Thank you, Madam, for Your Interest

1.  ...in the recently vacated,
Frankly overcompensated
Managerial assignment lately held by Mr. Sowsse;
You assisted competently,
Dealing wiht his "problem" gently,
And discreetly quashed emergencies in-house.
The appointment has been given Mr. Snaatt, whom you may know
As the son-in-law of Mr. Essohbie, the C.E.O.
We trust your loyalty to help with easing his transitiion.
It was a very difficult decision.

2.  ...in the advertised position
For "experienced physician,"
And your resume was most impressive; still, we feel we must
Give a chance to a trainee
So we're sure you would agree
With our final choice of Doctor Blowsie Busste.
You may know her as the resident with forty pounds of hair
Who wa chosen Pumpkins Princess at the Nuthun County Fair.
We appreciate your efforts in our volunteer division.
It was a very difficult decision.

3.  ...as expressed by your submission
In our latest competition
For the umpty-thousand-dollar "Poet of the Decade" grant.
Though your lyrics are delightful,
Educated and insightful,
The award has gone to Mr. Ara Gantt.
You may have heard of Ara as a whiskery bluejeanius
Who writes disjointed prose in admiration of his penius.
Please try again in ten more years; perhaps with some revision.
It was a very difficult decision.

(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff

Whalebone Junction

Of the horizon's curve, sequence
and syncopation of churned water, buoys

and daymarkers in the distance,
lighthouses and low bayberry on the shore--

Sea-spray beads on my skin
unnoticed.  Wind chafes my face.

Undertow erodes sand from my feet.
I can stand ankle deep against the ebb.

I can be alone
with the ocean's brooding, its extremes.

I savor divine discontent,
my sanctuary, hunger for salt,

the basket of broken shells beside a door.
I can rearrange driftwood near the fire place,

leave the damper open in winter,
disappear in the dune's shadow

on the coldest day in November.
I can wrap boiled wool

around my shoulders, my grief,
dampen my beloved's faith

with a beveled mirror, a sand rose.
I can watch for wild horses,

bury my mother-of-pearl
in a grave beneath pine needles.  I can write

unexpected words in the sand:
surrender, caesura, donnee.

(c)Elaine Walters McFerron          2004

from Double Solitude                       

Parsing

You could lift the hem of rain and enter its grotto.  Habit is what blurs
gesture into allotment and enclosure.  Fold it between times with a
monk's cord of silence, just a slick of candle-fat.  That way the next
becomes a sacrament.

Ladies in cream linen and sandals, men in madras cotton.  Resolute and
demanding, the world I love.  Emerging through screens of glass and
leaf, mercurial light tinting the sands amber, taming the water so it
rises and quickens again.

Each day in my plain gray outfit I've waited patiently for a sign.  Even
the shoe with the frayed tassel has gleaming copper caught in its teeth.
I want to be like that, now or in our afterlife.

(c)Luisa Igloria          2005

from Trill and Mordent

We Are Woman

I will rejoice
For being born
Woman,
And though within each blessing
Lives a dark-cloud curse,
I will cling to this silver lining,
And celebrate who I am --
Who we are --
As women.

I am tied to the tides,
I swoon with the moon
And my body counts off the days
Of her cycle
As her phases number mine.
We are sisters, she and I,
Daughters of the same Father,
Twins of the same womb,
And we both shine
Reflecting the light of the Son.

I am the entrance into this world.
No one arrives here but through my blood,
And seldom depart
Without my tears.

Love is language
And I am multilingual.
My tongue caresses the ears
Of every man, woman, and child
As my compassion
Becomes voice,
Becomes action.
I am your mother/daughter/sister/wife
And I am life,
Love made flesh
And tenderness made tangible.

We are all around you,
Mysterious and real
Sacred and ordinary,
And     we     are     wonderful!

We are Woman.

(c)Jerri Hardesty          2010

In a Class by Herself

She was my favoirte; yes that's true:

A unique, unforgettable go-getter,

A non-stop, battling achiever, who

Would always go everyone else one better,

As she outranked the ranks of the common crew.

Her goal was to excel in every way,

Holding to the lead through every mile,

Accepting nothing less than a grade of "A,"

Insisting, with that charming, winning smile,

That excellence was all for which she'd pay.

No one could doubt that when she went away

To Harvard and displayed her brilliance there

That she'd come back with early-earned M.A.

To excel in jobs and career fields anywhere

She chose to seek employment or to stay.

Bill Carroll          2008

Hollow Day

O that is empty,
the scooped orange skin,
the nut eaten, caste
on its back, gutted,

the space between lines,
the day that draws water
in drops that catch sunlight
in bubbles, clear and unafraid,

before the gift card fell
open to the ink marks
the pen said were from
the girl whose hair tie

was too bright on the old
dresser against the back
wall of the bedroom
she'd just left,

where the gold band
lay shining, casting
hollow shadows in the room,
just as the lunch whistle

blew at the shipyard,
and his front door closed.

(c)Nancy Powell          2007

from How Far Is Ordinary

After Dark

After dark
when you're
off limits
I'll pop a cork
and invite
you over
your vampire teeth
all shiny sharp
won't put me off
if I can get
the first nibble
maybe then
I'll stand a chance
you leave your sister
in the car
don't keep
the engine running
she'll just need
to drive you home
so I can
get some sleep
dawn's satisfaction
can close your coffin

(c)Jack Callan                         2007

published in Skipping Stones 2007

My Piano Student

We have sat there together
in front of her piano
on Sundays at noon
for three years.

It looks as though
I am teaching her
about F chords
chromatic scales
fortissimo
pianissimo
staccato
legato.

And I am.

Here she is
before me
Eleven years old
dark hair dark eyes
quiet demeanor
slow to answer with words
quick to respond with her
fingers moving
to "The Spinning Wheel"
which I used to play
when I was eleven.

So what is it, again,
that I am teaching her?

How to sit
before what you love
and make it sing.

(c)Sharon Weinstein          1995

from Celebrating Absences

Moonshadow: an elegy

It's gone now.
A hundred and twenty-five feet of white sugar sand;
Violet clouds on the horizon
Shells washed up daily from the Gulf,
Drifts of wet, cupped jewels crunching underfoot.
For twenty years
Sandy-footed children
Stepping in the water basin at the door
Washing sand from their feet
But not their memories.
No stores on the island, no paved roads.
Inside, all planned for the sea and the sand.
Straw floor-mats, rolled blinds, opposing windows
Thrown wide when the tide turned,
Filling the house with air like a sail.
Walking each morning onto the front porch,
Mug in hand,
I watched my school of dolphins play,
My private performance.
We sold it,
Not our hearts.
The sound of surf
Is still in our ears like a heartbeat,
We still hear the call of gulls,
The soft break of foam on the sand.

Named for the song, so frail on its stilts,
Front blown out, we rebuilt it better,
Added decks front and back, screened porches;
Twice in one year the roofing gone, once the floor.
First year the plastic plumbing melted,
So we learned plumbing,
The twelve-year-old rebuilt an air conditioner,
Cousins nailed a stormwrack walkway,
I fixed a toilet and the fridge, set bread to rise,
The tireless master dared the septic tank.
Hot afternoons
We all lay on floors and sofas, reading.

It taught us, the island,
Shaped us.
When I slide into the tunnel of the CATscan
And the rumbling comes around me
I close my eyes and it's the surf;
I am on the porch barefooted
He is holding my hand
I hear the cry of children
Beyond the sea oats on the beach.

(c)Bea DuRette          2009

Reconciled

Once we no longer raced our mares through orchards of cherries and apples--
just below the rush of burden-lowered branches--once we no longer crept

together over sighing ice, for a glimpse of promise-green beneath the winter,
Pride, with too many tomorrows, conspired that we'd meet our separate ends.

For a youthful slight, you crossed an avenue to shun, and I'd not cross to meet.
Uninvited to your wedding, I sought descriptions of your dress.  At the local market,

I'd not set down the cantaloupe and join you for a thumping of the sweetest
watermelons--like those we won in nighttime garden raids.  In this small town

you would've heard the very hour each child of mine was born, and know that,
though your name was once my favorite sound, I didn't pass it to my daughter

as I often said I would.  Today, at last, I met your child--so much like you--grown
and lovely as the flowers that surround you now.  I've learned you spoke so tenderly,

and shared renditions of our unfeminine recklessness.  Lingering here between
her greeting and farewell embrace, I realize, dear friend, how scared we've always been.

(c)Allen Weber          2009

published in Up the Staircase

Almost In Love

Like mirror images reflecting
each other's ego needs,
drawn together yet frightened
by the possibilities,
we pretend to trivialize,
to focus on the practical,
the business at hand
to get us safely through.
We peek into the mirror
holding one eye safely closed,
avoiding the fiery tales
years of memories have told,
leaving ears red and sore,
eyes red with tears unable to
quench embers that won't die.
So the fortresses are strong,
the moats dug wide and deep
around each of our castles.
Still, we call to one another,
pay our visits frequently,
lowering the ramps
for an afternoon or night of
forgetting whys and wherefores.
Quickly we retreat again
as dawn sneaks a laser beam
revealing all our fears of
how frightening it can be
to meet our match in the light
of so many painful lessons,
to face the scary prospect
of accepting ourselves.

(c)Mary Curro          2006

published in Skipping Stones 2007

To My Sister

When I was there
and you were here
Letters were few
but oh so dear
And now that circumstance
has traded our places
Letters are new
But still the faces
lack the warmth of your smile
And love that in your eyes
reflect childhood laughter
and sometimes cries
to return to moments before
Then in moments after
becomes the same warm reflection
and joyful anticipation I see
in the moment of your return

(c)Nathan Richardson          1986

from Likeness of Being

Body Double

Round skin, thin,
wears years like tree rings,

becomes rose-hued in the view
of a new moon,

while, across chairs
set to face each other

like knee caps, faded hair
curls around a weary neck,
strained from closed buttons.

Years swallow the past
like fasted Fridays,

part company, and raise
themselves for communion.

Eyes fall closed
to rest like a Winter Oak

blanketed in Saratoga snow.

(c)Nancy Powell          2007

from How Far Is Ordinary

Walking after midnight

She wears white--
jeans and silver-studed
jacket.  Luminous
as a will-o-wisp
under the yellow lamp-
light she walks the streets'
canyons.  The click of
her heels echoes from
the walls.  On the
upper fire escapes
twisted shadows lean
forward.  In cellar
windows eyes suddenly
gleam.  In doorways dark
as toothless mouths young
men uncurl from
feral crouches. Her heels
click along pavement
and a smudge of black
tears from the sky floats
in her wake.

(c)Serena Fusek          2009

Baker's Wheel

Sometimes I feel like a cake on a baker's wheel,
Turning slowly around, waiting to complete its final turn.
The icing is velvety smooth and must be carefully applied,
That it is neither too thin nor too thick.

For this sweetness is but a mere introduction to the layers beneath,
Rich and full of their own complexities.
Each imperfection artfully smoothed by a soft fruit filling,
Both sweet and tart, it is the perfect balance.

So I turn upon my baker's wheel, my slowly spinning maker's wheel.
I know my final turn shall come to pass some day.
The wheel will stop spinning, the layers of life complete,
No icing left to apply.

Just knowing each ingredient added was simply layered with love.
Measured in laughter, a sprinkle of tears, but in the end,
a good recipe shared.

(c)Donna Kalinski

Cherry Bombshell

I'm a fruity kinda girl

I love peaches

but melons don't cramp my style

Mellencamp drives me wild,

like a cherry bomb.

I'm a rooty  kinda girl

Sometimes they're dark

sometimes not.

Sometimes root beer hits the spot,

Rootbeer with a pecan twirl.

I'm a tooty kinda girl

Sometimes you hear my horn,

sometimes you don't.

You have to toot your own horn

'cause somebody else won't.

So I'm a rooty, tooty, fruity kinda girl.

Do I like pancakes?

You bet your booty.

With a creamy butter swirrl

for this fruity kinda girl.

(c)Phyllis Johnson          2007

from Hot and Bothered by It!

History

It's serial monogamy
Not polygamy or bigamy
It's the timing, not the ending
that surprises

Most women are monogamous
men naturally polygamous
It were ever wise to keep the end
in mind

(c)Anne Darrison          2009

What is midnight?

midnight is an eye, awake, insistent,
holding on to ragged deams

midnight is an arm, silken with age,
fringed in hope, it is a sidewalk,
an unpaved road

midnight is a bosom, rising quiet like
bread and love presses down, just
so it can rise again

midnight is a hard sole, crusted
with garden, memories cling as it
pads to morning

this midnight is lighted, as white and
opaque as milk

inside is a dream that someone once had
the dream is still and awake

(c)Jill Winkowski          2009

Let me taste the soulshine

Let me taste the soul shine
on the smoothness of your breasts
see the midnight moon glow
in the passion of your eyes
feel your spirit pulsing
in your fingers' caress
let us listen to the voices
calling from the night
hear the hymns of passion
in the rising sunlight
drink from each others' lips
of romance warm and true
let's explore a couple's kingdom
built with care, each day renewed.

(c)Kent Miller          2010

She is the Land

for Gin


Her hips roll like the lush hills of Kentucky
round and fertile with tomorrow,
patterned with sunlight.  Her ears cuddle kitten songs,
mewing pink tongues that beg gifts
from swollen udders; rosebud nostrils sniff for cream
tht rises in the air like clouds,
fills her mouth, drips down her chin.
Her arms strain like roots
tethering the almost-born to earth.

She works golden shafts of straw
into welcome mats to clothe her beasts.
Her wrists snap and flick wood chips into misshapen utinsils
mined from cedar, ash and cherry,
whittled voices, stolen spirits singing of the Appalachian Trail,
souvenirs and Birdfoot Violet wildflowers.

Her pen drops words like rain
nourishes all creatures great and small,
infuses them with souls, one bleat at a time.
Salt tears replenish the crops
while she cradles her seasons in a basket.
In the distance, a whinny
shines in the sky.

(c)Terry Cox-Joseph         2006

The Teacher

My students
They haunt me.

They line up by the side
of my desk in the classroom
as I remove my grade book,
the text, my pen;

They meet me in the halls,
They merge into my office,
They wait for me by my car,
They leave me messages.

Thais is what they tell me:

My computer broke down,
My grandmother died,
My husband was just released
from jail and is trying
to murder me.

I'm in the school play,
I'm pregnant and I'm spotting,
I have lupus,
I need this course to graduate.

I had to work late,
I was in court,
My roommate is having
a baby and she had no one
else to be with her,
I just had an abortion.

And I
listen
to what
I don't
want to hear;

The messiness
of their lives
happening.
I believe
each story--

I have to--

These are my students
This is the way they learn.

(c)Sharon Weinstein

from Celebrating Absences, Road Publishers 1995

Intrusion

With eyebrow arched, the sun peeked over the horizon--
Was woman earth still in her shower?
Or had she stepped out full naked?
There she graced his eye, stark in her beauty--full figured,
And not yet even towel dried,
But glistening as sun's rays began to enhance her roundness.
With hot blushing face, the solar orb
Sought a cloud behind which to hide,
Thereby creating a shawl of rose lace draped where it lay,
Covering woman's earthly parts in modesty,
Easing her pangs of vulnerability.

(c)Linda Harrell Coffman          2010

'Pop' sicles

Tiny iced tree buds
Cuddled close on twigs
Spring's courting, sudden caught by Winter

 

(c)Anne Darrison          2010

Twentieth Century Limited

For women, the end of the twentieth century
Is no big deal.
After Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem
We had hoped for better things,
But where has all that consciousness raising gotten us?
We are stretched thin,
Trying to fill the shoes of our mothers
While pushing our way
Into the world of our fathers.
Meantime, we are blamed for the problems of our children.
Some harsh master or mistress expects us to be all things,
Including
Having an ageless body,
Incredible orgasms on demand,
And the calm nature of a Zen master.We try for a little spiritual sustenance,
Only to be bombarded by articles in women's magazines
Blithering about decorating the perfect house
In the 2950 style.
At the same time
We are expected to whip up
A gourmet meal in twenty minutes,
Not forgetting our aim of losing twenty pounds
In ten days.
Men are discovering their inner feminine nature,
As we go off to the offices
Dressed in tailored navy slack suits,
Leaving the children in the hands of tired workers
At the local day care center.
Some call this the "sandwich generation."
Often we must care for aging parents
While trying to cope with rebellious teenagers.

We wonder what the new century will bring?
We begin to long for the dull world of our mothers,
Who stayed at home to suckle their babies
And be there with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
When the kindergartners come home from school.
We are told that now we can have it all.

I can't help wondering
What "all" is?

(c)Margaret Peck Latham          2010

Before Dawn

Dark, quiet, expectant
The house awaits the day
With silent anticipation
Hush before orchestral sun

(c)Anne Darrison          2010

Like the Essence of Fine Wine

She strolled down the garden path.

Inhaling, she smelled the red roses,

the pink carnations,

the purple isrises.

They all had their own fragrance,

their own allure,

their own mystique.

Not unlike a woman-

With her "pink" days,

fresh hopes, dreams,

maybe shelved by

growing kids, but still there.

Or a woman in red-

a rebirth-

new hobbies,

a devil may care attitude

a littlle rebellion,

followed by purple days-

a strong sense of self-

perhaps some softening of ways,

a mellowing out and yet . . .

the vase- regardless of the shape

holds a collection

of pink, red and purple blooms,

the blend of different phases

evolving over time-

like the essence of fine wine.

(c)Phyllis Johnson          2007

from HOT and Bothered by It. Community Press

A Real Heart Stopper!

Hair of midnight hue,
Eyes of bright morning blue
Had always held her heart
Through and through.

For her, he always was,
And he always would be
A real heart stopper!

(c)Linda Amos          2008

Literary Archeology: Poems I've Yet to Write

From an overlook near the quiet beach
at Capri, that side opposite its rock
and boulder coastline that stares
toward once buried Pompeii,
its Roman past leveled,
elite and imprisoned alike
preserved together in volcanic ash,

I spot her, young, attractive,
alone, with a book, aloof in sunglasses,
her regal cabana fit for only one,
a sophisticated match for Sargent's
favorite model, Rosina.

Buon giorno!
She looks up.  "May I?" I'm sure
she's been schooled in English.
She does not refuse.
I drop to one knee.
"American?" she asks.

I say, "I have poems for you,
for the woman I think you are."
I pull my verse, folded,
from my shirt pocket.

"I compare your beauty
to the Sorrentine sun, your skin
to this smooth wet sand, but your eyes..."

I motion to her glasses.
I tell her what they hide, poetry
she hordes, stark
periods on my page, lines
locked in their world
like frozen women of Pompeii.

(c)B. Koplen          11/2009

Maternal Light

Her smile warms softly
the thick, hard night
her voice, a soothing song
a note of musical light
her hands are smooth pillows
bringing comfort to the weary
she is inspiration in motion
the embodiment of love.

(c)Kent Miller          2009

Sister Anne Arrives in Haiti

Blind babies will not see, the lame not walk for me,
But I can teach the deaf to dance, the lame to sing,

the blind to play the music.

I cannot light the jungle of fear,
Writhing with terror and tears of uncertain tomorrows,
But I can find its scarlet butterflies, its yellow birds

and burning blossoms,     

Fireflies and glowing eyes of gentle creatures.
I can draw back the rag that hangs at the door of Poverty's hut,
And see it grow bright with wisdom and faith and Caribbean sun.
I am too frail to halt attacking hunger of body and spirit,
Hurricane winds, battle and hatred,
Dusty thirst of restless mountains.
But I can nourish with beauty and hope and a vision,
Feel God's miraculous touch in little black fingers,
Clasping hand in hand in hand, small invincible stones

in a fortress of love.      

I cannot silence threatening drums and chanting witchcraft,
Echoed in vine-tangled calls of mysterious killers and demons,
Mourning roar and hiss of the sea on shore,
But I can lift the voices of island children,
Music the Father uses to speak to men
In loud hallelujahs that smother the funeral howling
With jingling calypso and burnished allegro, in reels and

hosannas.                 

I can give nothing; the gifts are God's and His glory;
I can but open the arms of His children to know Him.
I am one harpstring He touches, one note of the song of His
kingdom.

This poem was previously published in The Caribbean Writer

(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff          2000