jump out of bed — have much to do,
Cook five-minute oatmeal in a minute or two,
Warm my last night’s mug of tea —
Ah . . . a news article, page three,
Read it. Pop my vitamins, then
Solve the daily Times KenKen.
Need to pour my orange juice,
but first I’ll start soup —
put beans and water in the pot.
I just realized I’ve exercised not.
I pull out my bar bells
for a few leg routines,
Then add onion and garlic
to the soup with the beans.
Then back to the bells, oh
I spy two gifts to wrap —
oop!
Wrap one, then chop three carrots for soup.
I grab my metal 10-pound weights
and do the back row — two sets of eight.
Alas, one gift’s left to decorate,
but haven’t yet checked my schedule on the door —
There it is lying on the floor —
Look, an afternoon meeting today at four.
I’ll confirm the time and date,
after strengthening my shoulders with 8-pound weights.
What a screwy day — done little, yet I’m late.
Lot of papers on my desk, guess I’ll pitch a few
but first I’ll do curls for biceps. One-two, one-two.
It’s already noon, time to do a Tai Chi set.
Nah — instead, I’ll work my triceps.
As you can see, I’ve taken a few secs
To jot down assorted specs
about my day that has been hectic.
My concentration’s been pathetic,
Maybe I’ve been distracted,
or perhaps my style’s eclectic.
Did I turn down the soup?
Li The
gh
S i te
de r
Li The
gh
S i te
de r
The Forests
Yo
P a uth
ge
22
24
25
Encouragement
Angels
Linda Fuchs, Ohio
John Swartz, California
the river flows past me
brown with silt
picked up from the bottom
leaves skimming across the top
Where on earth do they hide?
Within the cups of crocus?
In the fragile folds of camellias?
Amidst blossoms of cherry trees?
Wherever, they keep vigil.
Almost eternally invisible,
They act in kindness replacing
Misdirection and madness,
Help to guide meager mortals
Ever apt to go astray.
sliding slippery, slipping away
I sit on the bank
persuaded to look at life
in new and different ways
encouraged to throw my sorrows
into the moving water
so they can float away
concentrate on the good
wrap myself in the garb of the goddesses
enjoy every minute that passes
love the life I have
They appear in many forms,
A tender reply, a radiant rainbow,
All the while serving their Master
And mankind — with not a wish
Of gratitude in return.
Sweet Land
Silent Presence
Dave Gregg, Missouri
David Sermersheim, Connecticut
I’ve stone and peat and reminisce
from the lovely Eire
The ocean’s verdant mint
call the Emerald Isle
The country’s charm is legend
her people strong, demure
The landscape free of blemish
her rivers sweet and pure
Mythos ruled the land one time
kings were her command
The battles fought and battles won
never changed the land
To tread the gorse that grows here
rich among smooth stone
To whisper chants in Gaelic
and sip the magic Roan’
Once upon I shared this land
and walked her storied shore
And though I bore dear gifts from her
I seem to’ve left much more
each day
he follows her
about her rounds
head bowed
humble as a monk
a silhouette
silent as a shadow
one step behind
probing nook and cranny
where the small things hide
silent presence
loyal companion and guide
always ready when summoned
to look for what couldn’t be found
and nod to a question
without an answer
no need to look
or listen for a sound
for he is always
one step behind
The Rhythm of Names
Carole Mertz, Ohio
Three days after
her piano lesson
I still smile and recall
our polite discussion —
my seven-year-old student
and I.
Talking of Galileo
and Columbus,
“I’m not good with names,” she said,
“but he paid the Queen
in peppers!” she piped.
(I’d give anything to be inside her head.)
Then Benjamin Franklin,
Thomas Jefferson, and Jack Frost
brought us to Cinderella and,
with rhythms bouncing, to Joseph at last,
his brightly colored coat,
and what his life cost.
We didn’t play the music, didn’t touch the keys,
we simply marked the rhythms
of these famed ones,
paired Joseph with Benjamin, two beats and three,
and noted the importance
of favorite sons.
Then my sweet Olivia sighed
as together we touched on the Red Sea
drama. “But horses died!”
and for that she bitterly cried.
“But God saved His people.”
And in later years we’ll talk of
the Grace He supplied.
Happy Ending
Eliot Singer, New York
I love a happy ending.
It has a habit of sending
sky rockets to the moon,
Grand as a flower in June.
Try to make it through
inclement weather.
A joyous result brings
people together.
`
26
27
Requiem
Time
Barbara Thomas, Montana
Returning in the dusk of an evening
from a festival of music:
guitar and voice, the folk
singing of a duo of children,
we are caught unaware,
blacktail deer silhouetted
within the gleam
of our headlights.
The deer scramble
roadside to disappear
into a farmer's grain field
while a trailing one,
bewildered by a shaft of car light,
shies before a barbed fence.
Happenstance, our brief
encounter with the hoofed
ones, our safety
under a moonless sky,
my neighbor's Kathy's
cautious driving.
Celebration
Bill Peck, California
Every Easter they rose
At dawn, drove to the hills
To see the sun rise and
Moon set at the same time
And then they walked hand
In hand under pink blossoms.
Now on Easter, she rises
At dawn, drives to the hills
To see the sun rise and
Moon set at the same time
And remembers the years
When they bloomed together.
He waits for her to join him
Soon for Easter in eternity
To see the sun rise and
Moon set at the same time.
Barbara Tate, Tennessee
Come Spring
Janet Goven, Pennsylvania
The lingering Winter
will not let go
buds patiently waiting
beneath the snow.
Then comes the twilight
when winds are calm
Winter’s grip released
bringing soothing balm,
as suddenly, silently
the warming’s begun
Earth opens her womb
under Spring’s bright sun . . .
Spring . . . has come.
Power
Dennis Ross, Iowa
A diminutive Elizabeth I
about four years old
in a long yellow print skirt
and a red top stares down
at black and white ducks
from her high bank.
Well-planted with arms
at her sides, completely focused,
she ever so slowly bends
her knees and picks up
a goodish stone, rises again,
and hurls it well out
into the-water. All fifty
or more ducks crash
from the lake in a great
flurried panic and our queen
shouts with glee and does
a little twirling victory dance.
Probably a future president
or a major-league pitcher.
The old clock sits atop the bookcase
ticking seconds gone. An old clock
with a mind of it’s own, too fast, too slow,
I turn the chimes off and let it stop,
it runs when it wants, obsessed, possessed,
it’s seen too much and knows too little.
The seconds go. No one cares.
It tries, it tried and no one cares.
I hear the ticking —
no one wants to be reminded
of the passing past.
fans
Carl Palmer, Washington
between whines about the early
morning rain from us under
umbrellas on this second day of
the all city fast pitch tournament
Seattle spectators cheer for these
cold wet players as infield mud
sticks to our little girls cleats
Magic Guitar
of mischievous mind
Gerald Heyder, Wisconsin
Stephen Kopel, California
Your strings are singing
like dulcet bells
that are ringing,
stars are shining
way up above
on this night.
of eternal love!
The moon is glowing
‘n you are showing
exquisite echo in
breeze that’s blowing,
your strings are singing
beautifully bringing
the sweetest sound
for love around!
I pray forever
hearts will never
stop hearing your
magic melody,
your strings keep bringing
sweet songs for singing
Magic Guitar
You are ecstasy!
Magic Guitar . . . Magic Guitar . . .
Magic Guitar . . .
foot-sore,
dry-mouthed,
exhausted
on its last calendar day
March
lies beneath April’s
sweet-smelling peaceful arbor
long enough
to visualize
an enterprise
of sequenced hours
counted one to twenty-four
when one or more
silly jokes,
small deceits,
mirthful tricks abound
wherein smiles
pass from
a speaker to
the spoken to
when a prank is in play
on April Fools’ Day
28
29
I Arise . . .
Esther Leiper-Estabrooks, New Hampshire
And the curse of eternity
Segues into time
Mote of moments
Like sundrops
Merge and meld
Into the mortal presence
Of morning
I sleep again
As again, finite day
Slips its leash
While eternity — on waking — becomes time
Yet selfhood, lulled to sleep, transforms, divine.
In Praise of Doorsteps
Janice Canerdy, Mississippi
I think of sunsets I have seen
throughout my many years
from doorsteps where in quiet thought
I’ve laughed and wiped my tears.
Conversation with the Statue of Liberty
Vincent Tomeo, New York
Black ice deceives
Bronze maiden is a spiked metal queen
Un-aging monument turning green
Weary
Holding up the light of the world
She wants to be liberated
She’s tired
Receiving “The wretched poor, yearning to be free . . .”
She needs a reprieve
“We the People . . .”
Concede,
“Times are changing”
“Give me your tired, your poor . . .”
Now reads
“Give me your hungry, your thirsty and let’s party!”
The doorstep is a thinking spot
a place to share my day
with loved ones God has given me,
an altar where I pray.
For children it’s a special seat
for rest when school work ends,
where snacks and many laughs are shared
with kindred-spirit friends.
For youths it is a meeting place
where games and dates are planned.
The simple structure serves us all,
according to demand.
Great praise is due life’s doorsteps, both
intangible and seen,
and all the portals fore and aft
for all they truly mean.
First published in the Fall 2012 contest-edition
anthology of the Mississippi Poetry Society
A Word to Our Subscribers . . .
Please check the subscription expiration date on your address label. If your
subscription expires with this issue, renew before May 1 and receive an extra
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You may be receiving this issue free of charge because you have a poem
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other than the satisfaction of serving the literary community. The costs of
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30
31
Writer’s
Workbench
Let’s Do a Sonnet!
The two most frequently used sonnet forms are the Italian (Petrarchan) and the
English (Shakespearean). To make things simpler, I will give you only the English
sonnet this time. The English sonnet has four divisions: three stanzas (4 lines each)
and a rhymed couplet (2 lines). The typical rhyme-scheme is abab cdcd efef gg, which
I will explain in detail.
Most sonnets have five beats (ten syllables) to each line. Here is a method that I
use because it’s so easy. You have ten fingers, right? Each line has five beats of two
syllables each: ta-da, ta-da, ta-da, ta-da, ta-da with the accent on the second syllable.
Count them on your fingers. Using my poem below as an example, say the first line
out loud counting the beats (or syllables) on your fingers. “Four times a year fair
nature changes clothes.” You can use this method as you write each line of your
sonnet to help you get the correct number of beats.
Now for the rhyme scheme. What is all this abab stuff? It tells you which line
rhymes with which — the first line with the third, the second with the fourth in the
first stanza. Then cdcd and efef tell you that you will choose different rhyming words
for the next two stanzas, but keep the first-third, second-fourth pattern.
The last two lines are called a couplet; the gg means the lines rhyme with each
other and, again, with different words from those you used in your other rhymes.
If you have any questions, refer to my sonnet below which will help you understand how to proceed. Think of an interesting topic and choose good rhyming
words. It doesn’t matter what they are as long as they fit the rhyme-scheme pattern.
Nature’s Stage
(A sonnet, explaining the rhyme scheme used)
Shirley Anne Leonard, Illinois
Four times a year fair nature changes clothes.
As God ordained her for her varied roles
With striking costume for her scenic shows,
She dances to the music of the poles.
a
b
a
b
In spring she sloshes forth in muddy brown,
Then tosses pink and purple everywhere;
In summer grows our food and then plops down
To sip cool lemonade in gardens fair.
c
d
c
d
Her varied autumn gilds the earth with haze,
Then paints the trees with orange, gold and red,
Till winter comes with glistening holidays
To cheer us for the snow and sleet ahead.
e
f
e
f
O Lord, thy beauteous seasons we must praise
For such a rich kaleidoscope of days.
g
g
Shirley Anne Leonard, WestWard Quarterly’s Editor, has published
five poetry chapbooks. The Compass (revised 2011) meditates on the
voyage through the seas of doctrinal dispute into the secure port of
God’s Kingdom. The Promise (revised 2011) celebrates God’s historic
work to bring about the restoration of His creation. The Journey (revised 2011) includes poems about the perils and joys of the journey
from the Kingdom of Darkness to the Kingdom of Light. Creation’s Song
(not shown below) brings together poems celebrating the beauty God
has created in nature for our enjoyment. Remembering Eden (not
shown below) is a collection of poems honoring Christ and recounting
God’s plan for the restoration of all things.
The Compass (52 pages)
The Promise (52 pages)
The Journey (38 pages)
Send $5.00 for each copy you request to:
L AUDEMONT P RESS
P.O. Box 369, Hamilton, Illinois 62341 U.S.A.
Make checks payable to Laudemont Press.
The Oak, edited by Betty Mowery, is a quarterly publication that prints
poetry submissions. For subscription information, or to submit your
work, write to The Oak, 1530 7th Street, Rock Island, IL 61201.
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(New Northwoods Journal)
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OPINION Magazine
Stimulating essays and poetry, published quarterly free of charge.
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Happy Writing!
—THE EDITOR
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