Rhymeandreason Djt7a

Masterpiece
If words from in your heart can come to life

And dance across the pages like a song,
If you can make a person stop and think,
Or make somebody weigh up right and wrong,
If words you write can soothe a broken soul,
Or cause a laugh from somebody in pain,
Or make a friend reflect upon their ways,
Then youve performed an artists work again.

If children laugh or parents shed a tear
From words that you have written on a page,
A lover feel so proud of who they are,
Or strangers rant in hot debate and rage,
If someone else is moved by words you write,
If you can cause a heart rate to increase,
If every poem comes from in your heart --
Then all deserve the title Masterpiece.

-- Graeme King

The Muse, Passing
Etching, 2006 Jonathan Day

ISBN 0-9737006-1-0

Rhyme and Reason

Modern Formal Poetry

An Anthology Compiled and Edited by
Neil Harding McAlister

Illustrated by Jonathan Day

Rhyme and Reason
Modern Formal Poetry

Published by:

McAlister, Neil Harding
11 Island View Court
Port Perry, Ontario, Canada
L9L 1R6

www.durham.net/~neilmac/travelerstales.htm

Digital set-up by Arzina Merali and Jean Taylor

Titles published by McAlister, Neil Harding:

New Classic Poems: Contemporary Verse That Rhymes, 2005.
Rhyme and Reason: Modern Formal Poetry, 2006.

2006 Neil Harding McAlister. All rights reserved. The copyright of each poem in this collection is
owned by its author. By written agreement, poets have assumed personal responsibility for the original
authorship and clear copyright ownership of the works that bear their names. No part of this book may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including digital
information storage and retrieval devices and systems, without prior written permission of the publisher
and the copyright owner(s), except that brief passages may be quoted, with attribution, for reviews or
for scholarly purposes.

Published and printed in Canada.

ISBN 0-9737006-1-0
4

Preface

Our first collection of rhyming, metrical poems New Classic Poems:
Contemporary Verse That Rhymes -- was so well received by participating authors and
other aficionados of formal poetry that a call for submissions for a second volume
was sent to poets of the Publishers acquaintance. It was also advertised on the
Internet via our own web site and with kind assistance from several other sites that
post items of interest to writers. Response was immediate and sustained, once
more demonstrating that an active community of writers continues to work within
this traditional literary genre -- one generally neglected by the publishing
mainstream. This new collection contains the best of several hundred submissions
received during half a year.
Formal poetry is an art requiring so much effort from its creators that most
contemporary poets opt for the less technically demanding mtier of free verse
instead. Rhyming, metrical poetry demands more than casual effort from its
readers as well. Anyone who approaches it with the notion that the predictable
jingles of popular songs are poetry will soon be delighted to discover a far more
intricate, entertaining and fascinating universe of words revealed when they
encounter the wit of a Peter Austin or an epic such as Dick Hayess Trebizond.
However, the abundant rewards of formal poetry must be earned, because serious
poems can never serve as the intellectual equivalent of elevator music. Unlike trite
pop song lyrics, poetry requires thoughtful engagement by its readers.
This collection contains some previously-published works. It also brings many
excellent poems into public circulation for the first time. Contributing authors live
in Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States of America, Australia and
Germany. Therefore, both English and American spelling is found in this book,
depending on the origin of the authors. Several established and honored poets
have kindly lent their work to this volume; while other no less accomplished, but
previously unpublished, writers appear in print for the first time in these pages.
The poets biographies are included at the end of the book.
Several people deserve special acknowledgement. Love to my wife, Dr. Nazlin
McAlister, and to our children Zara and James, for serving as sounding boards for
reams of poetry that were received while this anthology was being compiled; and
for tolerating Dads frequent absence at the computer keyboard in the service of
his unusual hobby. Many thanks to my sister-in-law Arzina Merali, and to her
associate Jean Taylor, for their technical expertise, creating the digital files for the
printer. Jonathan Days art brightens the pages of this volume; and the title Rhyme
and Reason was his suggestion. Dr. Keith Holyoak donated his scholarly insights for
the Foreword; and Angela Burns proof-read the entire manuscript and generously
offered very helpful editorial assistance.

N. H. McA.

April, 2006

5

Contents

Index of Poems 7

What Should a Poem be Like? 11

Food for Thought 17

Seasons 37

By Land and Sea 59

Realms of Myth 73

Pot Pourri 99

His and Hers 113

Leave em Laughing 131

About the Poets 148

Index of First Lines 157

6

Index of Poems

Masterpiece, Graeme King 1

Food for Thought 17

Enemy, Gregory Christiano 18
Nothing, Gregory Christiano 18
An Invocation for our Opening Night, Michael Milligan 19
On the Battlefield, Gregory Christiano 20
Diogenes, Neil Harding McAlister 21
A Death in the City, Gregory Christiano 22
Oh Shakespeare! Michael Milligan 23
Fire Bringer, Michael Milligan 24
On Visiting a Graveyard, Peter G. Gilchrist 24
Hypocrisy, Neil Harding McAlister 25
Justification, Angela Burns 26
Rebuilding, Anna Evans 27
Secret Death, Jeannine Schiavoni 28
Envy, Neil Harding McAlister 29
Silent Voices, Richard E. Buenger 30
The Con of Cons, Aaron Wilkinson 32
The Field of the Cloth of Gold, Catherine Edmunds 33
Skip, Neil Harding McAlister 34
In the Office, Sally Cook 35
Tithe of the Black Sheep, LaVonda Krout 36
When Time is Kind, Vincent W. Williams 36

Seasons 37

Voyageur, Neil Harding McAlister 38
Spring, Michael Milligan 39
Forty-Something, Peter G. Gilchrist 40
Rain in the Desert, Neil Harding McAlister 40
The Winter House, Jeannine Schiavoni 41
Spring in Mist and Music, Jeannine Schiavoni 42
Canadian Winter, Peter Austin 43
Wordless Whispers, Eric Linden 44
The Spotted Doe, T.S. Kerrigan 45
Spring Cleaning, Neil Harding McAlister 46
The Lal-Jomi, Anna Evans 47
Infidel at Tea, Eric Linden 48
Spring Revue, Angela Burns 48
Autumn Recital, Angela Burns 48
Tears of a Clown, S. Parlato 49
Winters End, John Grey 49
7

Dancing Feet, Peggy Fletcher 50
Spring Thaw, Debbie Okun Hill 50
Winter Woes, Aaron Wilkinson 51
Are We There Yet? Steven Manchester 52
All Hail the Noble Hog, Sally Cook 53
Ancient Oak, Jan Harris 54
As Children Play Near Weathered Stones, Gerry Spoor 54
Black and White World, Dawn Sinclair 55
I Paid My Dues, Dawn Sinclair 56
A Fathers Tired Refrains, Gerry Spoor 58
The Triumph of Words Over Music, Simon Leigh 58

By Land and Sea 59

Lighthouse, Angela Burns 60
The Gentle Pirate, Gregory Christiano 60
Natures Revenge, Susan Eckenrode 61
The Too Wise Sailor, Michael Milligan 62
Song of the Locomotive, Gregory Christiano 63
Wildhorse Camp, Peter G. Gilchrist 64
Downunderstanding, Joanne Underwood 65
Road Kill, Neil Harding McAlister 66
Sunset, Bar Harbor, Lee Evans 67
If Hurricane and Tempest Die, Richard E. Buenger 68
Vomiting Jonah, Laura Heidy 69
The Jump, Carl Reinholt 70
Bravado, Peter G. Gilchrist 71
Thoughts of Home, Neil Harding McAlister 72

Realms of Myth 73

The Dragon, Michael Milligan 74
The Night Willow, Michael Milligan 79
Urban Legends, Susan Eckenrode 79
Prairie Whispers, Sally Ann Roberts 80
The Weekday Song, Lee Evans 81
Trebizond (A Ballad), Dick Hayes 82
Ascension 75, Louis John Costanza 92
Night Visitor, Sally Ann Roberts 93
Grandpa and the Leprechaun, Sally Ann Roberts 94
The Lonely Piper, Cynthia K. Deatherage 95
Lost, Patricia Louise Gamache 96
The Earls Ride, Cynthia K. Deatherage 97
Talking to Olympus, Graeme King 98

Pot Pourri 99

On the Rush, Peter G. Gilchrist 100
Judiciously, Peter G. Gilchrist 101
Vestiges, Richard E. Buenger 101
Zoo Animals, James K. McAlister 102
8

Requiem for a Minor Shakespearean Actor, T.S. Kerrigan 103
Cyber Date, Graeme King 104
A Mothers Day, Mary McIntosh 105
Inventors, Graeme King 106
The Sergeants Warning, Joseph S. Salemi 107
Iambic Glut, Joseph S. Salemi 107
Bruce and David, Michael S. Bennett 108
Painting Is Not Recreation, Jonathan Day 109
Flower Cures, Angela Burns 110
Poets Point, Angela Burns 111
Seven Deadly Sins, Neil Harding McAlister 111
The Museum of Thrift, Angela Burns 112
Crossing Over, Patricia Louise Gamache 112

His and Hers 113

Two Views Behind the Scenes, Susan Eckenrode 114
Losing Touch, MFK Buckley 114
Satin-Blue, Irene Livingston 116
A Caf in Paris, Zara McAlister 117
Pamela Ann, Eric Linden 118
June Bride, MFK Buckley 118
The Honeymoon, Eric Linden 119
A Friends Eye View, Susan Eckenrode 119
Summer Knights, Irene Livingston 120
Upon Meeting an Old Love, Mary E. Moore 121
Backwards Through Wet Grass, Anna Evans 122
Lines Written During Pentecost, T.S. Kerrigan 123
Silver Moonbeam, Graeme King 123
Loves Labours Lost, Dick Hayes 124
Midnight Sighs, smzang 125
Rebirth, Anne Maarit Ghan 125
Aubade, T.S. Kerrigan 126
Kindling, Max Gutmann 126
Ars Brevis, T.S. Kerrigan 127
Lines on a Modern Serenade, E. Russell Smith 127
The Private Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen, Keith Holyoak 128
We Need to Talk, Peter G. Gilchrist 129
Enough Said, MFK Buckley 129
Ode to Mrs. Anne Seymour Damer 1749-1828, Daphne Rock 130

Leave em Laughing 131

Blackie, Peter Austin 132
The Cooking of Sybil U., Joanne Underwood 133
Airport Angst, Neil Harding McAlister 134
A Knights Work, Susan Eckenrode 135
A Clerihew for Paris, Ellen Birkett Morris 136
A Couplet for Norma, Ellen Birkett Morris 136
Birthday Present, Simon Leigh 136
Logical Progress, Angela Burns 137
The Charmer, Mary E. Moore 137
9

My Computer, Peter Austin 138
The Mirror, Richard E. Buenger 139
A Dollar Per Admission, Peter Austin 140
Sock Despair, Mary E. Moore 141
Washday Woe, Neil Harding McAlister 141
Give Over! Peter Austin 142
A Question of Authenticity, Joseph S. Salemi 143
The Way Things Go, Sally Cook 144
Animal Nonsense, Richard E. Buenger 145
The Violin Teachers Lament, Catherine Edmunds 146
To Sally, Vincent W. Williams 147
Insomniacs Lament, Margaret Fieland 147
10
Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like?

What Should a Poem be Like?

Keith Holyoak

e may lament the lack of popular
interest in poetry, but before asking
why it is out of favor, ask: why do
people bother with poetry at all?
Poetry originates in oral traditions that
predate historical record in songs, chants and
rhythmic stories handed down. Rhythm made it
more memorable than prose. Should this matter
to us, amidst the unceasing technological
revolution of this new millennium? Oral
traditions have faded and poetry has been
swamped in a rising sea of prose. We are
entertained by technological art forms
inconceivable to remote ancestors who gathered
around their fires at night to listen to spoken
songs.
Spoken or written, a poem remains such
a simple thing one speakers words addressed
to our listening ear. Why bother? Some nostalgia
for a lost simplicity, perhaps? Our prehistoric
ancestors had other simple traditions that might
evoke nostalgia. Yet few people today care to
seek their dinner in the forests with slingshots
and spears, or to make clothes from the skins of
wild animals. But somehow, even after the Stone
Age has evolved into the electronic age, we seek
poetry. Why?
There are two basic reasons. Poetry is in
essence the fusion of sound and symbol; and
each taps into something fundamental to human
beings. When we understand how poetry affects
us, we can understand what a poem should be.

Symbols in Poetry

irst, consider the symbolic element.
Symbolic refers to the use of language
to convey meanings and emotions that go
beyond immediate or literal words. For
example, moon literally refers to the natural
satellite of Earth; but it may also symbolize
romantic love, ethereal beauty, a feminine
principle contrasted with a male principle
symbolized by the sun, or all of these with other
possibilities.
The symbolic uses of language go well
beyond the associations of individual words. An
extended passage, taken as a whole, may
describe people or situations to promote the
specific yet indicate the general. By using
symbol-laden words, analogies, metaphors,
blended concepts, allusions and subtle
suggestions, a poem can trigger emotions not
easily expressed in words abstract ideas,
empathy, experience. A poem may speak what
cannot be spoken what cannot be conveyed as
directly as prose.
I believe, as did Yeats and others, that
the symbolism of poetry shares its roots with
religious impulse, and is so deeply embedded in
human character that we have the poet and his
shadow the priest (Yeats, 1903, p. 246). Of
course, not all poems have religious themes, or
any connection to formal religion. Rather, the
natural themes of poetry are issues that also feed

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the religious impulse the meaning of life and
death, good and evil, an individuals place in the
universe, relationships among people, between
people and the natural world, states of
consciousness, and the relationship between the
body and the mind and spirit.
We attempt to speak of God of whom
nothing can be said with poetry. Symbols
describe what is hidden. They connect with our
senses and emotions about those intangible but
achingly-important concerns that may reduce
prose to remote abstraction, at best, or
nonsense, at worst. Nothing in modern
civilization not science, technology, politics,
materialism, or economic systems has
diminished the human religious impulse. And so
the poetic impulse persists as well.

Sound in Poetry

he other fundamental element of poetry
is sound the sound of the human voice.
Whether a poem is recited aloud to an
audience, or simply read silently to oneself, we
respond emotionally to the pattern of sound.
The meter of poetry is a purified and
intensified form of the natural rhythms of
everyday speech. Spoken English tends towards
an iambic pattern with alternating weak-strong
stresses. English poetry naturally gravitates
toward this basic meter, and varies to mimic the
natural rhythmic variations of its iambic origin.
Poetry manipulates the sound units of
words, which in English are the initial onsets
followed by the rest of the word, which yields
rhyme. Rhyming, a poetic device present in
languages as diverse as English and Chinese,
isolates and repeats a natural sub-unit of a word
in a new context.
Why do rhythm and rhyme contribute
so much to the pleasure and power of poetry?
Meter, the repeating pattern of major beats
within diverse but related rhythms, is readily
learned by infants as young as seven months.
Listening to metrical music helps elderly
dementia patients recall decades-old facts about
their lives.
Pulses of energy underlie the natural
fascination we feel watching the waves of the
ocean. Meter finds expression in many human
movements walking, dancing, sex, heart beats,
and most importantly, in breathing. Breathing is
inherently linked to the production of speech,
which connects in turn to emotions. The rhythm
of speech differs, depending whether we sigh
with sadness, exult in joy, or lash out in anger.
Lullaby or battle cry poetic rhythms mimic
breathing patterns that accompany speech.
And rhyme? We have an implicit
understanding that the meanings of words are,
by and large, independent of their sounds. Cars
and trucks share more meaning than cars and
cats, even though cars sounds more like
cats. So we feel a pleasant sense of surprise
when similar sounds are unexpectedly linked
as in a lullaby/ a battle cry. Or

Cross the sky and fall from heaven,
Thats the way we make a seven

a memorable rhyme to help a child learn to
write numerals. Dylan Thomas could make the
most commonplace of rhymes reverberate, and
impose powerful connections between
contrasting meanings:

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Rhymes link meanings through
similarities in sound. Rhymes in a metric pattern
reinforce meaning by providing closure to the
ends of individual lines, while stitching several
lines together. When the resulting pattern of
meter and rhyme is repeated in the form of
stanzas, the effect is rhythmic waves of speech; a
pattern repeated with variations. The sound of a
poem highlights the basic sound patterns of
everyday speech, yet is unlike the pattern a
person would use. This paradox is a source of
pleasure.
One evening when my son was twelve
he discovered Edgar Allan Poes The Raven,
and came running into the living room to read it
aloud to me. The final stanza is:

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still
is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my
chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons
that is dreaming,
And the lamplight oer him streaming throws his
shadow on the floor:
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And my soul from out that shadow that lies
floating on the floor
Shall be liftednevermore!

My sons delight in the poem was triggered by
his recognition of an amazing coincidence. The
poets sentences flowed along as a stream of
rhythm and rhyme so improbable beforehand,
so inevitable once heard. It seemed like magic to
him.
The pleasure generated by sound
patterns in poetry complements emotions
elicited by its sound and meaning. Poetry can be
joyful, but it can also express sadness, despair,
anger, horror. The negative emotions are as
much a part of us as the positive ones; so we
may paradoxically enjoy the eternal note of
sadness of which Matthew Arnold spoke in
Dover Beach:

Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and
fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow; and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

The Fusion of Sound and Symbol

he full impact of poetry comes neither
from symbol nor sound alone, but from
the fusion of the two elements into a
seamless whole. A poem should be a symbolic
meaning embodied in a natural pattern of sound.
Symbol and sound are held together by emotion;
both can make people feel, and they interact to
intensify feelings. Yeats described this
interaction in his essay on The Symbolism of
Poetry:

All sounds, all colours, all forms, either
because of their pre-ordained energies or
because of long association, evoke indefinable
and yet precise emotions, or, as I prefer to think,
call down among us certain disembodied
powers, whose footsteps over our hearts we call
emotions; and when sound, and colour, and
form are in a musical relation to one another,
they become as it were one sound, one colour,
one form and evoke an emotion that is made out
of their distinct evocations and yet is one
emotion (1903, p. 243).

Yeats also stressed the importance of
rhythm in creating a mental state that is
especially responsive to symbols:

The purpose of rhythm, it has always
seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of
contemplation, the moment when we are both
asleep and awake, which is the one moment of
creation, by hushing us with an alluring
monotony, while it holds us waking by variety,
to keep us in that state of perhaps real trance, in
which the mind liberated from the pressure of
the will is unfolded in symbols (1903, p. 247).

A poem should be sound and symbol,
fused into unity. The sound of a poem should
not simply express its meanings and emotions;
but embody those meanings and emotions
literally breathe life into them.

What Went Wrong?

e have a problem. The ties between
poetry and fundamental aspects of
human psychology are real. Yet by and
large, poetry has not always honored the fusion
of symbol and sound. What happened?
Despite exceptions, Twentieth Century
English-language poetry will likely be
remembered for its free verse. (For an engaging
and scholarly account of the rise of free verse,
see Timothy Steeles Missing Measures.) Free
verse is identifiable by its avoidance of regular
meter, rhyme, and stanza forms. It can achieve
interesting effects, but the unstructured style
makes it difficult to convey regular sound
patterns and symbols. Despite striking images
and emotional content, it does not have
rhythmic, repeating sound patterns (although
some free-verse poems, exemplified by
Ginsbergs Howl, make effective use of
biblical cadences). Some Twentieth Century
poets went further, and declared that a poem is
nothing but text, and allowed typographical
details and spacing of characters on the page to
replace traditional forms. The result is the loss of
sound-and-symbol fusion.

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What led to this departure from the traditional
fusion? Free verse was a reaction against
Victorian romantic poetry of the Nineteenth
Century, with its centuries-old traditions of
regular meter, rhyme, and stanza forms. By the
beginning of the Twentieth Century, the time for
pastoral idylls and imperial paeans had ended.
Victorian poetic forms, and their themes, were
rejected.

eanwhile, in North America, the
advent of free verse was underway
with the powerful example of Walt
Whitman. His self-celebration fitted the radical
individualism and rising power of the United
States, as it replaced England to become the
power center of the English-speaking world. As
this political shift occurred, it also became the
cultural focus. Free verse began as a celebration
of the individual: America stood for change,
renewal, personal freedom; so the staid forms of
the past were abandoned. Experimentation also
took place in western Europe, and in art and
literature; free verse was explored along with
surrealist painting, atonal music, and other
attempts to break free from stultifying artistic
conventions.
The concerns of the Twentieth Century
seemed to engender free verse global wars,
genocide, Cold War, a myriad conflicts that
flared and flourished then faded like the flu
epidemics. After the specter of nuclear war came
Islamic terrorism and subsequent American
aggression overseas. Western nations were
radically changed by social forces urbanization,
science and technology, feminism, and changing
patterns of immigration. It was a century of
uncertainty, loss of faith. In America, the
individual was glorified, yet often left rootless
and confused, cut off from any real community.
Fractured lines of poetry seemed to mimic the
human state.
Although the reasons for the supremacy
of free verse, then, are understandable, the
limitations of the style, now, make it less novel.
Lacking sound patterns and symbol fusion,
unstructured verse can fail to deliver emotional
or lasting impact.
School teachers notice that their young
students expect poems to rhyme and have to be
taught that modern, serious poetry has broken
free of rhyme, meter and the rest. Perhaps, after
suitable instruction, children will learn how to
appreciate poetry that doesnt conform to
their untutored expectations. My son (the one
who liked The Raven) learned about free verse
in his English class and shared his critical
assessment of examples in his textbook: These
poems suck!
This kind of reaction often means that
what is being taught contradicts with what the
learner brings to the classroom. It may be
necessary to overturn attitudes and beliefs. But
poetry need not conform to a poetic reality
inconsistent with human psychology.
Poetic forms are supposed to tap
human emotional responses. Human psychology
is what determines if a poem is a success or
failure. The definition of modernity will
forever shift with the times, but our emotional
responses to the fusion of symbols with
rhythmic speech do not change. We still have
religious impulse, still hear words the same way,
and still breathe as we ever did. Natural human
poetry speaks to the human psyche.

What Next?

here is no simple prescription for the
poetry of this new century. Whatever else
it accomplished, the poetry of the last
century killed some forms beyond resurrection.
We must experiment and find a new sound-
symbol fusion and write poetry that fits our
own times.
We have some ingredients to use in our
experiments. The last century was a salutary
time out for structured poetry. Time and
cultural changes may have eroded old
associations between poetic forms and themes,
but those forms now carry less baggage. Take
just one example. A simple 4-line rhyme scheme
is a b b a. This scheme was used by Tennyson
is his long elegy for a dead friend, In
Memoriam:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. (a)
And waves that sway themselves in rest, (b)
And dead calm in that noble breast (b)
Which heaves but with the heaving deep. (a)

Tennysons poem created such a strong
association, that the a b b a scheme was
sometimes known as an In Memoriam stanza.
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This discouraged use of this basic sound pattern,
as if Tennyson had patented it. In our time, for
better or worse, hardly anyone outside college
English departments has read In Memoriam,
and its association is irrelevant. Yet, if we listen
to verses in this pattern, we can sense why
Tennyson used it in his elegy. The a b b a
rhyme scheme sounds and feels like an
embrace the outer rhyme wrapping itself
around the two inner lines, which in turn draw
close to each other. This is a sound pattern that
reinforces a poem expressing tenderness or
intimacy; it could be a love poem instead of an
elegy (in fact, the oldest form of the sonnet
includes the a b b a rhyme pattern).
We can explore and rediscover old
poetic forms. Some can be renewed, but we may
also use these as building blocks to form new
meter, rhyme and stanza patterns even for a
single poem. The challenge is to compose
structured poems that are as free and
individualistic as free verse, making and
breaking our own rules to fuse sound and
symbol and intensify the emotional content.
Poetry need not be limited to words on
printed pages. The human voice, alone or
accompanied by music, can enhance the
emotional impact of a poem. Beyond the limited
meter and themes of rap lyrics lie new
possibilities for what we might call rep (real
poetry) the metrical spoken word integrated
with music, art, and animation, and projected
through the full range of digital media.

inding the sound patterns for our
centurys English poetry will be a
challenge, but not as difficult as the search
for symbols. Once, an English poet could take
for granted that his readers would recognize
symbolic meanings from Greek and Roman
myths, the Judeo-Christian religion, or the
landscape of the British Isles. Such
presumptions are now risky.
English is now far less Anglo. There
is no unbroken cultural tradition, no universal
shared religion. The English language left for
America; then the rest of the world joined it.
Our language and culture has figuratively and
literally interbred with First Nations, French,
Hispanic, African and Asian influences. The
culture associated with English has been altered
with some diminishment and loss, but revitalized
with new elements. Conquests, colonies and
computer connections have given the English-
speaking world a global reach. It alters those
cultures it touches, but is altered in turn. A
strange brew indeed.
Where in this brew, amid these
overlapping cultural influences, is a poet to find
universal, understandable symbols? Poetry
reflects the tension between what is personal
and what is collective, individuality and the
shared human core, the urge for self-expression
and the need to communicate. If symbols do not
move the poet, the result is a dry intellectual
exercise. If they do not move the listener or
reader, the poem has surely failed. Poet and
audience must share their symbols if they are to
share a poem.
Symbols derive power from their
history, yet we are surrounded by novelties
discarded before they can gain symbolic
meaning. Paradoxically, as the pace of change
accelerates, we are drawn back to the great
natural, universal symbols that have figured in
myths and religions. They are related to Yeats
notion of a great mind beyond that of any
individual, apparently derived in part from Carl
Jungs similar idea of the collective
unconscious:

It is not enough for the primitive man
to see the sun rise and set; this external
observation must at the same time be a psychic
happening: the sun in its course must represent
the fate of a god or hero who, in the last
analysis, dwells nowhere except in the soul of
man. All the mythologized processes of nature,
such as summer and winter, the phases of the
moon, the rainy seasons, and so forth, are in no
sense allegories of these objective occurrences;
rather, they are symbolic expressions of the
inner, unconscious drama of the psyche which
becomes accessible to mans consciousness by
way of projection that is, mirrored in the
events of nature. The projection is so
fundamental that it has taken several thousand
years of civilization to detach it in some measure
from its outer object (Jung, 1959, p. 6).

Mystics, and some poets, claim symbols
can be found by gaining conscious access,
through dreams and meditation, to unconscious
meanings:
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Any one who has any experience of
any mystical state of the soul knows how there
float up in the mind profound symbols, whose
meaning, if indeed they do not delude one into
the dream that they are meaningless, one does
not perhaps understand for years. Nor I think
has any one, who has known that experience
with any constancy, failed to find some day in
some old book or on some old monument, a
strange or intricate image, that has floated up
before him, and grown perhaps dizzy with the
sudden conviction that our little memories are
but a part of some great memory that renews the
world and mens thoughts age after age, and that
our thoughts are not, as we suppose, the deep
but a little foam upon the deep (Yeats, 1903,
pp. 112-113).

Yeats method of searching out symbols
was much more active than the above passage
might suggest. Besides the mainstream myths of
western civilization, he periodically immersed
himself in Irish folklore, symbolist poets such as
Shelley and Blake, Asian literature, and even
occult societies and spiritualism. (The latter
activities appalled fellow poet W. H. Auden,
who expressed his shock that an Anglo-Irish
gentleman could be so Southern Californian
apparently a particularly stinging epithet, even
then!)
Sympathetic critics such as J. C. Ransom
noted that symbols in Yeats poems are eclectic.
He mined his spiritual, intellectual, political and
romantic passions and extracted a few gems.
Although some of his symbols are obscure to
anyone unaware of his private meanings, in his
best poems they build a communication bridge.
In his own words:

Symbolism said things which could not
be said so perfectly in any other way, and needed
but a right instinct for its understanding (Yeats,
1903, p. 227).

Poetic symbols may be drawn from
diverse personal and cultural sources. There are
always new ones to explore. Each persons life
can have symbolic meaning. Discovering our
symbols and fusing them with poetic sounds is a
risky and difficult enterprise fraught with
challenges but so it has ever been. Yeats
warned that theres no escaping Adams
Curse:

To be born woman is to know
Although they do not talk of it at school
That we must labour to be beautiful.
I said, `Its certain that no fine thing
Since Adams fall but needs much labouring.

_____________________________________

References

Auden, W. H. (1948). Yeats as an example.
Kenyon Review, X, 187-195. Reprinted in J. Hall
& M. Steinmann (Eds.) (1950), The permanence
of Yeats. New York: Macmillan.

Foster, N. A., & Valentine, E. R. (2001). The
effect of auditory stimulation on
autobiographical recall in dementia.
Experimental Aging Research, 27, 215-228.

Hannon, E. E., & Johnson, S.P. (2005). Infants
use meter to categorize rhythms and melodies:
Implications for musical structure learning.
Cognitive Psychology, 50, 354-377.

Jung, C. G. (1959). The archetypes and the
collective unconscious (2nd edition). Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press.

Ransom, J. C. (1939). Yeats and his symbols.
Kenyon Review, I, 309-322. Reprinted in J. Hall
& M. Steinmann (Eds.) (1950), The permanence
of Yeats. New York: Macmillan.

Rubin, D. C. (1995). Memory in oral traditions:
The cognitive psychology of epic, ballads, and
counting-out rhymes. Oxford, UK: Oxford
University Press.

Steele, T. (1990). Missing measures: Modern
poetry and the revolt against meter. Fayetteville,
AK: University of Arkansas Press.

Yeats, W. B. (1903). Ideas of good and evil
(1903). New York: Macmillan. (Quotations are
from The Symbolism of Poetry, The
Philosophy of Shelleys Poetry, and
Symbolism in Painting; also see Magic.)

16
Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought

17
Enemy

Gregory Christiano

An ancient enemy have I,
And either he or I must die;
For he never leaves me,
Never gives my soul relief,
Never lets my sorrow cease,
Never gives my spirit peace -

For my enemy is Grief!

Pale he is, and sad and stern,
And wheneer he comes near
Blue and dim the torches burn,
Pale and shrunk the roses turn;
While my heart that he has pierced
Many a time with fiery lance,
Beats and trembles at his glance:

Clad in burning steel is he,
All my strength he can defy;
For he never parts from me -
And one of us must die!

Nothing

Gregory Christiano

I have nothing to think of and nothing to do;
Ill sing a song about nothing to you.
If nothing will please you, its nothing to me,
The trouble is nothing, as you will agree.
I can give you nothing in verse or in prose,
For nothing, you know, cannot make many foes.

Nothing is good when theres nothing to pay;
And nothing is heard when theres nothing to say.
Wed have nothing to love where theres nothing to hate,
Thered be nothing to dream of or dreams to await.
Where theres nothing right, thered be nothing but wrong;
So if nothing will please you, Ill move right along!

18
An Invocation for our Opening Night

Michael Milligan

What separated Shakespeare from the herd
of scribes who only sought to sleep and feed?
For bread alone they sold their sacred Word,
then, died unknown like blots upon a screed.

For Genius thrives not in the faint of heart,
but beats her timpani in bosoms bold-
so, thunder-like she shook our Shakespeares Art
for daring her his lightening strokes to mold.

He spoke not Truth too brightly, but beneath
a softening Beauty, as a cloud might veil
Apollo in a rainbow colored wreath,
he dimmed his vision to a rhyming Braille.
No eye has seen, nor ear has ever heard
the glory of the world in his Word.

Therefore, tonight when we alight the stage
with lustrous words to fire this darkened globe,
let us recall the greatness of an age
when Art through man gave God a mortal robe,
and God made man immortal through his art
by seeing in himself his Authors part.

When players speak into the darkened space
with voices echoing their high Intent,
the watchers meet their maker face to face,
and for a while the veil of time is rent.
May we enjoined upon our holy Cause
play well enough to earn a gods applause.

19
On the Battlefield,
or A Letter from Marguerite

Gregory Christiano

Here, in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;
Tis but another dead -
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence -
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over mens graves:
So this mans eye is dim -
Throw the earth over him.

What was white you touched,
There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died -
Message, or wish maybe -
Smoothen it out and see.

Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled
Only the tremulous
Words of a child;
Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look! She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
His - her dead fathers - kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet;
That is all. Marguerite.

Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died! But no;
Death will not have it so.

20
Diogenes


In a rusty, battered dumpster
Out behind the City Hall,
Lives a ragged sage whose worldly goods are few.
This philosopher of refuse
Never sees a shopping mall,
For he rarely has the cash for something new:

He is clothed in motley cast-offs
That the rich have put aside;
He can make a meal of food they throw away.
Through the bitter nights of winter
On these mean streets hell reside,
Eking out a lean existence day to day.

There are those who say hes crazy,
Knowing he declines to go
To a shelter run by local charity.
But theyve never seen such places
Where thugs roll you for your dough,
And your bunk-mate is a wino with TB.

He feels safer in his alley,
Whence he ventures out by day
Begging change from any passers-by hell meet.
He harangues them with wild lectures
Til the cops can shoo away
This uncouth professor from the gritty street.

When the politicians blather
And such poverty decry,
They all pledge to help the homeless if they can.
Would they feel a bit embarrassed
If he looked them in the eye
Just to see if he could find an honest man?

21
A Death in the City

Gregory Christiano

Through the blue and frosty heavens
Far-off stars were shining bright;
Glistening lamps throughout the City
Almost matched their gleaming light;
While the winter snow as lying,
And the winter winds were sighing,
Long ago, one frozen night.

In one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom and sickness and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chamber,
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning -
For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him,
Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
Many costly toys were lying,
All unheeded by his bed;
And his tangled golden ringlets
Were on downy pillows spread.

The skill of that mighty City
To save one little life was vain -
One little thread from being broken,
One fatal word from being spoken;
Nay, his very mothers pain,
And the mighty love within her,
Could not give him health again.

So she knelt there, still, beside him,
She alone with strength to smile,
Promising that he should suffer
No more in a little while,
Murmuring tender song and story
Weary hours to beguile.

So came an angel, slowly rising,
Spread his wings, and through the air
Bore the child and, while he held him,
To his heart with loving care,
Placed a branch of crimson roses
Tenderly beside him there.

While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaning oer the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,
Laid him gently on his breast.
Sobs and wailings told the mother
That her darling was at rest.

22
In the churchyard of that City
Rose a tomb of marble rare,
Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,
With her buds and blossoms fair -
And a humble grave beside it, -
No one knew who rested there.

Oh Shakespeare!

Michael Milligan

Oh Shakespeare! Must I live forever blank
upon the margins of your brimming verse,
a shadow creature on the Stygian bank,
who lacking living words, must bear the curse
of mumbling phrases to the honored dead?
Is this the legacy your lightning strokes
have left? That I must leave my words unsaid
for fear the thunder which your work invokes
will make my whispers mockers of my tongue?
Is there no spark left of your fiery muse
to make a Phoenix rise and soar among
the ages once again? I will infuse
a muse within me greater than you knew-
for you had all the world, but I have you.

23
Fire Bringer

Michael Milligan

O that I were Prometheus on a stone!
Not fettering laws of Zeuss bloody chain,
nor carrion claws, nor threat of Sirens tone,
were able to dissuade thy burning brain.
Brave Spirit of revolt! What secret Word
compelled thy lone assault of highest laws?
Such unbound trust in thy daemonic bird,
though gods would damn thee for thy holy Cause!
They are prisoners of Olympus high,
whose altars gold is stained with mortal gore.
In vain they seek their ease in tyranny,
who build their cage of greed forevermore.
Though bound and fettered on a desolate crest,
the daemon wings beat free within thy breast.

On Visiting a Graveyard

Peter G. Gilchrist

Grey as the ash from a toppled urn
that spills to a granite floor,
clouds wrap the slope in a satin shroud
that drapes to a rocky shore.

Scattered like bones on a windswept beach
and mute as a chiseled name
headstones decay in the brittle grass
and seagulls cry out in shame.

Crosses lay fractured in rampant brush
that chokes the forgotten knoll,
tended by none but a watchful crow
as black as Cape Breton coal.

Loneliness lies like a well-worn shawl
on shoulders of withered land.
Ragged and homeless, she turns from town
and buries herself in the sand.

Promise me this: When you summon me
and call me from my canoe
let it not be in North Sydney, Lord,
lest I be forgotten too.

24
Hypocrisy


A rocky desert stretches far
To distant mountains, brown and bare.
A waif, abandoned in the dust,
Wipes flies out of her matted hair.
Her threadbare misery we see,
A poignant vignette on TV,
So aged beyond her seven years!
The interviewer swallows tears.

In her short life shes known no life
But death and war. Now all alone,
This dolly never clutched a doll,
Shes never had a loving home.
A war-embittered TV host
Asks this poor wretch what she wants most,
And strains to hear what she has said.
One plaintive word she whispers: Bread.

From half a world away we watch,
Warm, fat voyeurs in safe, clean homes.
Our indignation is a sham,
Decrying pain thats not our own.
Though we condemn with righteous rage
Injustice in the modern age,
Words without deeds shall always be
Contemptible hypocrisy.

God damn our nations! Damn our flags!
And damn religion, every creed!
In pained disgust God turns His back
On men inured to this childs need.
Whatever pious words we say,
Our empty words wont wipe away
The tears of children, forced to dwell
In our worlds bitter, man-made hell.

25
Justification

Angela Burns

Smog alerts and acid rain
The days of sunshine shrink again
Donkey pumps and sour gas flares
The sulfurous smell means money there

Jungles razed for cheap world beef
Free trade the new, fix-all belief
While garbage mountains still await
The end of time to seal their fate

Beyond the boardrooms, tourist traps
A countrys wealth is mined and tapped
Towers rise in concrete waves
While poor in millions die of AIDS

Nature throws disasters wide
While all ignore the rising tide
Its not our fault our leaders bleat
While making pledges they wont keep

Corruption ruins good intentions
While bigger crimes are never mentioned
And down where world banks never see
Another child, in death, is freed

Terrorists killing by the score
The reasons, motives, both ignored
Riots show the underside
The faces of disenfranchised

The lack of oil may now exhaust
That right to drive we all were taught
For in this new world we have made
The winners will not be its slaves

Theyll be the ones who took small steps
To waken thought and lessen debts
To use sufficient and no more
To save the farmlands, woods and shores

Who saw a future bright and hale
In energy-efficient sales
With eyes faced forwards, they will soar
Those in denial? Dinosaurs!

26
Rebuilding

Anna Evans

The swollen-bellied spider must have spun
her fibers rashly from the back of one
chair to the lantern, aiming to connect
her net across a vast swathe of my deck
and spread her cobweb wide, a greedy ploy,
but insect queens are easy to destroy.

I jerked the chair out, triggering a quake
that rocked her palace, made her throne-room shake
until she scuttled up to the brass rim
by the wall. The wind then added its own spin,
twisting the torn strands like Rapunzels hair
until they blew in ribbons from the chair.

Patiently, like Penelope at her loom,
the spider waited; I put down the broom.
Spiders are more resolute than men;
in silence she contrived her house again
but with a wisdom that shed lacked before,
she spooled to the casement of the sliding door.

Wed handle our disasters so much better
if we watched spiders more. She lives; I let her.

27
Secret Death

Jeannine Schiavoni

That night we sank inside our coats while dodging fierce December snow
With others, huddled in a line, one hundred deep, to catch the show
You struck a match to light your Kool, and when the wind snuffed out the flame
I cupped my hands and held them there, until the fire took up its aim
A foreigner shook off the cold, and spoke small, broken words to you
And still the trains and subways passed, and then, a roaring bus or two ...
Streetwise boys from downtown flats walked by in shorts and baseball tees
Attempting to look hot despite the nervous shiver in their knees
For something more (or less) to do, you mumbled, Christ, I hate them so ...
And still the trains and subways passed, on time, with someplace warm to go
If wed been sculptures made of ice, with I, an angel or a dove
I swear, I would have flown away, to flee such earthly ills of love ...
Befitting to our secret storms, long past Times Square and cheaters bed
I walked in rain and sipped champagne in bliss, as fashioned in my head
And to these halls I often came, in chauffer-driven limousines
To watch ballet and dance til four and mingle with the Broadway scenes
For something more (or less) to do, you put your arm around my waist
You didnt like my gypsy dress, and looked me over, twice; straight-faced
Right then, the doorman did announce that in a while hed let us through
You lit another cigarette and smoke-rings in the air, you blew
And truth poured forth with each exhale: the cold, the crowds, the wait, the show ...
While still, the trains and subways passed, with someplace safe to come or go ...
For something more (or less) to do, I watched commuters make their rounds
The trains and subways hugging rails while lugging people up or down
They seemed good souls, who come in peace, for just the cost of subway fare
Their eyes peered outward, toward the streets, with others reading, unaware ...
One car then stopped, and all went dark, much like a final curtain call
Until the stage lights all lit up, bright white-in-snow and sparkle-fall
The flakes began to swirl around ... and like a snow globe, did encase
A merry scene of passersby who sat like dolls, in transit space
Now from the platform, near the edge, I stepped upon the slippery rise
And just as I began to fall, my life quick-flashed before my eyes
I watched as time sprung up and swooned like ocean tides that ebb and flow
Exploding in a burst of flames ... igniting what remained below
And all that stood was shattered glass and bits of sand and crumpled stone,
No pulse nor heartbeat to be found amid the scattered, fractured bone
As slow-death holds its iron grip while weakening ones will to live
A wasteland fills with nothingness with even less, to glean nor give
For something somewhat odd to do, I often dream we live to die
And through the in-betweens of time, each sigh is one, quick lullaby
I came to learn more in those hours than ever I had known before
How life is nothing but a house, with death adorning every door
And as we flow from room to room in joy and triumph, or defeat
Its there at every breath we draw, awaiting us to finally greet
It hangs above us like a wreath, and knows well, who we truly are
At times it hovers like a cloud, or hides while watching from afar

28
It comes disguised as wealth or love or blessings meant to calm ones fear
No need to cower nor shy from death, its task serves not, to leave us here
Then in a whirl of real-or-not, a wooden soldier reached for me
All Aboard, the door slammed shut ... Southbound for sweet Eternity ...
For something less (or more) to do, the car ascended up the track
I left you fumbling for a match ... I smiled, and never once looked back ...

Envy


The janitor who mops the floor
Is cleaning near the Bosss door.
He does this same old, boring chore
On every business day.
What hope is there for working slobs
Who cannot mix with Board Room snobs?
Hed give his arm to have their jobs
And earn the Bosss pay!
His wife would dress in furs and jewels;
His kids would go to private schools.
Hed wield a pen instead of tools,
And learn white collar ways.

The CEO is working late.
On his tired shoulders rests the fate
Of each employee, small or great.
His brow is creased with strife.
His minds a storm of quotes and bids,
Of profits, losses, charts and grids.
He barely gets to see his kids
Or wine and dine his wife.
Behind his eyes a migraine pounds,
Exacerbated by the sounds
Of Stan the cleaners evening rounds.
Hed kill for such a life!

29
Silent Voices

Richard E. Buenger

Beneath the Celtic cross in morning chill
The worship bell in belfry cage hangs still
While tears of pigeon soil form frosted coat.
Past souls alone recall its pealing note.

The bleached and fissured chapel door is cocked.
Its iron bolt with rust is firmly locked.
Old spider webs with dried and well-wrapped prey
In lacy nets obstruct the entrance way.

Wind-wafted seedlings sprout as thriving guests
With arrogance in leaky gutter nests.
Small orphaned yellow buds contrast the stone
In cracks and crevices where theyve been blown.

The stone wall fence with jagged guard on top
Is bathed by languid, hesitating drop
From overhanging solitary pine
That bends to judge competing moss and vine

That conquer rock and window, step and wall,
Cracked fallen tablet, once erect and tall.
On crunching gravel path one may detect
Both weed and water hole from long neglect,

But here no sleep is wakened by the sound
Of foreign steps upon this hallowed ground.
With down-turned tails the nearby grazing sheep
Evade the vigilance that they might keep.

On broken slates doves cooing at roofs ridge
And wagoned horse at lower crossing bridge
Will pay no heed to those or these or me
While framing this bucolic scenery.

Defeated soldiers, bowed, in broken rows
Stand side-by-side in awkward, canted pose,
Most leaning, bent, as if theyd come
To listen quietly for voices, dumb.

Carved granites, dark with wet and weather-worn,
Bear faint and faded messages, forlorn.
On lichen-crusted slabs with love are stated;
Adored, Devoted, Cherished, tersely dated

With birth and death then tragic tale of grief:
A soldier son, at war, a life so brief;
An ancient couple, both within a year;
At birth, a babe, with mother resting near.

30
Some Entered Into Rest, or Fell Asleep;
A Sacred Memory, We All Do Weep;
Some Called To Rest, Departed Full Of Years;
Affectionate Remembrance, grief and tears!

Dried, broken stems in unattended urns
Guard rain-eroded rocks besieged by ferns
While worldly lords in sculptured marble rest
In regal gown with folded arms on chest

Now crumbling in the overgrowing grass
To show their impotence in death, Alas!
Low moans and groans from ancient bones are stilled,
Unfinished years and dreams still unfulfilled.

No songs are heard of hope and love and toil
From broken boxes, filtered through the soil.
Hello!, Hello!, my heart sends futile cry,
Tell, are you angry that you had to die?

And can you sense the cold entombed so deep?
Could there be dreams in your eternal sleep?
Or is there only everlasting night,
No thought, no sound, no touch, no voice, no sight?

If only someones cold and deafened ear
Could sense a neighbors hopeless call and hear!
Or if a numb and paralytic hand
Could reach across to touch and understand!

When I, at last, return no burdened shoe
Will press this path. No eye will view
These crooked stones or read their sad, sad lines.
Ill be un-sensed, escaped from mortal signs.

31
The Con o Cons f

Aaron Wilkinson

Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile.
Ive plucked you from the rank and file
To take a place in history.
Your songs of battle make me smile.
The councils done, our course is set,
That now, good Arghun, hearken yet,
Its time to carve my legacy
In flesh with bloody ecstasy.

Before the west was pacified
I fought against a mighty tide
Of faithless fools and jealousy
That forced my hand to fratricide.
And since those days of living bare,
Ive taken pains to take my share.
My sole regret was having none
To sing the work my blade had done.

When acts of vengeance made my name,
The seed for all my present fame,
I wanted men to bear its fruit
So flew my flag and many came.
They daily dwell in muck and mud
And sing my skill for shedding blood.
Ive bled them too. They love me still.
By right their mouths are mine to fill.

Ambitions make me more than man.
I loot and burn because I can.
No mortared stone or timber wall
Has ever harboured foes who ran.
Gone soft in shelter, safe and warm,
They shake before the coming storm
And soon the world will call me Lord
Or fall beneath my swelling horde.

The afterglow of rout is sweet
As honeyed wine. Each tribe we greet
With steel is offered certain death
Or pledge my flag with no deceit.
With deep salaams and prayers of thanks
Mohammedans have swelled our ranks.
Betrayers meet with swift dispatch,
A smartly severed head to catch.

32
As nature bids me stand erect
The captured women genuflect
For all my earthly gifts are great.
They bare themselves to show respect.
But needs demand a real contempt
For humankind. For so Ive dreamt;
Well turn towards the rising day
And boldly conquer gold Cathay.

I see the doubt behind your eyes
But fear no more, your Khan is wise.
We strike because the time is ripe.
Let yellow scholars criticize
We fighting men, enduring pain
While non-combatants cast disdain.
Just take some consolation thus:
Their livelihoods depend on us.

So long as men are ruled by kings
Theyll bend to breed distasteful things
Pretending everything is grand
While knowing why the caged bird sings.
My acts will likely touch a nerve.
Its better far to rule than serve
Unless the folk youre standing on
Have sense enough to see the con.

The Field of the Cloth of Gold

Catherine Edmunds

The year is 1520. Rival kings,
Each one a paragon of monarchy,
Agree to meet near Calais. Henry brings
Pavilions, for banquets; each marquee
Is sewn with threads of gold within its silk.
Their rivalry is strong, so Francis shows
His wealth, his skills in jousting he must milk
This chance to show his mettle ere he goes.
The Field of Cloth of Gold they each proclaim
Shows theyre the best. A dazzling scene, Im sure,
But Ive seen wondrous gold; not quite the same
Ive walked midst flowers, far more sweet and pure,
For swathes of daffodils are brighter yet
Than royal efforts when these two kings met.
33
Skip


In grateful memory of Harry Skip Parker

Up at the clubhouse every Wednesday night
He taught Sea Scouts to play life by the rules.
With deference and awe we called him Skip --
The Captain of our former one-room school.

His landlocked swabs professed a salty myth:
We called the door a hatch, the floor our deck.
On weekends with the good, old Fifty-Fifth
Our whale boat to a man-made lake wed trek.

We heaved on its big oars and hoisted sail,
While at the tiller, uncomplaining Skip
Upon his ever-present pipe inhaled,
And piloted our clumsy, little ship.

Did we once think hed better things to do
Than spend his spare time sailing with us kids?
His own son was a member of our crew;
We simply took for granted all he did.

Men said hed been a hero in the War --
Spoke vaguely of brave deeds with hushed respect.
But we knew better than to ask him more:
We took for modesty his meek affect.

Its only now, when we ourselves have sons,
We understand why humble he appeared:
The terrible things he must have seen and done
Were tales unfit for teenage boys to hear.

But if Skips Sea Scouts never sailed to war,
And never learned to fire a naval gun,
And watched our families thrive on peaceful shores --
We live to thank our mentors. He was one.

34
In The Office

Sally Cook

All offices are similar; it seems --
A sadness permeates each cubicle.
Conglomerations of dashed hopes and dreams
Combine to fill the air, and workers full
Of untapped misery act out the flow
Of sadness and frustration that they feel
As days pass by; unfinished, dusty, slow.
Their dreams lie folded, boxed; no longer real;
Stored in a sequence, stacked on stainless steel
That will not rust, although perhaps it should.
An acid air drifts in it is so real
One sees it flowing, smoking, burning wood
And thoughts, and flesh, and hopes, and minds and love;
While all move up by push and pull and shove.

They narrow their perspective, cheat, make deals,
And sell their time on earth to get along
In triplicate, and have their secret meals
Where they chew on the false. They see the wrong;
Still, knowing this, continue, carefully
To climb the dreary stair of dull command,
Keeping their place in line. And so we see
A beaten, downcast, sneaky little band
Where infidelity and grievance reign.
It matters very little what they do,
But everyone is careful, and disdain
Is always heaped upon the honest few,
And so it goes; no matter what or why.
The work is meaningless, the task a lie.

35
Tithe of the Black Sheep

LaVonda Krout

Kindly gods do not subsist
on offerings from such as I,
as all my importuning they resist
a vast and frozen silence in reply.

When other hearts lie still and calm
and render due benevolence
lacking such, I cradle in my palm
one thats beaten, beats with violence.

At least a lesser god should bless
my proffered gift, a heart thats cursed,
and bearing guilt, forgive me . . . more or less
for giving back what I was given first.

When Time is Kind

Vincent W. Williams

When Time is kind and makes of me its own--
No reach of motion, thought or word may chide--
O, I shall drink the art of thee alone,
And in that art, contented, eer abide.

Each next eternity gives new respect--
Enjoys perfection of some measured skill--
Then, night and day shall trinkets-rare collect,
And put a face on purpose and self-will.

And for the finite while of my demise,
When ceremony of my life be said:
While art is rendered, I may still be wise
to its sweet beauty, yet although Im dead.

Then do not waste thy grieving tears on me,
For I shall make new art where ere I be.

36
Rhyme and Reason Seasons

37
Voyageur


Our gleaming, new canoes glide off from shore,
Bright paddles flashing in the morning sun.
Young hearts burst full of hope for whats in store:
The voyage of our lives has just begun.

The yellow lilies bloom in tranquil ponds.
Green leaves adorn the trees along the stream
Where, hiding in the languid water fronds,
The bashful shoals of darting fishes teem.

So dip and swing! So dip and swing!
And joyous is the song our paddles sing!

We cannot know what waits around each bend --
Wild rapids or a crashing waterfall --
But we shall carry on til journeys end.
Whatever trials await, well meet them all!

When friendly winds push gently at our back
We surge ahead with confidence and hope;
But when fierce rainstorms slash across our track
We clench our teeth and pray that we can cope.

Now dip and swing, now dip and swing.
Determined is the song our paddles sing.

Though campsites by the shore look snug and green
We must move on; we cant stay in one place.
Each new lake is a sight weve never seen,
Each new portage a challenge we must face.

Our pretty boats will soon display the scars
Of cruel rocks that lurk beneath the stream;
If we survive were bound to travel far,
Each scrape a souvenir of where weve been.

Then dip and swing, then dip and swing.
Of battles lost and won our paddles sing.

The trees along the banks are turning bare.
The lilies fade, and water weeds are brown.
The fish have fled, and in the chilly air
Float silently the autumn thistledown.

The strength of youth gives way to cares of age.
Each paddle stroke becomes a painful test.
Against the coming winters night we rage,
For there are miles to go before we rest.

Its dip and swing, and dip and swing
Though feeble grows the song our paddles sing.
38
Some travelers contend this trip is all,
While others strive toward some mythic goal.
Unlucky ones are swamped by vicious squalls,
And weaklings drift in craft they cant control.

Until this voyage ends we must be brave,
Wherever it may be that we may reach.
Until at last we slip beneath the waves,
Or fetch up on some distant, shining beach,

We dip and swing, and dip and swing
Til time will still the song our paddles sing.

Spring

Michael Milligan

When lilacs lick the April morning air
with purple tongues, adrip with balmy sweat,
reciting sonnets to the billows fair,
whose sprinkling kisses on the mead beget
a generation of shining marigold
and buds of Viols to court each passing cloud
and airborne bees arising from the cold
impregnate blooms like newlyweds avowed,
remember me when you awake these eves
and these few lines devoted to your grace;
When wintry doubt with bitter cold deceives
recall the Spring I find within your face.
As Lover Sun beams warmth upon his Earth,
let bright black ink invoke your Spring rebirth.

Let this vision of your Beauty yield
a bounty as the sun upon the field
and these words of mine as gentle rains
to buds, bring vital sap into your veins.
May our loving conversation linger
like the humble farmers steady finger
which breaks the stubborn sod upon his boots
allowing seeds and sprouts to take their roots
into the yielding Earth.

39
Forty-Something

Peter G. Gilchrist

A man sets goals, and struggles to achieve
what few can duplicate: to be the best.
I looked aloft and let myself believe
that I was meant to climb Mount Everest.

I studied hard, prepared as best I could,
and trained with mentors skilled beyond compare.
I wasnt satisfied with being good.
I strove to be the best, and didnt care
about the cost. And yes, it cost me dear.
It cost my wife, and cost my children too.
They did without so much to get me here.
But here I stand. I have arrived. Who knew
the view from way up here could be this bleak?

It seems I may have scaled the wrong damn peak!

Rain in the Desert


Dark clouds oppress the Valley of the Sun.
As water drips off cactus in the heat
The golfers pack their gear, their plans undone,
And to the clubhouse sullenly retreat.
The cracked earth now the gift of rain receives.
Arroyos brim with torrents seldom seen.
The ocotillo shine with bright, new leaves,
And shades of brown transform to verdant green.
Why curse our luck, like golfers in the rain,
When we dont get what we expect to find?
The rare surprise we may not see again
Brings joy and wonder to an open mind.
The rains that wash the deserts dusty face
Reveal a hidden beauty in its place.

40
The Winter House
(An old man bids farewell)

Jeannine Schiavoni

... Olden houses seem to know
When time yields no more seasons
More merciful to let them go
And ask them not, for reasons ...

Hearth roars forth its final fire ... Flames in shadow, rise and fall
Silhouette peaks hot and high upon the crumbling, Winter wall
Rotting shutters slam about ... un-hinged by scathing Northeast wind
For nothing keeps the dying out, nor keeps the living safely in ...

Does not this Winter sadly weep when first finds death beneath its trees?
As what is old succumbs to sleep, when recognizing self, in these
Now paled and dimmed by loss and languish, Spring seems painful, to recall
The old man shakes his head in anguish ... Not so much a life, at all ...

His ragged sweaters, thread-bare vests ...stand out among her satin gowns
Like misfits dressed in Sunday best, who mingle with fine folks in town
His hunter greens and flannel plaids fill false, the loneliness of space
Her aprons hang like graying ghosts, on hooks, beside the fireplace
...

Where there, he keeps her photo near for random breaths of warmth to give
Her wedding smile fades year by year, along with faith, and will to live
From season start, to bitter end, he could not bear to separate
From things that bring her back again, toward gentler times to contemplate

Now gone, the sound of childrens feet, once thunderous; through the upstairs hall
Farewell to sighs and lullabies ... Not so much a home, at all
And yet, he does not feel alone, as flames, like doves --- still stretch and soar
By mornings light, they will have flown, and Winter shall be cold, no more ...

Weathered hands that once brought flowers,
hold nothing, save his pipe and prayer
Forlorn, from past and present hours
Smoke and Sanctus fill the air ...

41
Spring In Mist And Music

Jeannine Schiavoni

Six weeks or less, the doctor warned ... Touch and go ... give or take ...
Shell need these pills to help her sleep, and those, for pain, when shes awake ...
Left in the room where children wait, a scruffy boy in un-tied shoes
Did tap his feet, and block his ears, as if to keep away the news
Beyond the door, he dared not peek, where sat his mother, frail and still
For yesterday, in secret-speak, hed first heard she had taken ill
The silence hovered, thick and stark, yet through, he heard his father weep
Like cries that creep up in the dark, to keep away a restful sleep
Now, how should we prepare the boy? What shall we do when she is gone?
The doctor sighed, Theres only care, but prayer may help you carry on...

Outside, the blazing August sun could not, ones cold heart, penetrate
As Boy strolled numbly, steps behind ... with life and death to contemplate
Still, Father greeted passersby, as if an ordinary day
While Boy could only pray for rain, to wash the doctors words away
Now home, the rooms seemed not the same, for life as hed once known it, fled
Replacing dreams with silent screams, as what all fear, hung overhead
Exclaimed the boy, with fractured heart and little comfort to her, give...
I wish that I was never born ... No reason now, to even live!
But Mother answered with her all, Theres hope and song in everything.
Six weeks may bring us into Fall, but Ill be here still, when its Spring ...

Yet, whom could beg to understand? For such a claim, would ring no sense
Still, Bach flowed from her baby grand, as if un-touched by days events
And Father kissed her on her cheek, and wandered out to tend the lawn
The night fell open in a storm, and brought no stars to wish upon
Their days seemed normal, at a glance --- with precious hours to plan and live
As if a magic second chance could come to those with much to give
And now and then, all dreadful thoughts would often slip his busy mind
For Father never spoke of it, and visitors were always kind
By summers end the garden thrived, where buried seed had taken root
And what had stayed, somehow survived the taste of Augusts bitter fruit ...

Soon, time became the calendar and clock ...but Mother did not go
October came, and cold winds preyed, and still, she stayed through Winters snow
She woke, as every day, shed done --- yet, not as one, on death to wait
By day, her music filled the house ... At night she sat up writing, late
Her guests arrived to say hello, or share, perhaps one last good-bye
And often she would fare so well, that what was told, had seemed a lie
For Mother hung the art she made, and tucked her poems and songs away ---
Along with things meant for The Boy, that would be understood, one day
Daily tending to her tasks, she stayed for hours, out from her bed
She chose no more, the store-bought cakes, but sought to bake her own, instead ...

42
Said she to Boy there, at her side, where Near-Spring violets graced the tree:
By and by youll understand to use your hands to gather me ...
We cannot spend nor squander time, to mourn the loss of passing things
The oak would never crush a bud, for one last glimpse of early Spring...
Youll learn that life continues on --- as heart and hope ... in poem or song
So when the storms bring forth these flowers, remember ... and be strong ...
Then overnight, there rose a sad, white moon in Aprils starry sky
As Boy sat by her bed and hummed a final, farewell lullaby
And when all gathered by her grave, and Parson spoke of prayer and pain
I tapped my shiny, Sunday shoes ... to quell the screams of Easters rain ...

Canadian Winter

Peter Austin

Chilling as a play by Pinter;
Windier than Moby Dick;
Welcome to Canadian winter:
Come on in, and sign off sick!

Spare a thought, please, for the Newfie:
Yet again, his pipes have burst;
Philosophic as a sufi,
Though its June the twenty-first,

And for months the smug Victorian
Has been watching shoots appear,
Warm as any hyperborean
(Underneath his rainproof gear.)

Spare a thought for southern cities,
Streets awash in saline shit,
Full of would-be Walter Mittys,
Sledding in Iqaluit,

Where the absence of Apollo,
Thirty days without an end,
With a fortnight more to follow,
Drives the locals round the bend.

Chilling as a play by Pinter;
Dickens would have called it bleak;
How to take Canadian winter?
Take a plane to Martinique.

43
Wordless Whispers

Eric Linden

Once again new dawn awakens
pushing darkness to one side,
soft gray light on silent slippers
walks on pathways, dignified.
Birds begin their early chirping,
carefree broadcasts greet the day;
squirrels shout warnings, loudly scolding
some intruder, some mle.
Slowly life comes to the forest,
to the hemlocks, spruce, and pines,
to the oaks and ageless cedars,
to the aspens and the vines.
In a place thats well protected,
down a basalt-lined ravine,
two mule deer rise where they rested,
two small fawns stand in between.

High up in the coastal mountains
guarded by colossal trees
lies a boulder half-way hidden
under tangled canopies.
Branches sway and gently rustle
as the winds meander through,
whisper accents hushed, susurrant,
lulling words the old ones knew.
Ferns have grown along the pathway,
overtaking, closing in
till the trail is almost covered
back to nature once again.
Now the pathways seldom traveled,
gone the tribesmen and their gear,
gone the nomad who would wander
southward, northward, with the deer.

Grand in size, the mighty boulder
stands much higher than three men,
in circumference, much greater
hand to hand, takes more than ten.
Theres an undercut beneath it,
room to shelter from the rain,
even signs of old-time campfires,
stones and ashes still remain.
Ochre paintings on the boulder
mark accounts of bygone days
like the glories of a hunter
who came home to songs of praise;
others point into the future,
some event thats yet to come,
like a prophecy or omen,
like a summons of the drum.

44
Long forgotten now are pictures
and their tales are lost in time
as the trails keep growing over
where few ancients make the climb.
Mostly woodsmen scale high mountains,
cutting forests with machines,
leaving clearcuts when they harvest
every hilltop and ravine.
Flowers burst in bright profusion
all around the tattered wood
that lies scattered in confusion
where a mighty forest stood.
Grasses grow to greet fresh sunlight,
making fodder for mule deer,
bear and elk, while little rodents
skitter through this changed frontier.
Planted seedlings soon develop
into saplings, strong and tall,
and a forest, new and younger
answers still the ancients call.

The Spotted Doe

T.S. Kerrigan

They wander down in search of food each year
When summer turns the higher meadows brown,
Those ragged herds of starving spotted deer.
One August day, arriving home from town,
I saw a deer outside my place, a doe.
I grabbed my rifle, worked the bolt, and thought,
I bet shes eaten everything I grow.
I trained my weapon, nearly fired a shot,
Then watched her darting gracefully away,
A creature far too glorious to harm.
This doe would live to steal another day.
I slung the loaded rifle round my arm.
My neighbor saw, expressing disbelief
That beauty should give license to a thief.

45
Spring Cleaning


Spring cleaning time! Emerged from winters slump
Weve trucked a load of refuse to the dump --
Old things once valued, bought with hard-earned cash,
Mementos of our lives, devolved to trash.

The treasures tykes unwrapped one Christmas morn
With shrieks of glee, are disused and forlorn.
Bent rackets, a deflated basketball,
A battered box of battered Barbie dolls,

A chipped, old conch shell from some tropic isle,
A beat-up, floral couch long out of style,
A bicycle, a lamp, a plastic Jeep,
Lie broken and discarded in a heap.

Once prized possessions, now computer junk,
Land in the trash pile with a sullen thunk.
There goes that printer and if truths to tell,
The darned thing never did work very well.

A bust of Elvis with a busted nose
Begs, Dont be cruel! -- but to the landfill goes.
A fond reminder of their childhood past,
Our kids old booster seat gets chucked out last.

A hunk of scrap is much more than it seems.
Here in the bone-yard of our worn-out dreams
The crunch of boots on shards of broken glass
Reminds us that, tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.

46
The Lal-Jomi

Anna Evans

Love, before the children thinned your hair
and thickened me, remember where wed eat,
the nights the Cambridge Arms had rung out their
last orders? How youd wink: you want to share
a curry? and wed stagger down the street
to our old Indian restaurant, right there

beyond the dry cleaners and just before
the place you bought me roses, among all
those shops (the kind where opening the door
would ring a bell). How, once a week or more,
the Lal-Jomi would call us and wed fall
through its wide entrance arched like old Lahore?

The waiter, whom we counted as a friend,
would lead us to a curtained booth and smile.
(Our grins implied his shift was near its end;
we tipped well and we didnt need to spend
long with the menu). First wed split a pile
of fiery pappadoms; he would unbend

and put the dips and chutneys out for free,
with wine if we were still inclined to drink.
Youd ask for Shikh Kebab, Tikka for me.
(We fed each other bits in privacy).
Wed order so much food back then! I think
we never ate it all. Cant you still see

the plate warmers which groaned with meat and rice,
hear the sitar music that would play,
or taste the coriander, pungent spice
burning on our tongues like the advice
we swapped in drunken voices? Yet next day
we would say nothing more than: it was nice.

Oh love, remember when the meal was done
how we would press the hot towels to our faces,
suck oranges, spit out the pips for fun,
and split, so keen for bed wed almost run?
These days we dine in ritzy four star places
but love, you know I really miss that one.

47
Infidel at Tea

Eric Linden

As seasons change, and autumn comes ablaze
to signal summers end, its raging fires
turn to ashes cooled. Another year expires;
the jolly month of June has had its days.
Autumn brings on wanderlust, a maze
of dead-end trails. A harvest of desires
begins to roll on new, inflated tires
but moonlit nights are clouded with a haze.

A gypsy turns the teacup in her hands
and contemplates the message left inside
shes seen this tale before: the leaves dont lie.
Small, scattered dots are stars in foreign lands;
she sees the ships go sailing with the tide;
she knows his fate which he cannot deny.

Spring Revue

Angela Burns

Curtains of rain slide apart to expose
A daffodil fanfare for tree blossom snows
Hyacinth solos join aconite choirs
While slim catkins dance to emerald fires

The grass stretches forth in riffs to the sway
Of slim golden willows in soft furry gray
The scents of bright promise are piped to the sky
While endless encores thrill each eager eye

Autumn Recital

Angela Burns

Reflections dance on a glistening stage
Knots of rain-somber birches enclose
Mist-sparkling sedge rustling autumn repose
And scatters of gold in a shimmering blaze.

Wind harps pluck softly the scents of the rain
Notes of sea, marsh and bark, sodden stone
Bright sheets of sky write their paean alone
While thrums of slate cloud cast a shadowed refrain.
48
Tears of a Clown

S. Parlato

Behind his makeup, look and you will find
a clown whos not as happy as he seems.
The thought of what-if dances through his mind
and slithers through his sleeping, waking dreams.
Hes tired of unicycles, tents, balloons.
In fact, the role of joyful pantaloon
has left him feeling less than genial.
Hes done to death by playing silly fool.

A little boy pries open daddys trunk,
the sad, discarded vestige of his youth.
He only knew a father in a funk
and has no inclination of the truth.
He dons his fathers bright red nose and wig,
declares, Ill make em laugh, when I get big!

Winters End

John Grey

As March winds sear through field and town,
Snow cedes itself to gravity,
Collapses from both roof and tree.
Sheds all of its white heavy gown,
Ice daggers snap and tumble down,
And with each rise of a degree,
The winters grip releases me
A little more, resigns its crown.

Another winter at the end,
Is but a shadow of its worst,
Another outlook on the mend
That once thought itself doomed, accursed,
This stage of life, I see the trend,
Depressions mount, depressions burst.

49
Dancing Feet

Peggy Fletcher

Girls and boys still dance to music
keeping time to rhythmic beat
shorter skirts and longer hairstyles
make no change in dancing feet.

Clinging to their hour of pleasure
shake away the old despair
lingering near the edge of reason
spectres are not welcomed there.

Ghosts of all who went before them
hover on their laughing faces
other girls and other boys
other times and other places.

Girls and boys still dance to music
finding love in different beats
generation gaps to follow
make no change in dancing feet.

Spring Thaw

Debbie Okun Hill

When snowman sags, slips, spills to lake
His head spins dizzy fever ache
Loud soggy slurps, down swirling drain
Twig twisting arm entwined in pain
Two black coal eyes begin to shake
A carrot nose, unlucky break
Wool scarf unwinds, hung up on stake
In gutter, lost, alone in lane
When snowman sags

Oh where art thou, white mounds of flake?
Melted moments, a big mistake
A drowning pool, rush hour rain
A wilting tear, a fading stain
A burst of sun dries puddles wake
When snowman sags

50
Winter Woes

Aaron Wilkinson

The frantic pace of summer ends
When autumn months make absent friends.
We bid farewell to warming trends
As arctic winds begin to blow.
Then wintertime and moving slow.

The sidewalks stretch in icy wrecks
So walkings hell, but what the heck.
Some folks will fall and break their necks.
To hospital in pain theyll go
Cause wintertimes for moving slow.

While blizzards fall in winding sheets
The crowded buses crawl the streets
And touchy riders guard their seats.
Were tired so long as tensions grow

And drivings not a better bet.
Most drivers heads have room to let.
The roads are glass, they all forget.
And more than one will need a tow

Some others need to roll the night
Through windshields showing endless white
Or flashing blue and yellow lights
As ploughs upset the traffic flow

Then groundhogs cast about for spring.
What wonders will the sunshine bring?
And still outside the Lions king.
By March the groundhogs eating crow
Cause wintertime is moving slow.

Id like to reach a sunny clime
Where no ones heard of wintertime
And write a dreadful winter rhyme
To share what I have come to know:
To hell with every flake of snow.

51
Are We There Yet?

Steven Manchester

I drove on at a steady pace.
Behind me came a voice,
Believing life was one long race,
and fate a simple choice.

Are we there yet? was his theme.
He twisted in his seat.
I felt the sorrow he would learn-
the trials he had to meet.

A few more miles...a little while.
I knew the trip was long.
But in the mirror beamed a smile:
My word could not be wrong.

We talked and laughed, we shared the ride-
In time, he took the wheel.
Through years we traveled side-by-side,
To think, to hope and feel.

I turned to him, with my tired voice,
Are we there yet? was my plea.
He grinned and said, Thats Gods own choice.
At last, my boy could see.

52
All Hail The Noble Hog

Sally Cook

Marmota monax was his name
In Latin times; and his sole claim
To fame is telling us the length
Of winter; and his greatest strength
Is burrowing, and gobbling food,
(By grabbing it and being rude).

An anorexic animal,
He goes to sleep and loses all
The extra weight that he has gained,
Then wakes in Feb., when snow has waned
To tell us when the spring will come
Now who can say this fellows dumb?

When born, he is both blind and hairless.
His parents are what wed call careless,
And kick him out at eight weeks old
Into the world, alone and cold.
Though he may whistle, hiss or growl
Sometimes Im sure he gives a howl.

Aside from his varietal speech,
Red, black or brown, it seems that each
Ground hog, though chunky with short tail
Can never have been said to fail
To tell us from his little hill
Of whats to come. We laud him still.

53
Ancient Oak

Jan Harris

Astride the nook where branch and trunk embrace,
a fleet of children sailed to pilgrim shores
and lovers lingered in your shade, to trace
the paths which laced two parted lives once more.

Drawn by moons glow, a cloud of moths arose,
as if your bark erupted into flight,
and dawn brought colonies of greys, who stole
fat acorns to sustain their winter nights.

A road now binds your roots, cements your soil,
and life is trapped within the speeding lights.
Exhaust fumes make the stifled air taste stale.

To toast the route of progress, old trees fall
as space is cleared for climbing frames and slides,
where children play in line behind the rails.

As Children Play Near Weathered Stones

Gerry Spoor

Ill never wonder when Im dead
No dreams envisioned in my head
No words described upon my lips
No feelings on cold fingertips

Cant hear the thunder underground
Where silence is the only sound
Where lay the truth of lies inside
Where I cant see what darkness hides

Indifferently, Ill then decay
As quietly as each old day
While winter whispers through my bones
and children play near weathered stones

54
Black And White World

Dawn Sinclair

Let us go back to the black and white world
and pretend it was better than now,
to our youth and beyond, to the poverty bond
we can visit if memories allow.

See the shoes on our feet stuffed with yesterdays news
and our one suit of clothes, drab and drear.
With no jewels to bedeck save the scum round the neck,
we had nothingand that includes fear.

See the obstinate chins and the diamond bright eyes
face the black and white world with a dare.
We knew none could uncover, nor slyly discover
those secrets of our great despair.

See the place where we livedwas it ever in colour,
was the paint ever glossy and new?
where we hung by the feet in full view of the street
from a rail, with defiance as glue.

See the gutters that yielded a treasure-trove rare
of ball-bearings and other such gems.
How we stooped, unaware of the seams we might tear,
in our dresses without any hems.

See the rosy-cheek children who looked down their noses
yet longed with green envy to play
with the black and white urchins, so craftily searching
for some way to make the rich pay.

And we didyou remember?we tapped every resource,
we understood nothing of shame
We would blackmail or flatter, it didnt much matter
so long as they couldnt prove blame.

We were quick, we were slick, and we didnt mind danger
In fact, it enhanced all the thrills.
We took chances so lightly and squeezed through so tightly
you would think we expected some spills.

But we didntremember?.we thought nothing of it,
Invincible down to the last.
Dont you think its a pity that children so gritty
should grow up and hide from the past?

55
I Paid My Dues

Dawn Sinclair

In spring when I was just a girl
Adjusting to this cruel world
I paid my dues

Too soon my skin wore callused gown,
I learned to act, I learned to frown
While weaving silk from thistledown
I paid my dues

I thought Id entered into hell
Manacled soul in haunted shell
And no-one dried the tears that fell
When I was bade to never tell.
I paid my dues

In summer I was no sweet maid
Who lightly laughed and gently played
But braver now and unafraid
My shield defending every raid
Though innocence was torn and frayed
I paid my dues

So bold was I - and brash Ill bet
With eyes of jade and heart of jet.
I never made a teachers pet
But darkened strangers often met
Who paid for me in coins of sweat.
I grinned at their discomfort, yet
I paid my dues

In autumn, life had made of me
The woman of my destiny.
No longer desperate to be free,
Nor spend my days upon my knees,
I built my nest contentedly
Yet craved for something secretly
Uncertain as a memory.
I paid my dues

Too few, my options one by one
Had withered in the autumn sun
And all the fantasies Id spun
Had blown to dust as theyd begun.
Too many things were left undone,
Too many roads Id left to run
So even in the autumn sun,
When time was short and almost done,
I paid my dues

56
In winter, at the summing end,
I talk with God like any friend,
My eyes are dim, I cannot bend
Nor can I broken bridges mend.
No energy can I expend
To clean the slate or to offend
And it becomes a growing trend
To smile as through my days I wend.
Yet, still through habit I pretend,
I pay my dues

As Earth prepares her dress of snow
Im at the stage of my last show
Where seeds of resignation grow
So, softly, death comes tippy-toe
To take its uncomplaining foe.
And, though I walk with footsteps slow,
I am undaunted, for I know
That heavens realm can hold no woe
Compared with anything below.
And when they ask me, I will show
I paid my dues.

57
A Fathers Tired Refrains

Gerry Spoor

I hear the music played today,
then wonder why they bother.
Plead with my kid to turn it down,
like my departed Father.
Its funny how the more things change,
the more they stay the same:
Two generations cant compare
the notes theyve both sustained.

Perhaps its in the air they breathe,
or junk food theyve been eating --
But I declare, the sounds I hear
resemble children beating
On pots, and pans, or toilet lids,
mistreating proper function,
Those instruments placed in their hands
Abused without compunction.

It could be human hearings changed,
deranged by mass delusions
From institutions now in league
to prompt our youths confusion.
Its funny how the more things change,
the more they stay the same.
I guess its part of growing up
with Fathers tired refrains.

The Triumph of Words Over Music

Simon Leigh

Once upon a more skilful time
Lived poets who spoke in fluent rhyme
(And later there were quite a few
Who could write words and music too)
But soon the more impatient bard
Found rhyme and rhythm far too hard
So, as his thoughts grew vague or worse
He generated half-rhymed verse
To three guitar chords: total crap
But white kids bought his gangsta rap.
So drop the tune and sample drums,
And something dreadlocked this way comes
That makes the oldies clench in rage
As loud complaining hits the stage.

58
Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea

59
Lighthouse

Angela Burns

On barren rocks stroked by the tide
Or thrashed by tortured squalls
A tower looms; atop its walls
A giant eye resides

When darkness hides the sentinel
And sharp-fanged rocks are masked
White fire will fill the beveled glass
And flare across the swells

The Gentle Pirate

Gregory Christiano

Loose, loose every sail to the breeze,
The course of the vessel improve:
Ive done with the toil of the seas;
Ye sailors, Im bound to my love.

Hoist, hoist every sail to the breeze,
Come, shipmates, and join in the song,
Lets drink, while the barge cuts the seas,
To the gale that may drive her along.

No glory I covet, no riches I want,
Ambition is nothing to me,
But one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant -
For breakfast a good cup of tea.

Ive crossed the wide waters, Ive trod the lone strand,
Ive triumphed in battle, Ive lighted the brand;
Ive borne the loud thunder of death oer the foam,
Fame, riches, neer found them - yet still found a home.

Trust not too much your own opinion,
When your vessels under weigh,
Let good advice still bear dominion,
Thats a compass will not stray.

If unassaild by squall or shower,
Wafted by gentle gales,
Lets not lose the favoring hour,
While success attends our sails.

60
O well do I remember that cold dreary land
Where the northern light,
In the winters night
Shone bright on its snowy strand.

Fame, riches, neer found them - yet still found a home.

For grog is our larboard and starboard,
Our main-mast, our mizzen, our log,
On shore, or at sea, or when harbord,
The mariners compass is grog.

Bright are the beams of the morning sky,
And sweet the dew the red blossoms sip;
But brighter the glances of dear womans eye-
And sweet is the dew on her lip.

Oh! life is a river and man is the boat,
That over its surface is destined to float,
And joy is a cargo so easily stored,
That he is a fool who takes sorrow on board.

Fame, riches neer found them - yet still found a home.

Natures Revenge

Susan Eckenrode

How futile is his proudest boast,
as waves obliterate the coast
in vengeful war against the shore
with fury never known before.

The looming clouds erupt to heave
a wall of rain without reprieve,
while surging seas still clash and roar
with fury never known before.

The waters of the earth declare
the fate mankind cannot repair.
Too late, his eyes now cant ignore
such fury, never known before.

How futile is his proudest boast
midst fury never known before.
61
The Too Wise Sailor

Michael Milligan

I cry aloud to warn the crew:
The cruelty of the ocean blue!
Which for a time allows the ship
to stay afloat within its grip.

But when the storm brews bitter brine,
the old oak hull gives way to time.
The sea knows not of rights or wrongs
and wrongly swallows sailors songs.

The Captain is a proud old fool
who disagrees with natures rule.
He breaks mens wills to get his ways,
though his Will will end mens days.

He steers us straight towards our doom,
and then retires to his room,
to write a book to make his name
the object of eternal fame.

The helmsmans fighting with the mate,
debating who has greater state,
unaware the storm embraces
high and low despite their cases.

I search for sailors to rebel
and steer us clear the mouth of hell;
but all the men they cannot think --
their brains devoted to their drink.

I, alone, stand at the helm
and watch the ocean overwhelm
our little ship with crashing waves
as sirens call us to our graves.

I cry, despite the irony
that salt tears soon are all Ill be.
The crews asleep and unaware,
and I, alone, was born to care.

62
Song of the Locomotive

Gregory Christiano

Away, away, I burst!
Who will follow me? who?
I have quenched my burning thirst,
And Im off! - Whiz, whistle, whew!

With my glowing heart of fire,
And my never tiring arm,
And my whispering magic wire,
With its space-destroying charm,

From the city I sweep along,
Like an arrow swift and true;
And before the eyes of the dazzled throng
I sing out - Whiz, whistle, whew!

The peer from his old gray towers -
His forefathers proud domain -
Looked down on my new born powers
With lordly and high disdain: -
But he started to see my breath
His ancestral oaks bedew;
And I greeted his ear, his window beneath,
With a piercing whiz, whistle, whew!

When I came to a crowded town
They said I must stand outside; -
But from high on their roofs I looked down,
And they stared at my giant stride;
Then, hiding with cunning art,
I tunneled in darkness through,
And came rushing up in the citys heart,
With a fierce whiz, whistle, whew!

Tis good that I pass along;
From the smoke of the city I bear
A pale and oerwearied throng
To the fields and the fresh sweet air.
T is good; for my path is fraught
With boons for the country too -
I waken mens spirits to life and thought
With my stirring whiz, whistle, whew!

I fly like the tempests wing -
Yet the timid have naught to fear;
A great but a gentle thing -
All men might just check my career.
Away, away, away!
Who will not follow me? who?
Worker or prince the shrill summons obey
Of my proud whiz, whistle, whew!

63
Wildhorse Camp

Peter G. Gilchrist

When Im worn by obligations and run down by expectations
and the deadlines have etched fissures in my face,
when my yin and yang are screamin like intoxicated demons
and my patience disappears without a trace;

When I cant recall the last time I enjoyed a simple pastime
and the space around my soul is getting cramped
then its time to kick the traces and break out to wilder places
like the mountains up around the Wildhorse Camp.

Adams standing there to meet me and the dogs run out to greet me
and Diane displays that smile that shames the sun
and the cookhouse chimneys smoking, you can just hear Kerri joking
and theres Merv whos busy polishing his gun.

Smells like Shel is cooking something that has got my tummy rumbling
and K2 is saddling up by the corral.
She is waiting for a rider to come out and ride beside her
and shes saddled up a horse for me as well.

Then theres Bear, that great enigma who survives without the stigma
of a label you can easily apply;
A collage of friendly faces in the prettiest of places
where the mountains pucker up to kiss the sky.

Theres a clearing I remember from my visit last September
that cascades down Wildhorse mountain, near the top.
You can ride along the treeline and the horses make a beeline
for the place theyve come to know youre going to stop.

Now the horses all get tethered and on foot you scale the weathered
old escarpment that escapes to brilliant blue.
You traverse the ragged edges of some pretty narrow ledges
and your knees begin to tremble at the view.

There is nothing quite as stunning as the Rocky Mountains running
from beneath the blue horizon in the south,
right across your line of vision, its as if the ground has risen
in amusement at the gaping of your mouth.

As you settle on the summit you can watch your worries plummet
to the verdant velvet carpet spread below.
You can feel your burden lighten and the future starts to brighten
and the bedlam rushing through you starts to slow.

On the downward ride you wonder what became of all the thunder
that was working up the storm inside your head
and your horses rocking motion is a tonic, or a potion,
for that part of you youd given up for dead.

64
After supper, when youre gazing at the bonfire that is blazing
and the Yukon candle reaches for a star,
you can feel the peace within you and its then that you begin to
let it whisper through the strings of your guitar.

Soon youre singing, and the next thing Bear is picking up a six string
and the only thing to do is harmonize
while he sings about the old days, the importance of the old ways
and the things you cant discover with your eyes.

Magic happens in the mountains. You discover little fountains
of the truth that bubble up at every turn.
If you give that sparkling water to your son and to your daughter
theres no telling what the two of them might learn.

Heres a little piece of knowledge you wont get in any college
and Ill leave it up to you to guess the source:
the most effective healing plan to fix the inside of a man
is to put him on the outside of a horse.

Downunderstanding

Joanne Underwood

You drove all day and well into the night,
Past snaking trains and wired poles, grain bins
All placed in rows, reflecting winters light.
You talked of Aussie rules and footy wins
And sang along to music from that land
Strange words like jumbuck, swag and billy-boil
Then told me tales of surfing down the sand
And playing in the nearby oceans roil.
Do you recall the note you left, age four
When going off to "Asalea", that name
You wrote not knowing how to spell your Oz?
I cried at thinking youd walk out the door
Yet marveled inwardly at your brave game
And loving you is all there ever was.

65
Road Kill


(Temagami, Ontario, Canada. September 2004.)

It takes a hard-nosed kind of man
To drive trucks in this northern land.
Im not the sentimental type.
I do my job as best I can.
The long way round is not for me:
Just draw a line from A to B.
High-milers take the scenic route,
But pavements mostly what I see.

Past rocks, by frozen lakes serene,
Down corridors of evergreen,
Theres danger in the scenery.
You dare not sightsee, dare not dream.
A friend of mine was killed last year
When, late one night, he hit a deer.
Did inattention cost his life?
To stay alive, best live with fear.

The sun was shining overhead
One day last fall, when far ahead
I saw some movement on the road
A rabbit, hurt but not quite dead
Lay thrashing in the other lane,
A mangled lump of sickening pain,
His hind legs squashed into a pulp.
He wasnt going to run again.

In younger days I used to fight
At Mackeys Gym on Friday nights.
Ive seen my share of blood and puke
While punching out some suckers lights.
Out hunting, I dont really care
When I have shot a moose or bear;
But it was more than I could stand
To see that rabbit suffer there.

That was a road I often take:
I knew a turnout by a lake.
I pulled my rig off to the side.
As, gearing down, I hit the brake,
The diesels angry, rattling sound
Rang through the forest all around.
The big truck thundered to a stop.
I paused -- then doubled back my ground,

66
Retracing fifteen clicks Id come.
Some dirty business left undone
By someone else, now far away,
Lay bleeding in the morning sun.
I found that bunny presently --
And not a pretty sight to see.
I floored the pedal, turned the wheel,
And stopped the creatures misery.

We win some; but at last well lose.
Too bad a trucker cannot choose
If he will slowly fade away
Or end up in tomorrows news.
But Id hope, if life struck me down
And left me crippled on the ground,
Thered come a crushing, knockout blow
To end this fighters final round.

_____________________________________________________

Authors Notes:

High-miler is a truckers term for a driver who takes a longer, more
scenic route instead of the shortest, most direct route to a destination.

Clicks is Canadian slang for kilometers.

Sunset, Bar Harbor

Lee Evans

Now piping down the setting of the sun,
The man in kilts and leather jacket stands
By Frenchmans Bay upon a floating dock,
Facing the birth of evening; his black hair
Tied back; his face averted from the crowd
That gathers on the quay. He concentrates
Upon the music flowing like sea tides
Through all the ears within his sphere of sound;
Through all the islands, all the granite tors
That overlook Bar Harbor and beyond.
The sun descends behind a hill, and casts
Its shivering light beams upon a shaft
Across the waters to the pipers feet,
And bathes with glory all his Orphic form.

67
If Hurricane and Tempest Die

Richard E. Buenger

In halcyon hospitality
The doldrums suffer calm
In evanescent peacefulness,
An after-storming balm.

From nowhere gentle ripplings rise
To caress the ebbing tide.
Then turning with the waxing wind
To deeper sea they ride.

Unbound, uncurbed by shoal or shore
Waves billow, roll, and swell.
Seduced by passing gusts and gales
Each surge must surge propel.

Crossing, capping waves all spume
A frothy foam and spray.
Soon liquid mountains burst from gorge
In gargantuan display.

This force so fierce from nowhere, now
Unleashed explodes, convulses.
The very wind that fathered it
Reverses, routs, repulses.

As every awesome full climax
Precipitously falls
So sea and wind both defervesce;
Tranquility enthralls.

If hurricane and tempest die
What little chance have weakling, I?

68
Vomiting Jonah

(from an engraving by Breughel)

Laura Heidy

Come Children, hear the ocean sigh
as seaweed turns to grass -
The rivers all run blood tonight
the waters made of glass.

Come see the soaring snakes and snails,
winged fish in desperate flight -
A silent pair of ragged claws
goes scuttling out of sight.

Come meet the mermaids, pale as sand,
who groom their tails with care,
while hermit-crabs and sea-urchins
are dangling from their hair.

Come greet the sailors home from sea,
the hunters, brave and few.
Tonight theyll dine on carrion -
Well not know who is who.

Come watch the islands disappear
at the turning of the tide.
The world ends in flame or flood -
unless the prophets lied.

Come Children, view the earths retreat.
Observe the oceans swell.
The belly of the whale has burst -
Greet Jonah - back from hell.

69
The Jump

Carl Reinholt

The noisy crowd fell silent,
And tension filled the air.
Their hero, Bill, had one more jump.
This time, how would he fare?

In past days hed come through it
No matter how things looked;
But hed already missed two tries.
Perhaps his goose was cooked.

The competition, tough.
The other jumpers, strong.
Today Bill seemed not at his best.
Would he stay Champ for long?

They watched him as he poised.
Determined was his stance.
The crowd could feel his manly strength.
Oh yes! He had a chance!

He lunged toward the bar;
The crowd was silent still.
It wasnt easy to keep mum
While thinking, Cmon Bill!

They all knew as he jumped
That he could surely take it.
Up, up he went, and up some more
But he couldnt bloody make it.

70
Bravado

Peter G. Gilchrist

Its funny how bravado bolts
as quickly as your hull rotates;
the plumage of assurance molts
as confidence evaporates.

You watch familiar planes invert
and only just have time to think
that maybe this is going to hurt
as you get swallowed in the drink.

Theres nothing calm about a spill,
one gets all jumbled up inside.
There are some folks who like the thrill,
but me it used to hurt my pride!

I wasnt scared of broken bones,
my body bends before it breaks,
what prompted my embarrassed groans
was knowing I had made mistakes.

The worst was when I chanced to err
in situations so benign
that no-one else would stumble there,
and no-ones boat upset but mine.

I had to learn a strategy
to save myself from self-disgrace
and made a huge discovery
that put my ego in its place.

I chose to not portage a run
that once seemed much too much for me
and found that water others shun
is where Im most enthralled to be.

The errors made in monster waves
seem less mistakes than strokes of chance
and every churning drop one braves
seems less a fight and more a dance,

so now, when I and my canoe
traverse a run by different routes,
I tell myself I always knew
no living man could tame these chutes.

71
Thoughts of Home

O, when I left Scotland long years ago
All the hills were covered with snow,
And the sunshine sparkled bright on the loch
Still and deep in the glen below.
I was then but a young lad
And a young man has to roam.
And I did not know how soon I would miss
My wee croft and my Scottish home.

Where the eagle soars oer high mountain crags
And the glen sweeps down to the sea,
Where the heather paints the fair purple hills,
Lies the hearth that is dear to me --
Where fire light shines on faces
Of the loved ones I have known,
And the skirl of pipes rides wild on the wind
With a song of my Highland home.

Now this brave New World holds much for a lad.
Tis a fine and promising land
Where a man may earn his fortune and fame
By the labor of his own hands.
Ive worked hard and Ive prospered,
But Id trade all that I own
Just to see once more the bright, bonnie glen
That still shines in my thoughts of home.
72
Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth

73
The Dragon

Michael Milligan

When shadows creep across the churchyard lawn
and Phoebus sets against a bruised sky,
the witch horns screech their lonely owl-like cry,
and mayhem rises with the Lunar Dawn.

The cords of spider silk array the air
with silvery rails for fairy folk to ride.
The gossamer wind which witches use to glide
directs them all into the dragons lair.

This is the night at last when he awakes
from eons slumber deep within the Earth.
The magma womb which opened at his birth
seeps lava blood around him as he quakes.

The prophecy! declares the laurel sage,
When Man forgets the limits of his birth,
in profanation rapes his Mother, Earth-
A fire in the skies shall close the Age!

On wings of fire erupting from the ground
an arrow flaming mounts into the sky
while shrieking banshees echoing his cry
retreat with terror from the piercing sound.

The iron hidden in the molten core
of Earthly bowels is no more darkly firm
than scales and bony sinews of the worm-
a flying scourge of breathing iron ore!

Though firm and pointed as a mountain spire
the dragons crest is fluid as a wave
of retribution churned in Neptunes cave-
a boiling hurricane of liquid fire!

His eyes, abysms, shining night above
a bleary land like blackened rising suns
illuminate the shadow world which runs
in banishment away from lightening Love.

The demon heart burns with the cancerous hate
of kindling fear flared from a smoldering doubt,
consumed within, consuming all without-
Satanic emptiness insatiate.

A child sleeping soundly without care
from premonition wakes with bloodshot eye
to see his nightmare gallop cross the sky-
Leviathan-like swimming ocean air.

74
Asleep, awake, or in the time betwixt
the prophet child in dreams no peace can find
to quell the image burned upon his mind-
his vision with apocalypses fixed.

And who can say if human visions cause
the universe to manifest as fate,
or merely presage heavenly mandate,
and mans will impotent to Godly laws?

But maybe all we see or dream we see
is no more than the musings of a boy
who molding quantum precepts like a toy
unlocks Pandora with a spectral key.

If so, the human mutual mind mutates
the absolute into a looking glass,
and as a ladys make up hides the crass,
the primping ordered mind Chaos collates.

Retracting wings and diving like a dart,
he plummets Lucifer-like towards a town,
where gentle yeomen dressed in simple brown
are bathed in red before theyre ripped apart.

Not seeing babe, nor dame, nor bearded age,
the demon eye is equal in its spite,
consuming and consumed by appetite-
its fuel and extirpation, one same rage.

Laid low, the town, and smoldering in flames,
to dust and ash the people are returned,
Oblivion breathes oer coal black corpses burned,
a eulogy of naught for smoking names.

And still the Hunger spreads its dragon wings,
towards the city where the Ivory Towers stand
like beacons guiding shipwrecked Thought to land,
or songs a child gainst the Silence sings.

The Kings blood-eyes resemble dragon fire
for bleeding with his lecherous eye and hand
the people and the mother bosom land,
suckling heartlands to anemic mire.

He blames his crimes upon a phantom foe
transmuting wrongs into a righteous cause.
Divine right fueled by military laws
turns Justices voice into the tyrants blow.

The peoples shame too purple to repent
cataracts the eye of justice blind.
Revealing Arts to ignorance supined
anesthetize with spectacles ferment.

75
Surrounded by their musky tomes of words
the Kings advisers peer through bending glass-
transmuting ink to Mind, like host for Mass-
the knowledge which about existence girds.

But as with staring long into a light
a phantom shadow steals across the eyes,
the pride of knowing clouds their pupils wise-
seduced by day, forgetful of the night.

No premise can be found amidst their books,
No proof that distant smoke is coming Doom,
and so, within their paper padded room,
they calculate and wait with furtive looks.

The city walls are high and thick with all
the ingenuities of mans surmise.
The ballast gates, the citys iron prize
enshroud the keep within an iron pall.

Upon the wall the banners flits foretell
a wind beginning faint but growing fierce,
the Halcyon breeze turned blast begins to pierce
the shuttered windows round the tower bell.

With windy finger wet and sleeting arm
the storm unbolts the watch tower houses latch-
the nimble gale removing from their catch
the bell ropes, whipping, clanging the alarm.

A watchman sturdy staring towards the East
begins to see a speck of light approach-
against Nights breast, a fire opal broach
that gorgon women wear to Hades feast.

The simple soldier stands in disbelief.
Unwilling to accept, he shuts his eye
against the nightmare sculpted on the sky,
But closed or open, finds he no relief.

He cries a silent warning to the guard.
Too late the course of fiery fate to cease,
too soon to pull the dying breath in peace,
He mutely leaps and crashes to the yard.

A trumpet barks the barrack corps awake.
The royal guard puts on their scarlet vests
which proudly bear their war worn golden crests-
an eagle talon fettering a snake.

The generals rough and bearded gruffly bray
the veteran ranks into a single force
of archers, pikemen, cavaliers on horse
to bind with knitted strength the looming fray.

76
So keen and trained the yeoman archers eyes,
so strong and stable are their hands which hold
the tensing strings within the wooden fold
while molding Will towards their sighted prize.

A swarm of arrows piercing naught but air
by royal marksmen knocked and set to pin,
deflected by the dragons armored skin,
bite harmless as a horsefly to a mare.

The ranks of bowman watch in pale dismay
as all their efforts fall in wooden rain
transforming saving bale to damning bane
impaling them upon the bleeding clay.

The chivalraic knights their swords upraise
to challenge under customary codes
the dragons breech of customary modes,
as if mute Death would quibble oer a phrase.

Their molten armor fuses with their skin
as mute death sculpts in frozen screams
a frieze of burning effigy which seems
a monument to Valors hollow din.

Within the keep the maskers unaware
enjoy the crepe decorum of a ball-
a chaste affair by drink turned Bacchanal,
the decadent couples coupling on the stair.

The poring billows from the dragons maw
enshroud the revelry in choking smoke
while candied dandies thinking it a joke
applaud the fashion of my ladys bra.

Gild Pomp drunk with raving ecstasy
attends its living funerary rites.
The silken biers the dragons breath ignites
into a last flamboyant obsequy.

Atop the turret poking through the smog
the golden scepter clenched by rheumed hands
reflects the hammer blows of thundering brands-
the clarion bolts announcing Gog-Magog.

The old grey locks of withered royalty
beneath the undecaying jeweled crown
transform the king into a motley clown
attesting Squire Times disloyalty.

His army razed and braising in the mist
the king capitulates ordained law
unto the dragons tongue-floored grindstone jaw
where royal grain is ground to rabble grist.

77
Despite the rank which pedigree invests
with differentiating rules of class
from prince to pauper- one buffet en masse,
the Drakes egalitarian Maw digests.

The breath of state, the puff of courtly art,
the hot blown breeze of lawyers argument,
the acrid squall of priestly testament-
inhaled, transmuted to a dragons fart.

The castle walls, the town and keep within,
lay strewn about- a fallen house of cards,
an ages fruit in moments spoiled to shards
as virtues rife disgraced by single sin.

The dragon hovers oer the zeroed ground
within the mushroom cloud of smutty smoke,
as refugees, their fetish gods invoke
with hopeless prayers resounding ruins round.

The flowering mind of human kind, the height
of natures art refined, the garden soul
of cultivated ages, sagely whole,
awaits like light of coming dawn at night.

The weedy rot of human thought, the low
of beastly craft untaught, the creeping maw
of deprivated ages, rages flaw,
embraces darkness with a dying glow.

Between the close and birthing of an age,
where walks the one to lead the fretting throng
through shadowed valleys fearlessly along
the narrow path untrod? Where walks the Sage?

78
The Night Willow

Michael Milligan

The shadow of the willow by the moon
grows longer through the night and seems to eat
the thing of which it is an image. Soon
naught will remain but darkness and the beat
of midnight winds upon its unseen limbs.
Invisible, the leaves have left their hue
and rustle wildly as the moonlight dims
concealing all their ecstasies from view.
What was cocooned in daylight sheds its bark
and spreads its winged leaves. I stand beneath
this dancing demon, naked in the dark,
as leaves enveil me in a Lethen wreath.
Oh world revealed in darkness! Now I feel
the day is but a shadow of the Real.

Urban Legends

Susan Eckenrode

Remember when as kids wed sit around
a campfire and tell scary tales all night?
Those same old urban legends can be found
today -- and heres a fave to fuel their fright.

A couple, parked one night in Lovers Lane,
are hot and heavy into making out;
they havent heard The Claw escaped again,
and wonder what the sirens are about.

Jills startled by a scratching sound and stares
outside at eyes of evil glaring back.
Jacks struggling with his jeans, still unawares,
when Jill screams Burn some rubber; floor it, Jack!

Once home they shake in horrified alarm;
hooked on the handle hangs a severed arm.

79
Prairie Whispers

Sally Ann Roberts

From pounding hooves
of ancient beasts
in long lost sands of time,
When bison roamed
and Hopi danced
in this, this natural clime.

From pounding beats
of ancient drums
when sounding `cross the plains,
The thunder crashed
and lightening flashed
which brought the summer rains.

Winds whipped slowly
through the grass
which waved a soft good-bye,
As if to say
farewell to thee
with one long lasting sigh.

Then visions fade
into the night
gone are the prairie shifters,
And what remains
are dust and bones
and lonely prairie whispers.

80
The Weekday Song

Lee Evans

The hunchback hobbled homeward
At twilight one fine day,
And spied a band of fairies
A-dancing in his way
On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

Come dance with us, O hunchback!
They shouted from their ring.
Come sing the Song of Weekdays
Permitted us to sing

The hunchback joined their circle,
And hand in hand he danced,
The fairy queen his partner,
Exalting in a trance

The fays were so delighted
The hunchback danced so well ,
They took the hump that stooped him
And blessed him with a spell

Though crooked he had joined in,
He parted from them straight;
And no one recognized him
When he came home so late

The night was young; the fairies
Commenced again their reel,
All in the merry moonlight,
In all their joy revealed

Along then came a tailor,
A bold and handsome man
Who stepped up to the dancers,
And pushed into their band

He gave the queen a sly wink,
And rudely wrapped his arm
About her fairy shoulders,
And chanted with the charm
Of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

81
And so this foolish person
Cavorted with the fays,
Until he added Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday
To Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

Then everything got ugly.
The fairies held him down
And clapped the hump upon him
The hunchback had disowned

Now you who hear this story
It may be are forewarned:
The Humble are made perfect,
The Vain become deformed,

Trebizond
1
(A Ballad)

Dick Hayes

Hard where the ocean beats the sand,
dismounting at the Seamans Inn
dusty from roads, our little band
pushed through into the crush within:
on many a shoulder clapped our hand
and raised our voice above the din:-
Forget a run of contraband,
upon our oath - an honest bond!
We can afford
a fine reward,
wholl carry us to Trebizond?

A strange conspiracy we saw,
the more we cried, the more they drank:
though lustily, we cried the more,
here one declined, another shrank,
sweeping his tankard to the floor
and down within a stupor sank.
We pushed and elbowed to the door
still casting round - but deep despond
had taken hold;
no promised gold
could passage pay for Trebizond.

82
Taking to horse as soon as out,
our mood was dark and path unlit,
though saddle sore we wheeled about,
only to halt and trim the bit
as clear and ringing came a shout
Young lords attend! from where you sit
I stand in shadow, you in doubt
but banish care, your proffered bond
must interest me,
a fealty
binds me to those of Trebizond.

We turned and let the reins go slack
a finger in hypnotic flight
flapped at the Pharos
2
ruined stack:
When first the morning steals the night!
follow the ancient broken track,
youll find a mute frequents the site,
climb down, breathe Master and draw back:
watch as he runs, and then respond,
spur on the steed!
for he can lead
to those who ship for Trebizond.

Then he was gone - that sudden guest
and raising baggage as a screen,
both from the biting wind that pressed
and lurking thieves that lay unseen.
As bold impostors dispossessed,
we talked and dreamed of what had been:
how we had laughed and mocked the rest,
who praised the feat, but seemed too fond
of easy days
and courtly ways,
to hazard thus for Trebizond.

Attending us that weary night
a sea squall rose and round us blew.
til summoned up by earliest light,
from coat and cloth we wiped the dew:
rejecting any thought of flight,
anxious to make the rendezvous:
determining with main and might,
wed watch this unknown vagabond:
if he betray
his carcass flay
upon the road to Trebizond.

83
But it was so, as had been said:
a silent guide before us flew;
through tangled Olive grove he fled,
where shafts of morning twisted through,
round narrow cleft and cliff we sped.
At length a summer seascape grew
- out into brilliant light he led.
Before us lay a beached dromond.
3
his hand he smote
towards the boat,
and might this sail to Trebizond?

With speed we dared the open ground,
and mingling with the salt sea air
came resin fume and rasping sound
of men careening, but despair,
for twenty rogues came circling round
to cut retreat off from the rear:
( meanwhile our mute was nowhere found )
With sweeping sword we swiftly donned
a fierce feint
to force constraint
or suffer there for Trebizond.

But even as we backed - a line
high from the bulwark of the ship
banged down the side into the brine.
A man laughed loudly, hand on hip,
These gallant lads are guests of mine!
swing up!, each knot will help your grip:
for I have waiting flesh and wine,
prepared that you may toast the bond
we shall agree:-
for certainly,
we leave this day for Trebizond.

We paused, but knew the die was cast
and clambered with a slight disdain
up to the deck regrouping fast
as masters of our own demesne.
Relax young sirs, these moments past
one word from me and you were slain:
but judge the planking and the mast
are not as reed and tinder wand
the surgeon hand
with iron band
assembles ships of Trebizond.

84
We parleyed there with gold at stake
and what munitions lay aboard
But wait, he said, For prudence sake
to prove my faith, then my reward
shall be decided when you make
the city gates, and then record,
though perjured men a promise break
my word has ever been my bond:
but sense the floor
we list no more
and so young Lords - to Trebizond!

Slowly a tattered leather square
with jerk and flap began to slope
up the lone mast - and riding there
caught in a web of holding rope
trembled in the freshening air,
and more than once he Bid us hope
rebuking an unspoken fear
that lingered on: Ill not abscond
for you should know
that I must go
most urgently to Trebizond.

We bore upon a rising tide
made buoyant with expectancy,
but where the ocean opened wide,
torn from the shelter of the lee,
the bowsprit
4
reared, the woodwork sighed:
the expanse of a running sea
rolled the great belly side to side
and all behind we thought beyond
as blind with spray
we groped for day
and cursed the quest for Trebizond.

Such doleful straight we never knew
gripping the rails as best we could,
capsized by seas that round us threw
cold water, bales and loosened wood:
yet slow the constant shock and skew
eased toward evening - then we stood
before the captain and his crew,
and with great effort garrisoned
a little strength
and so at length
questioned with him of Trebizond!

85
Suspicious? - yes, your looks betray
that silent guide was I your lord
who also stood to point your way.
- Up from a curious purse of cord
he palmed a cameo of clay.
The half, intaglio
5
is stored:
and every stranger must display
his half and both must correspond;
these trials wait
at every gate
for those approaching Trebizond!

The uninvited, and the breed
of fraud and cheat, in loaded chains
without appeal, is decreed
to sudden death - and this explains
the apathy last night - I feed
this matter round, for so it gains
me space to gather those in need,
( such as yourselves ) who would respond
unto the call
that comes to all,
who hear of fabled Trebizond.

No more was said - we lay content
and thought the ship the best afloat
and dared to kindle merriment.
Once, in a fog, another boat
had ghosted past, and as it went:
the slave drum beat its muffled note,
the groaning oars malevolent,
told well their tale of bitter bond.
In truth were we
though seeming free,
but captives bound for Trebizond?

New coasts that came were bleak and bare
with plunging cliff and smoking reef.
To catch the helmsman unaware
insidious currents played the thief,
drawing the beam into a snare
swirling the backbone from beneath
to slide the still unknowing near.
Almost too late he would respond
and break the spell
that rose and fell,
steering us still for Trebizond.

86
With lowered sail we pass the strait
by locals called the Dardenelles
6
,
where watchful heights in silence wait
to waken with a thousand bells
the sleeping soldiers in the gate:
A Sultan in that city dwells
as merciless as he is great-
by creep and stealth, well ship beyond
the Golden Horn
7
until the dawn,
then out and run for Trebizond.

Only the lapping oars conveyed
our presence on a breathless night,
as through the central harbour made
under the smouldering oil light,
where triple Deckers creaked and swayed,
as grating chains turned slack or tight:
and no one spoke, though each had prayed.
At last we sensed the crew respond
with faster stroke
and now they spoke
of safety and of Trebizond!

Then every mariner made haste
for soon the blush of dawn would break.
We struck the sail and turned and faced
the sunrise and as luck would make
a zephyr
8
rose and with us raced
leaving the peril in our wake.
And round us schools of Dolphin chased
as on we voyaged far beyond
pursuit that lies
in wicked eyes
through unknown seas to Trebizond.

Our sunsets burnt upon the brow
of endless ocean left and right -
- always Orion and the Plough
our faithful compass of the night
while sea surge feathered at the prow
in liquid jewels dark and bright-
- fingers we dipped, hung from the bow
in idle pastime of despond
till low and grey
with breaking day
we reached the coast of Trebizond.

87
There misty blue and opal trees,
ran down to drifts of lemon sand,
and air that smelt of wine and ease
with quiet creeks - so near to hand.
Our lateen
9
stole a calling breeze
which drew us closer to the land,
through ever clearer, gentler seas
that glittered bright as diamond
the sailors cried:
The wind and tide,
shall aid us on to Trebizond.

Two angry looking juts of stone
reared to our right and in between,
through piled granite bare as bone
a narrow passage could be seen.
We set the head and in were blown,
by walls of shaggy matted green
to re-emerge and with a groan
the keel struck and our dromond
would move no more.
This secret shore,
they said, Is close to Trebizond.

With panniers and loaded pack,
our party at a steady crawl
wound slowly up a red earth track;
and halting as a sentinel,
we lingered long - and gazing back
from high above, the ship had all
but dwindled to a speck of black,
and wistful, we felt strangely fond
of sea and tide,
then side by side
we struck the path for Trebizond.

So sheer the coast by which we crept
where goats had trodden, so must we.
Then, unannounced, our leader swept
inland and left the shining sea
and down into a vale stepped;
where trellised vines bent languidly
and blackest grapes a curfew kept,
so dense the growth of branch and frond.
We lodge tonight.
By morning light
we shall ascend to Trebizond!

88
Though all were tired, yet he turned
to urge us on without disguise,
for scarlet evening round us burned
and dusk proclaimed the days demise.
In that strange half light we discerned
a roving gleam now lit his eyes,
and understood ( though little learned
were we in signs that correspond
from soul to soul )
he sensed his goal
the citadel of Trebizond!

Through shrub and thicket rich with scent,
he took us to an open rise.
We saw at first a battlement,
and gazed ahead with mute surprise
for leagues of vaulting towers spent
their startling grandeur on our eyes,
and far above, the clouds were rent
where some dark presence reached beyond
and shimmered there
in lucent air
The Keep, he cried, Of Trebizond!

As troubled men, we stood enslaved!
and watched that fearful splendour fade,
a vision on our hearts engraved.
Then, on we trudged through deep and glade
and out upon a cart-way paved
with rutted grass - the more afraid,
despite the perils we had braved.
Just as a hapless vagabond
extends a hand,
soon we would stand
and entrance seek at Trebizond.

The road now bent and crouched beside
an antique wall and like a thief
slipped into gates that opened wide
to painted scenes of ancient fief;
where guest and garland, bird and bride
were living still in bas relief,
but every shadow drew aside
where marble columns flecked with blond,
upheld a frieze
with seeming ease
and all the art of Trebizond.

89
Our leader cupped his hands to sound
and soon the echo of his call
brought servant teams to fluster round;
pent up with gladness - out the hall
a troop of armed retainers wound
(we sensed our leader known by all)
To each he sprang with welcome bound -
and visibly his manner donned
a regal hue
and all his crew
were hailed as Lords of Trebizond.

They bought a cloak of blue and red,
such heavy cloth he lent to fold
about his arm - and on his head,
emblazoned with a cross of gold,
a mitre placed. In anxious dread
we made obeisance on that cold
hard foreign floor. Arise, he said,
And be released from every bond
by word of law
for ever more -
I am a King of Trebizond.

What we had missed we always knew
too full of self concern to close
upon the half crumb of a clue
in look and mien. Like men that doze
and curse themselves, as dullards rue
the name of fool, we there arose
sought in his eye the anger due;
yet all his gaze was full and fond,
as brothers won
he called us son
and citizen of Trebizond.

As Free born men, he bid us dine:
clapped for a bitter lemonade,
rich meats enwrapped in fragrant vine
and thousand flavoured marinade.
Then steeped in oils and piquant wine
an olive crop - and by it laid
fruits of the sea in baths of brine.
Yet as we ate we sensed beyond,
in waiting height
and hidden light
the mystery of Trebizond.

90
Adjourning to an inner court,
where tethered dogs with fitful growl
lay dreaming of late battles fought
and wild beasts that nightly prowl;
where braziers rose up and caught
the flit and rush of bat and owl,
our captain King gave his report.
He counseled long against despond
and paced the floor,
For many more,
he said, Would turn for Trebizond.

Late in the night when cold stars spill
across the skies and day has died,
we woke to see him pacing still
and walked till daybreak at his side.
He only said, A deeper ill
disturbs my mind. Enough! We ride,
our royal seat set on a hill
is splendid as a diamond
surpassing Rome
the shining dome
is commonplace in Trebizond.

And of its provenance and fame
the scribe and teacher of the book
shall in due time confess the claim
of my descendants, that forsook
both hearth and home and so they came
through trials, terrors, and they took
to mark their settlement a name,
now legendary, that far beyond
its local shore
a charm would draw
the desolate to Trebizond.

The day woke fair, a day wed sought
for we had traveled long and far
and if a last indulgent thought
arose - it was an evening star;
for we had done with Northern port,
the endless steppe and strain of war.
And as we rode, the city caught
the warmth of ivory and blonde
that newly born
attends each dawn
of those who come to Trebizond.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

1 Trebizond is a port on the Black Sea coast of Turkey. Its heyday was between 1204 and 1461, when it was
a center of Greek and Byzantine learning, fabulously wealthy, and a last refuge of Hellenistic culture in
Asia minor. It capitulated to the Ottoman Empire some eight years after the fall of Constantinople
(present day Istanbul.)
2 A Roman lighthouse.
3 A simple Mediterranean sailing craft with a single mast.
4 A wooden spar protruding from the bow to give support to the main sail.
91
5 A concave (scooped out) shape, the opposite of the better-known term Cameo.
6 Dardanelles (also Bosporus): the straight dividing the Black Sea from the Mediterranean.
7 The Golden Horn. The estuary that divides the city of Istanbul, which at sunset glows gold, and which is
shaped like a horn. Hence its name.
8 A light breeze. Greek God of the gentle west wind.
9 A single sheet sail.

Ascension 75

Louis John Costanza

The winged horse in waiting flies
from star to star, from peak to peak.
Bellerophon had known his strength
but lost his life to Heaven seek.
Now I with crystals in my eyes
and moonbeams woven into reins,
in silence spring upon the mount
before my fleeting courage wanes.
Chimaera resurrected now
with lions head and dragons tail
would keep me from the goal I seek
and let the dregs of time prevail.
But neither she with mocking lies
nor Zeus, his gadflys deadly sting,
shall throw me off my skyward course,
to Pegasus I tightly cling.
Olympus looms above me now,
its portals beckon end to strife,
And passing through I know at last,
Life ends in Death, Death ends in Life.

______________________________________________________

Note

Bellerophon was a gifted equestrian from Corinth. Riding the winged
horse, Pegasus, he battled and killed the monster Chimaera. On a
later ride, however, he attempted to scale Mt. Olympus. Zeus, the
supreme Deity, was enraged at this arrogance and sent a gadfly to
sting the horse. Pegasus reared and Bellerophon was hurled to his
death.
92
Night Visitor

Sally Ann Roberts

As the telltale heart was beating,
I had caught myself repeating,
At the rhythms that were fleeting,
When I walked across the floor.

It was then I heard the rapping,
And the constant tap, tap, tapping,
Like dry naked bones were clapping,
When I opened up the door.

A ghost just stood there staring,
With its eyes so big and glaring,
There was no way of preparing,
What was standing in my sight.

Was it there to take me souling
In the wind so cold and blowing,
Neath the moon so full and glowing,
On this crisp October night?

In the moments that were slipping,
I could feel my heart skip-skipping,
Through the knob that I was gripping,
I was frightened to the core.

Then there came the eerie laughter,
And I knew what it was after,
When its shouts had shook the rafter,
TRICK OR TREAT and nothing more.

93
Grandpa and the Leprechaun

Sally Ann Roberts

She sits upon her Grandpas knee,
her eyes so big and round.
She listens most intently to
his every word and sound.
The same old tale he told to me
when I was but a child --
A tale thats unbelievable.
Could it have been so wild?

Now listen close, he told her
while speaking soft and low,
There is a place beyond the hill
where magic mushrooms grow.
One evening I went walking
beyond the garden path.
I spied a little, naked man
who was taking a nature bath.

He did not see me standing there
beside his bag of gold
Until I picked it up to run,
feeling young and bold.
Stop!! he shouted Stop, thief, stop!
He flew across the lawn,
Oh no! I laughed Im being chased
by a naked Leprechaun!

" Give me back my gold! My gold!
My gold! he kept a-cryin
While all the while I had to laugh
at his body parts a-flyin
Give me back my gold! he gasped,
Three wishes you will get.
Anything your heart desires!
he claimed, still dripping wet.

But I said, Little Peoples golds
worth more than that, Im sure,
So I will keep this bag with me,
cause I know that its pure.
NO! NO! NO! NO! the small man screamed,
dont take me gold! he hissed.
Its mine, its mine, the wee man cried,
and shook a threatening fist.

94
At once the little beggar,
as quick as quick could be,
He snatched the bag out of my hand
and ran away in glee.
But what he didnt know was this:
there was a little tear
Beneath the edge, an unstitched seam
he didnt know was there.

It was just only small enough
to let three pieces fall.
While sprinting onward very quick
he noticed not at all.
Then Grandpa reached inside his shirt
the tale was true, he told.
`Cause there - right there within his hand --
three pieces of bright gold!

The Lonely Piper

Cynthia K. Deatherage

Listen . . .
it lies soft upon the air.
Faintly, faintly, silver measures fall,
And breathe, then rising, gently linger there
A whispering dream, an elven magic rare.

Fair and yet with melancholy strain,
The distant notes with yearning softly call.
Therebeyond the mist-enshrouded plain
A lonely piper plays his far refrain.

Again, the music moves across the moor,
Sweeping, searching, holding night in thrall,
Filling all who listen with its lore,
Strangely known, though never heard before.

No morethe song grows hushed; the music fades,
And stillness, rising , fills the air and all
The yearning dims; the magic fails, unmade.
A sigh. A breath. A stirring in the shade . . .

Listen . . .

95
Lost

Patricia Louise Gamache

I watched the moon on purple hill
I heard the silence in the still
The golden shadows showered round
Where moonbeams skated on the ground

I saw you step into the boat
I watched you journey in the moat
The squealing shriek of frightened bird
Became the call Id never heard

I heard the click of oars on steel
I knew the swiftness of the keel
I pushed the brush aside to see
Your body bent upon your knee

And as I watched you row away
I knew Id wait another day
I watched the ripples as they shone
When next I looked your boat was gone

The evening mist was gray like mold
The silent wind blew ever cold
I saw the boat fly so alive
Before it took that awesome dive

I ran along the darkened bank
And silently my spirit sank
I tried to find the dreaded spot
And where I searched I found you not

96
The Earls Ride

Cynthia K. Deatherage

It was the hunting season when the Earl upon his horse
Charged across old Malcolms land and trampled gate and gorse.
The ancient herder grasped his reinsO sir, what shall I do?
Yeve scattered all my flock and left but one poor, bleating ewe!
Be gone, old man! the Earl cried out and lashed him in his pride,
And there old Malcolm, bleeding, fell upon the ground--and died.
And the Earl rode on and on and on, and the Earl rode ever on.

The Earl and troop came to a brook and paused to rest and drink,
But as the Earl knelt down, he saw red blood upon the brink
And felt a cold wind brush his face and heard a voice that cried,
Theres blood upon the Earls hand, for by his hand I died!
To horse! the Earl jumped up and said with face of bloodless hue.
He gazed into the shadowed wood and spurred his mount on through.

Beneath the whispering woods he rode, beneath the moaning wind,
Following a wounded buck around the brush-wood bend.
And as he neared its heaving form, his arrow pierced its side,
And as it fell it seemed to groan, For by his hand I died!
Leave it dead! he cried and whipped his sweating horses flank
And rode to leave behind those words from which his spirit shrank.

From out the woods onto a hill, the Earl and hunters came.
He smiled; for with the shadows gone, he felt a lesser pain.
But then across the open plain, a voice in echo cried:
Ride on! For this your bloody deedfor by your hand I died!
And from his lips, his own cursed soul in horror screamed his doom,
And at the sound, his horse turned round and vanished in the gloom.
And the Earl rides on and on and on, and the Earl rides ever on . . .

97
Talking to Olympus

Graeme King

Late last night I talked to Mount Olympus,
Aphrodite came onto the line,
Told me that the Muses were all sleeping,
Maybe she could help me, I said: Fine!

Tell me how to write of love immortal,
Love that lasts millennia and more.
Silence was the answer then the dial tone,
Sad, I let the phone drop to the floor.

Devastated, sitting in my arm chair,
Then the room dissolved in beams of white,
Scared, I held my breath as time suspended,
Then a figure spoke out from the light:

This is he who wants to write the poem.
That which tells the world of love from two;
Love to climb all mountains, outshine rainbows,
Such as only comes to precious few.

Muses crowded round and looked in wonder,
Clio and Calliope so fair,
Thalia, Erato, all my daydreams,
Dancing, singing, floating through the air.

Finding strength, I stood and I addressed them:
I have love to last through historys years,
Words are there, but lo, I cannot write them,
Help me write this ode to end my tears.

Through my brain the lilt of Muses laughter,
Then the voice of Zeus from high above:
Be content you found your inspiration,
Dont be so intent to write of Love!

Words will fade on paper, wash from pavement,
Poems are forgotten all too soon;
Take your hearts true feelings, and release them,
Grasp your love and take her to the moon!

98
Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri

99
On the Rush

Peter G. Gilchrist

Outside the day was bleak and cold, and winter reigned supreme;
but on the indoor soccer field the turf was brilliant green.
In gold and black our players formed the home side on this day
The visitors wore black and blue quite fitting, one could say.

Our keeper headed for the net as cool as one could ask,
her confident demeanor showed her ready for the task.
She pulled her hair from off her neck and tied it at the back,
then turned to face the field of play and wait for the attack.

The black and blue burst quickly from the line as play began.
They gained momentum early, passing crisply as they ran.
They raced towards our goal, but our defenders forced them wide.
Our keeper moved to challenge as I watched with nervous pride.

The pass came from the corner with immaculate control,
And right in front their striker launched a missile at our goal.
She leapt in celebration of what seemed a certain score,
but through the crease our keeper flew and swiftly slammed the door.

The black and blue attacker wasnt sure what she had seen.
She stared, with mouth wide open, at the goal that should have been.
A roar burst from the bleachers and the building swelled with sound.
My eyes welled up with pride as that young keeper stood her ground.

The visitors were hungry for that all-important goal.
They passed, and shot, and shot again, but could not find a hole.
She challenged on the break-aways, and always won the ball.
They shot from every angle but our keeper stopped them all.

At half-time Coach agreed to put another girl in goal
and put our keeper out in front to play the strikers role.
The players battled hard. They tried their best to win, and yet
with little time remaining neither team had found the net.

A blue defender stopped the ball, then sent it up the wing.
It would have been a textbook pass, except for one small thing -
our strikers fast! If nothing else, she gives each game her all
and fifty-fifty simply means you just gave her the ball.

A cheetah on the rush, she broke from well behind the play.
She stole the ball mid-journey, then she turned the other way.
With twenty seconds left to play I saw her getting set;
I saw her bring her left foot back and cock it at the net.

Before she pulled the trigger I exploded from my seat.
There wasnt any question that the goalie had been beat.
The winning goal was buried, and the parents all went wild.
She turned and searched the stands for me and then my daughter smiled.

100
Judiciously

Peter G. Gilchrist

The Court considers senior counsels pleas
judiciously each morning right at ten,
then student lawyers rise on trembling knees
like Daniels stepping to the lions den.

These servants of the aristocracy
must advocate positions with respect,
indentured to the gerontocracy --
MLord, my client prays, and genuflect.

With fear careening round the oval track
within his mind, a student stumbles through
responses to a Judges keen attack.
He gropes in vain for rules he thought he knew.

This wretched victim stands before the Court
oblivious that Judges like their sport.

Vestiges

Richard E. Buenger

Unless I draw or sculpt or write
My life is like a bird in flight
Nor is there vestige anywhere
From fish in stream or quiet lake
Whose path is closed behind each wake.

What is that force that isnt there,
That lifts a kite and messes hair,
That tells its tale with rustled leaves.
With puffs on ponds it gently weaves
A network that will wane and fade
As rapidly as its displayed.

Its captured in the bagpipes squeeze
And beckoned forth by organ keys.
Through lips and horn its song is freed
As modified by valve or reed.
What is the covert primal source
Of this ubiquitous veiled force?

It has no form or age or weight
For mortal minds to contemplate.

101
Zoo Animals

James K. McAlister

Lets go to the Metro Zoo!
You will meet a whole Whos Who
Of the creatures of the Earth.
You will get your moneys worth.

The lion roars inside his cage.
He is really in a rage!
Zebras are prisoners wearing stripes
Behind tall fences made of pipes.

With the reptiles pause a while.
Wink at smiling crocodiles.
Visit parrots, feed them crackers.
Watch your fingers! Theyre attackers!

Koalas love the Red Gum tree.
Theyll climb up, I guarantee.
Next go watch the kangaroo.
A mob is what they call their crew.

Funny creatures are the camels:
They are awkward, two-humped mammals.
You can ride high on their backs.
Their keeper will teach you some facts.

Giraffes are brown and yellow creatures
They too have some special features --
Thin legs, small ears and long necks.
On their backs some small birds peck.

Theres a whole crowd of flamingos
Next door to Australian dingoes.
The elephants trunk is like a hose.
That is one extensive nose!

Leopards are cats of the night.
Two or more will often fight!
Orangutans, the social beasts,
Share bananas for a feast.

Hear the penguins squawk and splash
As around the pool they dash.
Seals into the water slide.
Silent, round their tank they glide.

Yaks dont come with any feathers:
Their hide is soft, furry leather.
Shy opossums, lazy clowns,
Hang off tree limbs, upside down.

102
The most agile acrobats
Are the African meerkats.
We applaud their comic act
As a big crowd they attract.

The mighty rhino is distinct.
His horn may make him extinct.
But here, protected at the zoo
You can see -- and smell him phew!

Finally, theres a gift shop here.
You can buy a souvenir.
T shirts, toys and books are there,
Or a fluffy grizzly bear.

There are many things to do
At the Metro Toronto Zoo!

Requiem for a Minor Shakespearean Actor

T.S. Kerrigan

His Antony before the war
The Guardian pronounced a bore.
The Times declared his Prospero
Was better twenty years ago.
His histrionics playing Lear,
His fellow actors couldnt hear.
I see him now in grave repose
In clothes his faithful dresser chose.
What some have called his stony brow
Is calm and understated now.
Those flailing arms, for once at rest,
Impart the somber subtext best.
Though never one to grace the stage
With comic wit, heroic rage,
Hell fill the walk-off part today,
The final role all actors play.
Too bad he lacks the wherewithal
to take a final curtain call.

103
Cyber Date

Graeme King

Well now Im on the Internet, Im up til late at night,
My parents shout at me, but figs to that.
I paid for this computer every meg and gigabyte,
Besides, I just discovered how to chat!

I chat with chicks from everywhere, they all think that Im cool,
I tell them bout the hot rod that I race,
And God forbid they found out I was really still at school,
With pimples on my adolescent face.

I know my grades are suffering, I promise that Ill swot,
I know that I should study just a bit,
But I just found a chat site where the girls are mega hot
And they believe I look like Bradley Pitt.

They ask me for a photo but I say that I am shy,
I send them funny cartoon pics instead,
I chat like Im a handsome, sexy, wealthy new-age guy,
I wonder what emoticon says bed?

Im meeting one this afternoon, my virgin cyber date,
She said shed see me, four oclock, the mall;
So here I am at half past three, Im quite prepared to wait,
Im lounging at the door of Toyz 4 All.

Its four oclock! Well, where is she? She said shed have a flower,
Am I the victim of a chat room joke?
Theres only that guy whos been watching me for half an hour,
A rose, a smile, a fifty-year old bloke!

104
A Mothers Day

Mary McIntosh

I climbed the stairs with heavy heart,
The day had finally passed,
To tuck the children into bed
And say goodnight, at last.

The washer overflowed today.
Our cat had kittens, four.
My son came home from school with mumps.
I wondered how much more?

The cake I baked fell oh so flat
While I helped Bobby read.
My daughter scribbled on the walls.
One kitten wouldnt feed.

And then while cleaning under beds
I found a fish twas dead,
That Sam had caught so lovingly,
And saved, I guess, for Ted.

But as I left my daughters room,
The youngest of the crew,
She looked at me through sleepy eyes,
And said, Mom, I love you.

I came back down the stairs with joy.
Things didnt matter now.
The trials and petty differences,
Were all erased somehow.

Perhaps when time to climb those Stairs,
The Good Lord, with a smile,
Will say to mothers everywhere,
Come in and rest awhile.

105
Inventors

Graeme King

The wheel affords mobility
to peasants and nobility
the shining light of historys inventions;
did some astute Neanderthal
watch rounded rocks rotate and fall
and figure things of friction, shapes and tensions?

If only Thomas Edison
had studied hard in medicine
the common cold would hold no dread for millions;
if Alex Bell and Gutenberg
had met than surely MS Word
would not have netted Gates those megasquillions.

If Colt, Nobel and Remington
had teamed up down in Bloomington
and made a gun that killed a race completely,
then modern worlds harmonium
would never need plutonium
the Curies could have killed disease discreetly.

We thank Yale for security.
Whilst living in obscurity
he gambled on how paranoid the nation.
Now criminals felonious
will find themselves erroneous
unless they have a cryptic combination.

Was Doubleday pragmatical?
or simply on sabbatical
to come up with a game of bats and pitchers;
then Baird with due intensity
could see the viewing density
it they could see it now theyd be in stitches!

Marconi, Otis, Davenport
all dreamt outside the normal thought
yet all had their detractors and decriers;
be open-minded, that is clear
and soar into the stratosphere
invent something theres seven billion buyers!

106
The Sergeants Warning

Joseph S. Salemi

When tossing grenades, you must follow some rules;
Neglect even one and youre toast
You treat these devices like playthings for fools
And youll exit the field as a ghost.

First take out the pin with a single swift yank
Dont hesitate, dawdle, or linger.
The bomblet is not a respecter of rank
So use your most powerful finger.

The levers released in a spring-driven flip
That makes a most audible plinking;
That sound is your cue, so be sure of your grip
On your nerves, and your wits, and your thinking.

Count slowly to four, and then fling from your hand
(Long arcs give your throws an advantage).
Dont wait to observe where the damned thing may land
Drop down and lie flat as a bandage!

With luck youll hit something or someone. Who knows?
You might even pick up a medal.
But staying alive when a pineapple blows
Is something for which I would settle.

Iambic Glut

Joseph S. Salemi

The sonnet has its uses, though I doubt
That one out of five hundred passes muster.
Theres quite a number we could do without:
Prosaic exercises, lacking lustre.

Ive had my fill of lovesick, whining pap;
Vague exhalations, breathing floral scent;
Id much prefer a poet shut his trap
When tempted to a moments monument.

A flood of rapt epiphanies and moans,
Ecstatic psalms of triumph or resistance,
Combined with joyous shrieks and plangent groans
Blare in our ears with imbecile insistence.

Id like a sonnetnones been written yet
As sleek and lethal as a bayonet.

107
Bruce and David

Michael S. Bennett

Because he is the older of the two,
And therefore exercises some control
Upon his brothers innocent demands,
The shirtless, sun-tanned Bruce, age four, whose hands
And eyes reveal the complex of his soul,
Examines solitarily the new

And not-yet-ridden tricycle. What sights
And feels of chrome and paint, of polished spokes,
Of imitation leather seat, of tires
Deep-patterned tread; what mystery requires
Such adoration in his heart, invokes
Assaults upon his mind, creates delights

Of just imagined pleasures? David waits
Some time away, as if he knows he must
Not interrupt a moment so unique;
And were he now to move, or worse, to speak,
Hed shatter newly-founded sibling trust.
So he looks for the signs that designate

Admission to his brothers world. But Bruce,
Although he understands that twos reach four,
Cannot make David realize that time
Will mutilate these moments of sublime
Involvement (does he know himself?), that more
Must come from mind, not heart, no senses loose

To resurrect the order. Thus this thing:
That for one minute longer Bruce withholds
The sign, til David will not acquiesce;
And ritual, though not left meaningless,
Adopts a different liturgy as bold
And happy brothers mount the bike to sing

Their wheeling down the street. As David locks
His hands around his brothers pounding chest,
Bruce pedals harder, eyes excitements pool,
The impulse of the blood their basic fuel;
And children learn that fastest means the best
Until they turn the corner, see the blocks

That David left upon the walk. A scream,
As if a hawk descending for the kill
Had suddenly forgotten how to fly,
Rips air when Bruce finds he cannot rely
On concepts that he once believed were skill
And balances that help maintain a dream

108
In moments before waking. So their mirth,
When metal tilts, when rubber cannot grasp,
When hands and eyes grow paralyzed and blind
And gravity takes over from the mind,
Becomes a desperate cry, and then a gasp:
Spilled boys confuse the surface of the earth

For just a moment. Bruce, as if to say
That human mastery of metal must
Assert itself in action, grabs the seat,
Sinks teeth into the grips, swings gym-shoed feet
At spoke and tire, pounds frame to show hes just,
Then jumps upon the seat and rides away,

While David sits and cries. He cannot strike
Because he cannot comprehend the mode
That splashed him to the ground like April rain.
And Bruce cannot be bothered to explain
This basic principle of four years code:
The need to get back up and ride the bike.

Painting is not Recreation

Jonathan Day

I seek the strongest image I can find
to fill the empty canvas waiting there.
I welcome all rough discord in my mind,
each shadowy contender, with no care
for conflicts cost, if there be victory,
if, when at last I charge my brush with paint,
one mighty thought has gained the mastery,
and rules my hands next moves without restraint.
But someday I will paint the final stroke.
And none will know then of this bumptious start,
when craft has shaped the lines and hues, and smoke
has long since cleared to show, beyond my art,
what has been done. That day it will be clear
if Beauty, or mere Truth, was sovereign here.

109
Flower Cures

Angela Burns

Feverfew protects unseen
And Sage will give in kind
Bay for strength and Borage spleen
Let sleep be yours from Thyme

Bittersweet will tell the Truth
Rosemary bid recall
Marigold will comfort youth
And Flax be best for all

Violet gives modesty
And Tulip brings one fame
Peach denotes longevity
Hydrangea, thanks again

Hyacinth Im sorry too
But Fern for fascination
Dandelion for wish come true
Poppy consolation

Magnolia is sweetness
Azalea take care
Crocus for some cheerfulness
Carnation, Wish me there

Pine for hope, Ivy friends
Yarrow health and healing
Rose for love that never ends
While Mint is warmth of feeling

Apple asks your state your mind
Viscaria, dance again?
Sweet Pea is thanks for lovely time
Goodbye with Cyclamen

110
Poets Point

Angela Burns

I watch my world through poets eyes
And write words I believe
Give my impressions or surmise
To those who care to read

I struggle for the honest rhyme
Condense to keep it sharp
And try to keep the whole sublime
When flaws crack it apart

I write for recreation first
And for myself alone
Then keep them close as misers purse
And heavier than stone

But soon they pull to get away
And I must let them go
And give the world what I have made
In subtle rhyming prose

So if a reader claims to see
What careful words declaim
Then I am fortunate indeed
And will write poems again

Seven Deadly Sins


A poet who is cursed with sinful pride,
Whose lust for fame he cant suppress or hide,
Must be a glutton for the work required
To gain the prize his greedy heart desired.

I envy more prolific writers all,
While angry that my output is so small.
Though I cant walk the walk, I talk the talk,
By claiming that my sloth is writers block.

111
The Museum of Thrift

Angela Burns

Come join me at the thrift store, where rank on rank youll see
So many things we loved to hoard, in the last century
Bulbous, huge ceramic lamps, wood-burning gone wild
Beanbag chairs and velvet art, ashtrays brightly-tiled
Braised, curved metal sculptures embedded with a clock
Lime green couches, leather flasks, and look at that pet rock!

Huge brass rounds tell hammered tales, a funky blacklight strobe
Endless mugs and china plates from all around the globe
Coffee tables, poly-coated, carved from burls of wood
Kissing dolls and Betty Boop .... forget? If we just could!
Eight track tapes that we cant play -- what memories they shed!
Bombing down the highway blasting Eagles, Stones and Led!

Even play was simpler then, and this youll see as well
Leather ice skates, hula hoops and Silly Putty shells
Bags of marbles, glass and bright, hoarded, played and dared
Metal toys and GI Joes, and tiny kitchen ware
Knitting spools and button sewers - some of TV fame,
Craft kits that were never done, and may not be again

Yes, a Thrift has many things, memories most of all
Piled on one another -- a museum of recall
The stuff was great, and this you know -- its still around today
Solid work and made to last ... but what is that you say?
Its ugly, useless, doesnt "rock", completely out of style!
Well, what is hot today, my friend, will be here in a while!

Crossing Over

Patricia Louise Gamache

We cross our bridges day-by-day
Finding friends along the way
Touched by those we hoped would stay
Loving others as we may
Seeking joy but finding sorrow
Endless hope we try to borrow
All the dreams we can conceive
Then burn our bridges when we leave

112
Rhyme and Reason His and Hers

113
Two Views Behind The Scenes

Susan Eckenrode

Hers:

Amazing how well make-up hides his age,
from frantic fans who watch him prance and preen.
Just like him to pretend he hasnt seen
me sitting in the front row, center stage.
Hell pirouette, while I, cool and serene,
sit sipping honeyed tea with bitter rage.
Tonight, I will escape that gilded cage
hes built to keep me like some coddled queen.

His:

Its curtain call, but shes already gone;
without a doubt, shes dashed off to my room
to wait behind the scenes for my return.
Shell fall into my arms and stay till dawn --
all mine-- this pretty posy in full bloom,
whose passion just for me will always burn.

Losing Touch

MFK Buckley

1.

Let me be sorry, let me take the blame;
if youll allow the chance, Ill stand the blows.
The air between us hurts -- its not the same,
our give and take has ebbed and lost its flow.
A change in daily patterns doesnt mean
a thing as long as we remain as friends.
But silences grow longer than theyve been,
its time to talk before connections end.
Dont be surprised to find I understand
whatever it may be you have to say,
your dreams are yours to follow. If I can,
I hope to help, if youll allow a way.
The thing I miss, so you know what Im after
is hearing what youre up to and the laughter.

114
2.

I cannot tell you how I know, I do --
but every time we talk theres more unsaid.
It seems to me of what I know of you
your silence is the only thing I dread.
Perhaps I have misspoken, said too much,
or let you down, or maybe I mistook
a meaning by mistake. Were out of touch
and friends like us dont have a rulebook.
So talk to me, Ill listen like before.
If anything is wrong, dont let it go.
I wont intrude, you have an open door.
I count youre in my corner, so you know.
Theres nothing we cant speak about, I swear;
it matters to me knowing youre still there.

3.

Its something I cant put my finger on
the absence of your calls can be explained
except a hollow feeling like youre gone,
so asking you cant hurt if nothings gained.
I recognize the space and time you need;
encroaching isnt something I intend
but issues left too long can choke like weeds.
Dont break me -- like a willow, I can bend.
Im not a stranger to your moods, and life
seems better through the lenses that weve shared
and hearing from you blunts my losses; strife
becomes a laughing matter if youre there.
Please know that I dont mean to ask too much
but I dont like to be so out of touch.

115
Satin-Blue
(Circa 1950)

Irene Livingston

The dress is long and satiny and blue.
So elegant, though half-price at a sale.
Ive ironed out the wrinkles, smoothed the frail
thin fabric till its glowing, lustrous, new.

My father heads the household, wields the rod,
and school holds no recess from his keen eye,
hes on the staff. And thus the boys all shy
away like nervous colts, quicksilver shod.

Amazing Im invited to this dance
by Charley Jones, of bold, seductive smile,
hot-coffee eyes that race my heart, meanwhile
Ive only just begun to bloom, enhance

my bit of beauty, now that Im allowed,
to paint my face, as Dad would say, with those
red lipsticks, powder, blush. Oh, Im a rose,
no longer pale wallflower of the crowd.

But Charleys beenhas played in regions where
I wouldnt know enough for even dreams.
Well, fathers chaperone tonight, it seems.
I check around. I guess hes gone for air.

Now Louis Armstrongs warmth begins to pour
like chocolate syrup, drums just touched, caressed,
I found my thrill and Charleys bodys pressed
against my own, we take up little floor.

Then, Higher than the moon well go; well see
and Charley hums and breathes beside my ear.
Oh, come and climb the hill with me, my dear
his warm, dark-wool arousal nudging me.

Half time. He murmurs, Lets go on outside.
Fresh air. Okay. We find his car and fall
together in the back. Lips search, hands crawl,
till, breathing, breathing; he begins to ride

the satin dress; he grinds atop me, moans,
still kissing, kissing; I hold on and drown
in after-shave and passion smell; my gown
is ravished in between. He sighs and groans.

We stagger from the car, blue dress a sea
of wrinkles that I smooth and smooth but still
the sea lies rough. Oh No! My father will
be sure to know and everyone will see!
116

We creep back in, in dread of rant and fuss,
to dim-lit grotto; try to be discreet;
cave-people gyrate, to the thumping beat
of jive, enthralled, oblivious to us.

I check around the crowded, rocking hall.
My fathers laughing, lit by corner lamp,
with Annie May. Oh. Annie May, the tramp.
He doesnt even see me here at all.

A Caf in Paris

Zara McAlister

She works as a model
For Ralph Lauren,
With long, dark hair
And perfect skin.

A big show in Paris,
A small caf --
Croissants, baguettes,
Musique, berets.

Exhausted from jet lag,
She looks a mess,
Not fit to wear
A designer dress!

117
Pamela Ann

Eric Linden

We spoke our last good-bye in Winnipeg
and parted never once did I look back
to watch you drive away. You thought Id beg,
but I stood strong oh no, I wouldnt crack.

It hurt like hell, yes, that much Ill admit,
to lose what once was us, our harmony.
My mountains called me home; its where I fit,
unlike the prairie grasslands, cant you see?

I bore the emptiness quite well; I did okay.
You had to call and torture me once more
just like before Im still your easy prey.
Somehow the key got stuck inside our door.

A fact of life that I must ever bear
my love for you, Ill take it everywhere.

June Bride

MFK Buckley

The photos in our album havent changed,
although I feel like strangers have stood in.
Its dangerous in recalling, now estranged,
the way things were, or could, or might have been.
Its long past accusations or regrets,
I saved myself but in the process failed
to recognize I had no safety net
and fell; what hell ensued is half the tale.
That photo captive wedding day portrayed
a moment from the madness that became
our life as man and wife. That tragic play
is over now though some things stay the same:
the girl you married loved you, always will,
but not enough to grant a double bill.

118
The Honeymoon

Eric Linden

Ours was the world; you tossed them your bouquet
and off we went new life had just begun
as man and wife with promises of fun
Niagara Falls, our perfect getaway.
We watched the moon by night and stars by day,
those in our eyes more brilliant than the sun!
The sparks of love would never be undone
that was our plan, we swore we wouldnt stray.

Bouquets of roses wilt, and so with time
our promises saw twilight come and go
until at last like roses, they died too.
That distant sound, its like a church bell chime;
I hear it clearly still I am your beau
although the rose has shed its morning dew.

A Friends Eye View

Susan Eckenrode

That honeymoon in June was over soon;
before the ink was dry, from what I hear.
There are some men who wander out of fear
relating over time may spoil the tune
and interfere with songs they want to croon.
I saw him when he flashed a sideways leer
at Mary Jane, your maid of honor, Dear.
I know just where to stick his silver spoon.

You stuck it out for years. You really tried;
you love him still; in his way, he loves you
but arent you glad you grew to rule your heart?
Yes, starting life anew was hard; you cried
a million tears on learning how untrue
he is and was...as always from the start.

119
Summer Knights

Irene Livingston

He sprawls before the television set:
The game, the big ones on; it makes his day.
As one hand grips his beer, the other one
goes raking through his hair thats streaked with gray,

that hair that now stands comically erect.
I may as well give up on talk for now.
Ive known this well, for lo these many years.
I must amuse myself. What matters how?

I leave and grab my jacket, holler back,
Im going for a walk. And sweet night air
delights my face. The moon is full. I stroll
and gaze until its splendid, wily stare

persuades my brain; my thoughts go yearning down
a little-traveled, dim-lit street of time,
and cruise for loves that maybe could have been.
Oh, I remember you. You set my chime

to ringing. You were younger and somehow
bone-sweeter than my man could ever get,
your supple body, taffy-tan, and eyes
two drops of chocolate, light enough to let

the sex gleam through. And amber summer days
you chucked your shirt on any plea. Those smoke-
blue pubs: the moment he was gone youd say,
Its gonna happen. You and me. No joke.

I knew it likely wouldnt, but the thought
would titillate, a tickling finger there.
One sweat-moist August night, as hormones raged,
you grabbed a guy and flipped him through the air,

to land face down, his blood like drops of red
testosterone, on that gunmetal street,
for calling you a phony, taboo word
around that place. And horror froze my feet;

but to my guilty shock, my senses thrilled.
Now looking down that faded long divide,
I see your cocky boy-smile. Oh, you were
a colt I never rode. You were a slide

I never dared go down. You were ice cream
I never licked, and bubble gum, though free,
I never got to blow. A thin regret
now takes me by the heart and walks with me.

120

Im back on my own street; a chilly moon
escorts me to the door, its pale face mocks.
I walk into the kitchen. Hes laid out
hot tea and fancy cookies from a box.

He looks up with that sudden flashflood smile;
he comes to me and takes my jacket, lays
a warm arm round my shoulders, kisses me
a kiss that I recall from other days.

I look into his eyes and see that love
is resting there, a love that still can take
my heart, can still get crazy. Then Ill be
the one to claw his hair; I still can make

it stand erect. I feel the truth of plaid-
wool-shirted body, knowing way down deep:
this tender mans a rare gold coin I had
the luck to find, possessed the sense to keep.

Upon Meeting An Old Love

Mary E. Moore

I recognize the face I knew so well
and cherished, more than fifty years ago,
when futures promise no one could foretell
and he had been my first, official beau.
Reserved, we trade in facts to bridge the years;
compare careers and families, choices, cost.
We tease and laugh a bit, allaying fears
that we are really strangers - love all lost.
At length, we cast aside the masquerade,
begin to speak of what we hold as true.
With souls and psyches bare, the decades fade
and fresh emotions, based on old, debut.
When he departs, I tell myself, in truth,
his lips, so sweet on mine, are those of youth.

121

Backwards Through Wet Grass
for Anthony Hecht

Anna Evans

This Jersey fall, the unrelenting rain
has turned the front yards wild, their long, green hair
to otters root-slick pelts. Today, again
I step out into gray, breathe loamy air
and catch a scent of home, a British field
I camped in once - a weekend trip to study
frogs. By day we kept our bodies sealed
in waterproofs, our feet twice-socked in muddy
boots. At night we hid in tents, played games
of Crazy Eights beneath the pitter-pat
of rain, now drumming our roll call of names,
now scrabbling on the canvas like a rat.
We were fourteen all hormones huddled damp
and close, a nest of rabbits, screened from sight
by tent flaps, while our teachers hipflask camp
was pitched a hundred yards away. One night,
alone with me, Rob Murphy raised his hand
and touched my cheek. I shivered like a doe
for her first buck. He twined a loosened strand
of my dark hair around his thumb. I know
I twisted with it. He removed my glasses -
no one had ever done that - and he said
that I was pretty. Afterwards, in classes
I would stare at the back of his blond head
and dream of nameless acts. He nearly kissed
me, but our friends returned. The moment drained
away like runnels in the evening mist,
and came to nothing. Here, now it has rained
so much, that field, that clumsy, gentle boy
come back to me, and I remember this:
the thrumming rain, the unexpected joy
I knew at fourteen, for his almost-kiss.

122

Lines Written During Pentecost

T.S. Kerrigan

That April, morning etched our room with light-
I cant forget that morning - bleary-eyed,
I told you all I dreamt about that night,
My turning, all those hours, from side to side.

I cant forget that morning, bleary-eyed,
It all comes back, that dream of souls half dead,
My turning, all those hours, from side to side,
That silent, sad procession in my head.

It all comes back, that dream of souls half dead.
Theres something else Ive tried but cant explain,
That silent, sad procession in my head,
We bore somehow their share of earthly pain,

Theres something else -- Ive tried but cant explain.
Youll read these lines someday and then youll know,
We bore somehow their share of earthly pain,
I knew it then and never told you so.

Youll read these lines someday and then youll know,
I saw us both among those lost that night,
I knew it then and never told you so,
That April, morning etched our room with light.

Silver Moonbeam

Graeme King

Shining ever, hope of love eternal,
Indescribable this silver glazing,
Legend of all tales and odes nocturnal,
Varied only by the seasons phasing;
Evening phosphorescence, I salute thee,
Rain your grace upon this soul unworthy,
Magnify your magic, spread Nox beauty
Over these sad eyes, that love may stir me.
Ornament of Heaven, I implore you:
Number me among your servants trusted;
Bending knee, I bear my soul before you,
Ease my pain and loose this heart encrusted.
Answer me, I pray in genuflection
Moonbeam, grant me loves true resurrection.
123
Loves Labours Lost

Dick Hayes

Trainee on a software project
Tims addicted, rather shy.
Sally, slim and oh so perfect,
breaks a heart when dancing by.

Lamb that never dressed as mutton,
top and trouser chink reveal,
half an inch of belly button
with a ring and silver seal.

Cocktail bars and film locations,
red eye photos passed around,
always seems to start vacations
running when she hits the ground!

Round the office, keyboards chatter
cursors blinking, stupidly,
Tim has blocked the constant clatter
from his world of binary.

Through the If and Then conditions
love will surely forge a road,
careful to encrypt intentions
lest another break the code.

But the bliss and inner trouble
when she brings his monthly pay,
yearns to ask, but at the double
mumbles Hi and shrinks away.

Just to walk abroad together,
hand in hand and heart to heart,
doesnt dare enquire whether
Sally understands her part.

Queen to match his quiet hero
beauty held in awe by all,
soon to be a happy zero
snuggled to his decimal.

Tims delight is undiminished.
Should we warn, discourage, lest
Sally isnt quite as finished
as her trouser suits suggest?

124
Midnight Sighs

smzang

How sweet the sound of whispered sighs
that lie within the midnight wind,
that tease and taunt and tantalize,
turn every moment into Zen.

Even the ocean seems to know
how sweet the sound of whispered sighs,
as waters ebb and waters flow
in tones that soothe and tranquilize.

The willows make their own replies
as graceful limbs embrace the breeze,
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs,
a truth known even to the trees.

The years have passed so quickly. Yet,
its when they slow we realize
that lifes for love and not regret,
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs.

Rebirth

Anne Maarit Ghan

My mind swims in you
It took a daring dive into
Your deepest mysteries

Rhythmic, rocking trance
Waves and naked skin in dance
To ancient melodies

Splashing diamond drops
Inhaling intuition stops
Invading enemies

Floating on your waves
Exhaling exultation saves
This daughter of the earth

Carried by your stream
Like waking up into a dream
A magical rebirth
125
Aubade

T.S. Kerrigan

With both our spouses still asleep indoors,
We leisurely retrace our steps last night
Beneath conspiring oaks and sycamores,
Like kids, our arms entwined in early light.
Where daffodils emerge beneath the green
Of pines we find our special bench, grown shy
Before this changing early morning scene
Who seemed so bold beneath a darker sky.
Intrusive dawn reminds us of our lives.
Unconsciously, our hands unclasp, we chart
The precious time weve wasted, what survives,
And all our years together, years apart,
Then walk on back, recalling vanished things,
The heedless squandering of all those springs.

Kindling

Max Gutmann

The day his girlfriends father let him cut
The kindling was the cracking of a crust,
A heavy volume falling open at
A pleasant page. He felt the guard relax
At last: it takes some trust
To hand a man an ax.

They foraged for straight grain, which wouldnt knot
The blade, but give hospitably, a quick
Clean breach, if he could hit the angle right.
The older man first watched, and then went in.
Alone, he chopped each stick
To almost pencil-thin,

Absorbed in seeking out that magic split,
Delicious every time that it occurred,
A touch of luck rewarding skill and sweat,
Though earned, still only half-anticipated,
Like just the sought-for word,
Or love reciprocated.

126
Ars Brevis

T.S. Kerrigan

The reading done they left at four;
She thinking they were bound for bed,
While ego made him read some more.

I fall for poets thats my curse,
She blurted out. Who else would lure
A girl upstairs to read his verse.

He glanced up from the dog-eared page,
And put his notes and book aside,
Astonished by such antic rage.

True poets seek the stars from birth,
Not love and grief (see Holderlin),
The things that bind mankind to earth.

She fixed him with a steel gray stare.
I came to feel, not hear, she said,
While taking down her long black hair.

He watched, bemused, in fading light,
To see her shed her under things.
He read his verse no more that night.

Lines on a Modern Serenade

E. Russell Smith

on listening to A Little Serenade for String Orchestra,
Op. 12. Lars-Erik Larsson

Only from a suitor worldly wise
could such a cryptic serenade arise,
and discord offered with sufficient vigour
be mistaken for artistic rigour.
Dissonance, if played with great finesse,
might win a lovely ladys soft caress.
Cacophony, with adequate precision
could, with fortune, change her disposition.

True, the urban lovesick swain today
waives courtly protocol to make his play.
His raucous strategy is one solution:
disco decibels and noise pollution.
Courtship must give harmony its place,
or put at mortal risk the human race.
127
The Private Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen

Keith Holyoak

Daughter, close the blinds! cried Mrs. Chen
One springtime morning when she began to die
In earnest. Puzzled, Dienlin asked her, Why
Do you lie so late in bed today, and when
Will you come downstairs? Look at the world outside
Below the mansions high on the slopes, the towers
Of commerce gleamright now, from one of ours
Father watches his laden freighters glide
Through the harbor. Come and watch them too,
Drifting like seabirds beneath the dragon-green
Mountains that crown the peninsula.
Ive seen
Those ghost ships sailIve held the world in view
So long, sighed Mrs. Chen, but love has fled,
So draw the blinds down tight on my death bed.

A springtime rain never
Felt so fresh and warm
As the time that young mans
Voice first made me quiver,
Caught me up in his storm
Of dreams and bold plans.

Shes old, the doctors said, so old and frail.
They went away. Day after day Dienlin
Washed her, combed her hair, set her hairpin,
Carefully polished her every fingernail.
Early each morning Mr. Chen dressed up
In suit and tie, then sat in her corner chair
And watched over them. He sometimes said a prayer.
All day he watched, and only would sip a cup
Of tea that Dienlin brought him. Finally
His daughter pleaded, Father, come speak to mother!
She grows so weakthere may not be another
Chance.
Too late, he said, she cant hear me.
Next morning at dawn, after his wife had died,
Mr. Chen still sat in her corner chair, and cried.

Two wild orchids pinned
In her long black braids
Glistened in the springtime rain
I was so jealous of the wind
Furtively stroking that maids
Skin, again and again.

128
We Need to Talk

Peter G. Gilchrist

I t seems I'm not communicating well.

L et's try again. It's not that I can't say
O ut loud those words. It's just that I am not
V ociferous, I guess. But every day,
E ach splendid, awe-inspiring day you share

Y our self with me, my heart explodes in shards
O f colour so intense that I am just
U nable to express myself in words.

Enough Said

MFK Buckley

Venus:

From time to time it can occur to me
the ways that I would love you if I could.
But nothing comes from nothing ventured; we
cannot embrace the notion that we would.
Discretion doesnt mean its not been good
but what I think about us, proven true,
would feel like ivory inlaid timber wood.
I often watch you wondering if you
can somehow feel the ways that I would love you too.

Mars:

I often wonder what you see in me
assuming you too, feel in ways that could,
if you allowed such notions, guarantee
wed face down nations and in time, we would.
Thats not to say it hasnt all been good
except if what I think I feel is true;
wed light up like dry splintered kindle wood.
I, sometimes, catch you watching me like you
have long considered ways that you would love me too.

129
Ode to Mrs Anne Seymour Damer 1749-1828

Daphne Rock

Anne Seymour Damer was the daughter of Field Marshall Henry Seymour Conway
and Caroline, Countess of Aylesbury.

That Quality might dare to take a Trade
Must give reproach. Not Mallet, no, nor Spade
Should find repose in hands both soft and white --
Which leads us to my lady Damers plight.

Accursed with eyes for contour formed from stone,
She sought to make a sculptors skill her own,
Not as a little art to pass the hours
Between embroidery and gathring Flowers,

But as some great proceeding. Chisel, rasp
Hardened the self-effacing, titled clasp.
The Great Cerrachi taught her, tho he knew
Her work could never seek the public view.

Poor Anne! to be denied by sex and birth
A recognition of her sculptor worth.
A common girl might better hope to start
With Mallet, Rasp and Chisel, though her art

Would lack refinement. Yet whod choose blue blood
If that entailed denial of the good
God gave for turning cold stone warm and live?
Cerrachi did his best, aimed to contrive

Annes likeness as The Muse of Sculpture*, bearing
Her own work in her arms (thus greatly daring
Fashions disdain.) Her Art and true Creation
The Genius of the Thames (twas some sensation

To put on show a hint of treachery
To Class and Culture); but ambiguously,
He gives her hands of soft, un-calloused skin,
And keeps her secret marble safe within.

____________________________________________________

* The Muse of Sculpture: Giuseppe Cerrachi 1751-1801

130
Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing

131
Blackie

Peter Austin

Blackie was missing, and Jane in a state.
Oh, said her daddy, hes often out late,
Prowling, or howling, or hunting for prey.
No, Papa, not for two nights and a day!

Later, a neighbour came ringing the bell.
Gee, Mr Jones, this aint simple to tell:
See, Im reversing - real slow, in the truck -
Guess he ran under it - goshawful luck.

Blubbing redoubled - blue devils, despair!
Well, said her daddy, we cant leave him there.
She with a bucket, and he with a spade,
Trudged up the hill, in a dismal parade.

There, they discovered him - oozing, inert,
Blighted with bluebottles, tire-tracks and dirt.
- Next one, well neuter, and pollard his tail,
Daddy thought, spading him into the pail.

See the cortege, on funereal feet,
Silently, soberly, move down the street,
Jane in the lead (how demurely she cries!)
Daddy lop-sided, with sweat in his eyes.

Well, in a nutshell, and cutting it short,
He dug a hole, of the mortuary sort,
neath the magnolia (herald of spring),
She made a cross, out of pickets and string;

Then, with solemnity, under the sod,
Jane on kazoo, playing Nearer my God,
Felix was buried, or Cleo, or Zeke.
Blackie came home, you see, later that week.

132
The Cooking of Sybil U.

Joanne Underwood

There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook;
With British flair that isnt there, she doesnt use a book;
Her French cuisine, quite new on the scene, is full of crme et beurre;
But it cant compare to her British fare which causes quite a stir.

Now Sybil U., between me and you, is not the worlds best chef;
And why she tries more than fish and fries is anybodys guess.
She boils and bakes (and those are steaks!) and gobs on margarine;
Her Yorkshire pudds (to give you the goods) are the greasiest I have seen.

Well, Sybil U. decided to do what others before her had done:
She enrolled in a course, it was perforce so she wouldnt weigh a ton.
She learned to make, for her husbands sake, some items known as French;
And all her dishes, against his wishes, in sauces she would drench.

Shed dice and mince while he would wince and quietly set the table
And then hed choose a bottle of booze with an accent on the label.
While she served up, hed lift his cup and toast his Devon wife:
Hed call out Cheers and through his tears hed see his flashing life.

The time had come, I packed a TUM and set out for a meal.
My husband said, in voice of dread, Perhaps it will be veal.
We ventured out, each filled with doubt and thinking, Oh, why me?
The dinner bell rang, she assembled the gang and served us KFC!

There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook;
With British flair that isnt there, she doesnt use a book;
Her French cuisine, quite new on the scene, is full of crme et beurre;
But it cant compare to her British fare, which causes quite a stir.

(With apologies to Robert Service!)

133
Airport Angst


(With more apologies to Robert Service.)

In the halcyon days of air travel
All the clients were treated like kings,
As below them the miles would unravel
While they soared on their magical wings.
Nowadays we get far less attention,
And they herd us like so many sheep,
Without even the slightest pretension
That our loyaltys something to keep.

First contend with the traffic congestion;
Then get lost in the parking lot maze,
Where youll get not one helpful suggestion
From attendants who walk in a daze.
At the check-in youll line up forever
As the queue crawls one inch at a time.
Youre beginning to think maybe never
Will you get to the front of the line.

And you worry youll miss your connection:
In this line-up too long you have stayed;
But youre sent in another direction
When they tell you your plane is delayed.
If your flight has been scrubbed by bad weather,
You will sit in the lounge and youll fret
Til you come to the end of your tether,
And your travel plans you will regret.

Now, if waiting around makes you famished,
And you hanker to eat something nice,
Youll be lucky to find a stale sandwich
Being offered at twice its fair price.
Do they care if the customers choosey?
Making moneys the name of their game.
Youll be forced to pass through here next Tuesday
So these vendors can rob you again.

If youre able to hear the announcement,
You may get to the right boarding gate
By deciphering the mumbling pronouncement --
But youre in for another long wait.
A security guard wants to frisk you.
With a rigor that duty transcends,
Shell unpack half the things you brought with you,
So that you can repack them again.

134
And assuming they dont lose your suitcase,
It arrives looking much worse for wear.
Your complaints will be scorned as a moot case:
Why protest? for at least it got there!
There is no point whatever in squawking,
So our own sullen counsel we keep,
Because flyings still faster than walking,
Though ground service has slowed to a creep.

In the old days, the airlines once told us
Getting there would be half of the fun.
Now, with stern regulations they scold us:
Were exhausted before weve begun.
The frustrations with which we must reckon
Make us wish we could stay away still;
But my family and clients all beckon,
And I have to go back and I will.

To the airport again we are trudging,
Where pollution and noise fill the air.
Though the service is bad and begrudging,
Well get home, on a wing and a prayer!

A Knights Work

Susan Eckenrode

A pallid, panting page appeared and said,
Intelligence reports the recent death
of Sir Com Spect. He drew his final breath
when Sir Com Vent relieved him of his head.
The news sent Sir Com Stance into a rage,
demanding retribution should be paid,
at which, he drew his sword and honed the blade
and glowered at the frightened, cringing page.
Fear not: what goes around will come around.
When Sir Com Stance gets riled,
Sir Con C. Quence comes down.

135
A Clerihew for Paris

Ellen Birkett Morris

Paris Hilton
Lacks the gravitas of Milton.
Nonetheless shes famous,
The fact of which should shame us.

A Couplet for Norma, My Dental Hygienist

Ellen Birkett Morris

Oh corn hull, spinach, other dross,
Thank God for noble dental floss.

Birthday Present

Simon Leigh

If the Big Bang theory is true
Im exactly the same age as you
And the weirdness gets worse:
The entire universe
Had its birthday the first day she blew.

136
Logical Progress

Angela Burns

Consternation: Out again!
Desperation: None remain!
Explanation: Can it be?
Revelation: Yes indeed!
Consideration: What to do?
Reiteration: Up to you!
Determination: Find a way
Calculation: Time today!
Exoneration: Didnt know!
Extirpation: There we go....
Renunciation: Not much fun!
Consolation: Laundrys done!

The Charmer

Mary E. Moore

Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls,
his do is not the dog-show-poodle-cut.
He wears a mass of scruffy, copper curls
that might adorn an ordinary mutt.

When he and I are on our daily walk
strangers speak but, sadly, not to me.
"Hi there!" they say (as if they thought hed talk)
while gazing downward just below my knee.

Their eyes meet his and distance disappears.
He sidles close. Their fingers comb his hair
to settle in the warmth behind his ears.
For moments, no one cares that Im still there.

At times when this occurs, I do not know
if jealousy or pride is what I feel.
But in the end, its pride wins out, although
I wish that I had half my dogs appeal.

137
My Computer

Peter Austin

Had a bug, in my computer;
Turned her on, but couldnt boot her;
Telephoned the trouble-shooter;
Said hed come on by.

Came on by, a few hours later,
Scowling like the Terminator;
Asked to see the tabulator:
This sounds good, thought I.

Well, I said, Ill brew some shanty.
Came back - oh, my sainted auntie! -
To behold this dilettante
Stripping my PC.

Oh, my disassembled lover!
He has plucked you, like a plover,
Ripped your kishkes from their cover,
Made, of you, debris!...

Well, to cut a longish story,
My PC is ancient - hoary
As an outdoor lavatory,
Or a solid tire!

Only bought her last November -
The eleventh, I remember -
Now Im burning to an ember
With unchanneled ire!

Stupid, useless, damned computer!...
Tell you what! - Ill trouble-shoot her!
Draw my foot back, and I boot her,
Out the garden gate!

Now, with confidence Im oozing,
For an abacus Im using -
Cheaper, smaller, less confusing -
Never out of date!

138
The Mirror

Richard E. Buenger

I looked at my face
And my face looked at me.
I said to my face,
What is it you see?

The answer it gave
Was nothing to say.
I tried a quick wave
In hopes it would play

I waved with my hand.
It waved back at me.
I started to stand.
It stood up to see.

At last I got mad
And stuck out my tongue.
It thought that was bad
And stuck out its tongue.

I turned out the light
To scare it away.
It went out of sight
But returned the next day.

I know what it thinks
Each time I pass by.
It gives me back winks
For each blink of my eye.

Its persistence beguiles,
A notion we share.
I can tell from its smiles
That its happy in there.

139
A Dollar per Admission

Peter Austin

My daughter has a guinea pig,
Two budgies and a fish.
They all live in her bedroom, and
I told her, Listen, Trish:

(Before it all went wrong, this was.)
The pellets go to Rollo;
You mustnt give the fish them, or
The budgies: do you follow?

The fish food is for Finnegan;
The seeds are for the birds.
She looked at me and nodded, but
She didnt heed my words.

The birds were turning furry, by
The middle of the week;
The guinea pig was finny, and
The fish had grown a beak.

Lets go through this again, I said:
The fish food is for Finn.
She looked at me and nodded, but
She didnt take it in.

By Saturday, the budgies were
The shade of maple syrup,
The fish was growing molars, and
The pig had learned to chirrup.

My daughters off to college, as
A trainee dietician;
Its paid for by the critters, at
A dollar per admission.

140
Sock Despair

Mary E. Moore

So where on earth could a missing sock go?
It was gone though the dryer seemed bare.
I peered way up high and felt way down low;
no stray was hidden there.

The thought crossed my mind it had joined with a pair
to form a mnage trois,
but no sock of mine would dare an affair,
its upbringing far too bourgeois.

Perhaps it had simply looked years ahead,
judged the future to be problematical,
and set off on foot to where the road led
determined to take a sockbatical.

Just how it had left and in what strange way
it returned, I find hard to write.
For it went undetected until that day
my mother-in-law stayed the night.

To make up her bed, we shook out a sheet,
then suffered a dreadful shock.
In the water glass where shed placed her teeth,
ker-plop ... was the missing sock!

Washday Woe


When I unlatch the dryers door,
How cruelly it mocks!
For gone is something that I wore,
Just lately purchased from the store:
Im doomed to ponder evermore
The fate of unmatched socks.

141
Give Over!

Peter Austin

Begging mail, intrusive calls
From too-familiar minions,
Poppy-selling, in the malls,
By fans of Laurence Binyons;
Troubled teens and meals-on-wheels
Upon the conscience drubbing,
Christmas Seals and Easter Seals
And save the seals from clubbing.

Buy, for AIDS research, a rose,
For lupus, a gardenia,
Tulips, from the friends of those
Whore fighting schizophrenia;
Cats-paws, for our fall campaign
To wipe out vivisection,
Lupins for the whooping crane
(The whooping cough, correction!)

Save the ocelot, the swan,
The catamount, the otter,
Fund a bloody dance-a-thon
To save the turkey-trotter;
Buy a square of wetland, on
The threatened Isle of Thanet,
Save the roc, the mastodon,
The leprechaun, the planet! ...

STOP! Im not a major bank,
An endless source of income!
Siphoning me, like a tank,
Is neither fair nor dinkum!
This, that climbs about my knees,
Is payments due, not clover;
You begat them, if you please,
So knock it off ... Give over!

________________________________________________________________

Authors Notes:

Laurence Binyon wrote the much-quoted-from Poems for the Fallen (September 1914).
Dinkum is Australian slang for honest.

142
A Question of Authenticity

Joseph S. Salemi

How can you tell who painted the Mona Lisa? Most
people--including critics--look at the little brass
plaque on the lower frame.

--Attributed to Toulouse-Lautrec

Da Vinci painted La Gioconda
Many times. And so I wonder
Is the piece that hangs in Paris
Genuine? It might embarrass
Tourists or the Louvres director
If one raised the triple specter
Of deception, fraud, and scandal.
You act just like a modern Vandal
When you debunk cherished notions--
It can provoke extreme emotions.
Of course, youd be hard-pressed to prove
That something in the sacred Louvre
Was bogus, counterfeit, or fake.
Youd have to show, beyond mistake,
An absolutely total hoax,
And after that, cajole and coax
Some publisher to put in print
Your stark conclusions. Take a hint:
The highbrow connoisseurs of art
Would hate you from the very heart;
And what about the stink and stench
Youd stir up in the rabid French
By treading on la belle mystique?
In one hot fit of Gallic pique
Theyd seize your passport and your visa
For sullying the Mona Lisa,
And youd be hustled to the border
By some ministerial order.

143
The Way Things Go

Sally Cook

The other day our furnace died -
It was quite old, and clanked.
We called the plumber, then we sighed,
Spent all the dough we banked
To make sure that this winter we
Would stay warm in the cold.
The toaster oven kicked off too --
It wasnt very old.

Our washer had a quick demise.
It choked, then left us quickly.
Just one more miserable surprise --
It wasnt even sickly!
Guess what? The new ones even worse.
How can this be, I wonder?
It thumps and bangs and shakes the house,
And rends our peace asunder.

They say the awful things that come
Are sent to us in threes;
But we must be especially dumb --
For cats who dont get fleas
Cannot get worms, (or so we thought),
And now one cats infected.
Those high-priced purple pills we bought
He grouchily rejected.

I think theyre made of precious stones,
And then they are gold plated.
Well soon be only skin and bones
Before this lucks abated!
Please, Mercury, eclipse of moon
Retract your awful beams.
Get moving, will you, do it soon!
Oh, cant you hear our screams?

144

Animal Nonsense

Richard E. Buenger

The goldfish life is sad, alas.
Its spent within a bowl of glass.
What makes him give a great big grin
Are funny faces looking in.

Tell me, truly, if you please,
Why does every dog have fleas?
What an awesome thing, he said,
If fleas had dogs on them instead.

I wonder why the household fly,
Every time hes spotted,
Not doing anybody harm
Is always getting swatted.
Perhaps alone quite secretly
He did bad things we couldnt see.

A single ant is harmless.
Hes nothing to behold.
But have picnic on the lawn
Hes there a thousand-fold.

The snake who doesnt chew her food
But eats it whole for dinner,
Not only is she very rude,
We always see whats in her.

The centipede, dont you suppose
Must have 500 little toes
And 50 pairs of tiny shoes
Im sure hell never ever use
He doesnt have the hands, you see,
To tie the laces properly.

A turtle labors very hard
And never slows his pace.
He takes an hour to walk a yard
And never wins a race.
Hes stuck inside his hard round shell.
How he scratches he wont tell!
145
The Violin Teachers Lament

Catherine Edmunds

To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease;
To leave me quaking, fearing every note,
Is all my pupils manage. Stop it, please?

I wonder; is it really worth the fees
They pay? Why must they grab me by the throat
To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease?

Theres Jo, who had potential; but now shes
As bad as all the others learn by rote

Id like to take such pupils, like to seize
Their violins, and sink them in a moat
To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease

Amongst the fish, where icy waters freeze
Their fingers off. But knowing how to float

So do I mean it? Do I merely tease?
Or shall I say, Ive had it - get your coat.
To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease

146
To Sally

Vincent W. Williams

I pen these lines to Sally now whose looks are past compare;
If fair is foul and foul is vile, then Sallys looks are fair.

I fain devour her saucy face with wonder, awe and question;
I do the same with pizza pie; and then get indigestion.

She has luxuriant long black hair that goes clear down her back;
Would that she had some on her head; I do deplore that lack...

Her rare, outstanding nose turns up, and puts me in a fever;
It then turns down and to the side, a marked over-achiever.

Her matchless beauty turns my head, and let me make it clear:
Ive seen a lot of uglier guys, but not for many a year.

I simply cant describe my doting on her sweet expression;
I cant describe what is not there, and still employ discretion.

So, Sally comes in first for looks, east, west and south and north;
She comes in second, AND in third, so I shall sally forth.

Insomniacs Lament

Margaret Fieland

Its midnight now, its time to go to bed
but I still have some things to do instead:
three loads of laundry Ill put in the wash,
then Ill go to the kitchen for a nosh:
a bagel and some cream cheese, just a smidge,
and while Im there Ill go clean out the frig.

Then after that Ill go clean off the grill,
then bag up all those things for the Goodwill:
the clothes I found while cleaning out my car
plus all the books left from the church bazaar.

When thats all done Ill climb into the tub
to take a nice hot bath. But heres the rub:
I know its really time to say goodnight,
climb into bed and turn off that damn light!

147
Rhyme and Reason About the Poets

About the Poets

Peter Austin lives with his wife and three
daughters in Toronto, Canada, where he teaches
English at Seneca College. His verse has been
published in magazines and anthologies in
Canada, the USA, the UK, New Zealand and
South Africa. A collection called I am Janus is in
the works. He also writes plays; and his musical
adaptation of The Wind in the Willows has been
produced in Montreal, in Antigonish, Nova
Scotia, and Vancouver. Canadian Winter was
published in Nuthouse in 2004.

Michael S. Bennett, Ph.D., J.D., says that he is
by occupation Professor of English at two
metropolitan Atlanta colleges in the USA; and
also, as Shelley said of all poets, an
unacknowledged legislator of the world. He
avers that he has been writing poetry since my
sophomore year in high school, sometime
during the Punic Wars. Prof. Bennett generally
prefers to write contemplative lyrics in blank
verse with occasional forays into rhyming,
narrative poetry, sonnets and quatrains. With
several previous poetry publications to his credit,
he describes himself as a bon vivant, raconteur,
Renaissance Man, troll, novice at chess,
reasonable golfer, former saloon piano player
and stand-up comic. Current interests include
playing various musical instrument; reading new
poets; teaching, breeding and raising chow-
chows; and amateur gourmet cooking.
MFK Buckley writes, My maternal grandfather
recited and read poetry aloud to us as we were
growing up. When I was 18 he introduced me to
The Collected Sonnets of Edna St Vincent Millay, and
the sonnet became my most enduring love affair.
My earliest poems were dictated to my mother
who has devotedly kept them for almost 50
years. The most significant contribution to my
creative and technical development as a poet
occurred in 2004 with my entry into cyber
poetry communities. The discipline of drafting
and revising metrical poetry is invaluable to my
writing as a trainer and consultant. My work
with entrepreneurs has always been my second
great love. Recent work celebrates the moon and
seasonal landscapes of rural life on Lake Eries
north shore. While I enjoy such influences, the
complex nuances that exist between men and
women continue to intrigue me. After two years
of daily writing, I have planned a period for
revision and submissions. This represents my
first publication.

Richard E. Buenger, M.D., was born in
Chicago, USA in 1922. He was Professor and
Chairman of the Dept. of Diagnostic Radiology
and Nuclear Medicine at Rush Presbyterian St.
Lukes Medical Center in Chicago; and former
President of the Radiological Society of North
America. Dr. Buenger says: I have always loved
music and words. Since I cannot sing and do not
play an instrument, I sublimated my creative
urges into poetry that has rhyme and meter. I
have, until now, been a closet writer with no
audience except my grandchildren for the
nonsense poems that I love to compose. I am a
member of The Society of The Fifth Line, which
meets annually to exchange limericks my other
love of word usage. Writing poetry helps me sort
my thoughts, find new words to express my
feelings, and lets me sing songs to myself.

Angela Burns, whose poetry is well represented
in this collection and in our previous one, New
Classic Poems, lives on Vancouver Island, in
British Columbia, Canada. She is a freelance
writer, editor and publisher whose work proof-
reading this manuscript was invaluable. She says,
Having spent my first half century pursuing
media-related professions with varying amounts
of success, I am spending my next half century
encouraging that business to come to me. I work
at home, walk often, and live simply and happily
148
in the most beautiful place I know. I keep an
antique, folding Raleigh bicycle to remind me
that nine-tenths of exercise, like much else in
this life, is willpower. The remaining one tenth is
the joy that makes it worthwhile. Her poetry
appears regularly in newspapers on Vancouver
Island. Ms. Burnss other interests include
photography, fabric arts, managing Internet
services and reading. She is a member of the
Federation of BC Writers and is a contributor as
well as the editor and publisher of Verve
Selected Writings by Valley Women of Words.

Gregory J. Christiano was born in 1947 in
Manhattan, NY. His parents settled in the Bronx,
giving him the experience and benefit of city life,
which is reflected in much of his writing.
Published in various magazines, anthologies and
journals, his dreams, aspirations and beliefs are
expressed through his poetry, stories, essays,
editorials, books and movie reviews. He has also
written a two-act play and four novellas. His first
book, A Night on Mystic Mountain, a collection of
poems and short stories, was released in 2005.
His second, Conversations From the Past, will be
ready for the bookshelves by the end of 2006.
Gregory has won many awards for his writing.
Among his interests is collecting antique maps,
prints, newspapers and ephemera. He now
resides in New Jersey, USA, with his wife and
three children.

Sally Cook, American artist and poet, lives a
reclusive country life with her husband, political
cartoonist Bob Fisk, and cats. She has received
several scholarships and awards for her writing
and painting. Both disciplines nourish each other
in Cooks work. Ideas which led her to create a
series of portraits of Emily Dickinson have been
explored in scholarly journals; her poems and
essays are represented in many publications. A
recent example is her review of Joseph S.
Salemis Masquerade in The University Bookman.
Cook keeps a sharp eye out for the psychological
portrait. Her present work in both genres may
be described as idiosyncratic, representational
and colorful. An e-book of her poetry can be
seen on the web site of The New Formalist.

Louis John Costanza has written poetry for
many years. His work has been published in
small anthologies. He is a retired educator who
is married and the father of three grown
children. Currently residing in South Carolina,
USA, he has previously lived in the states of
New Jersey and Florida. He writes free verse as
well as rhyming, metrical poetry. His literary
influences range from Homers Odyssey through
Kerouacs On The Road.
Jonathan Days original linocut illustrations
unify the chapters of this book by their common
theme. A self-described army brat, he was
born in Austria in 1954, grew up in Alaska, and
moved to Oregon in 1972. Day had a varied
career, working as a janitor, construction worker,
welder, art instructor, cook and baker (among
other things) before graduating as an electrical
engineer in 1995. He is currently pursuing a
Ph.D. in Physics at Oregon State University. His
hobbies include astronomy, zoology, reading and
science of all sorts. This artists personal website
is found at www.thedaydomain.net; and he can
be reached via E-mail at the following address:
jday74@comcast.net . He is married to ceramic
artist Fay Jones Day.

Cynthia Deatherage, PhD., a former
university instructor, holds a Doctorate from
Purdue University, but it was during her studies
at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville,
under the guiding eye of Professor Lloyd Kropp,
that her love of classical poetry officially
emerged on paper. Narrative poetry is her
favorite form of classical verse, framing a tale
within the confines of rhyme and
meter. Currently, Dr. Deatherage resides in
Idaho with her husband, two young children,
two adult cats, and one artificial Tribble.

Catherine Edmunds was born in Kent,
England in 1959, and worked professionally as a
violinist for two decades. She turned her hand to
writing when disability cut short her musical
career. January 2006 saw the publication of her
first novel, The Sand in the Painting ISBN: 1-4241-
1168-4. Her poetry and prose have featured in
the award winning e-zine, Madaleine, and a
number of her poems will be published this year
by Gator Springs Gazette. She writes in a wide
range of styles, enjoying the discipline of
traditional forms as well as the freedom of
experimental verse. Catherine has three grown-
up children and lives with her husband in north
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east England, where she divides her time
between writing, painting, and teaching the
violin.
Susan Eckenrode. A retired teacher and
interior designer, this American poet began
writing in 2002. She had no previous experience,
but always a desire. She prefers rhymed and
metered verse and likes to experiment with
various forms. Her husband has recently retired
from his second career and they are finally free
to travel as the spirit moves them, to visit their
daughters and 2 grandchildren, as well as
extended family and friends who are scattered
throughout the USA. Long hours on the road
are prime times for polishing poetic inspirations,
which come from many varied sources, such as
nature (including human nature), family
members and pets.
Anna Evans is a former president of the
Burlington County Poets of New Jersey, USA,
and a founding member of the Quick and Dirty
Poets. Her poems have appeared in numerous
journals including The Formalist, The Edge City
Review, Light Quarterly and Exit 13, as well as
e-zines. Her recent prizes include the Jeanette
Gottlieb Prize for Poetry, first prize in the
Philadelphia Writers Conference, and Writers
Digest Award for Best Rhyming Poem. She was
a 2005 Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist in
the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. She has
taught childrens poetry workshops, and is
enrolled in a college MFA program in creative
writing. Ms. Evans is editor of the formal poetry
e-zine The Barefoot Muse. Her first chapbook,
Swimming, was published in March 2006 by
Powerscore Press. You can visit her home page:
home.comcast.net/~evnsanna/poems.htm. The
Lal-Jomi was published in Exit 13, April 2005;
and Backwards Through Wet Grass in the 74
th

Annual Writers Digest Writing Competition
Collection.
Lee Evans was born in Annapolis, Maryland,
USA in 1950, and grew up in the area. After
graduating from college in 1973, he held a
variety of jobs such as landscape laborer, floral
delivery man, and collection attendant for
Goodwill Industries. At 40, he took a clerical
position at the Maryland State Archives; and at
that time he began writing poetry in earnest.
Since then he has published about 60 poems in
such magazines as Romantics Quarterly,
Contemporary Rhyme, Carnelian, Waterways,
and The Golden Lantern. He describes himself
as a philosophical contemplative who
expresses his meditations in poetry. He lives in
Edgewater, Maryland, with his wife and two cats.
The poem Sunset, Bar Harbor was inspired by an
occurrence several years ago when my wife and I
were vacationing in Maine. It was published in
Romantics Quarterly. The Weekday Song is based
upon an incident recorded in The Fairy Faith in
Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evans-Wentz. I was
prompted to write it when the Romantics
Quarterly journal put out a call for poems
relating to the Fairy Kingdom.

Margaret Fieland is a computer software
engineer, writer and amateur musician. She lives
in Massachusetts with her partner and a large
number of dogs. Her poetry has appeared in
several anthologies including Christina Surdis
Shattering Silence: Reclaiming the Voice of
Social Awareness through Poetry and Art and
Inkpot Presss InPrint. Two of her poems
appeared in the first issue of Gentle Strength.
She also says, I play the flute and the piccolo,
and I belong to a band, the Freedom Trail Band
of Boston (we have a website). Im also a book
junkie (I try to restrain myself) and a way-back
sci-fi fan: I bought my first sci-fi novel, Robert
Heinleins Farmer in the Sky, for my 10th
birthday.

Peggy Fletcher. Born in St. Johns,
Newfoundland and proud of her east coast
heritage, Ms. Fletcher now resides in Sarnia,
Ontario, Canada, where she and her husband
have recently retired from a small retail business.
As a poet, she has five collections of poetry and
four chapbooks. A graduate of University of
Western Ontario in Visual Arts, she combines
an interest in art with her writing ventures. She
has won many awards for her work and has
taught Creative Writing at Lambton College.
Peggy has five grown daughters and many
grandchildren.

Patricia Louise Gamache, at the age of 69,
lives in Sidney, British Columbia, Canada, where
she enjoys retirement. She has worked in many
vocations, including banking, psychiatric nursing,
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finance, a womens jail, turkey plucking (for one
day!), farming (in Buick, B.C.) and school
secretary. Her last job, and the most enjoyable
one, she states, was as administrative assistant at
the head office of a popular restaurant chain.
She has published poetry with Noble House in
the U.K. She also had two poems in our
previous collection, New Classic Poems. Patricia
enjoys gardening, family and friends, shopping,
reading, writing and being trained by a cat.

Anne Maarit Ghan grew up in Finland in the
1960s as the youngest of seven children. After
graduating from High School, she studied
cultural anthropology at Helsinki University, and
later, massage therapy at Nursing School of
Helsinki. Anne has worked as a tourist
information agent, a janitor of a cruise ship, a
dancer at the National Theater of Finland, a
courier in Sweden, a nanny in the Irish Embassy
in Russia, an English tutor in Japan, owned a
massage therapy practice in the USA, and has
spent the last three years studying in Germany,
pursuing work as a freelance writer and
translator. She is married to her soul mate,
Scott. Together they have raised three children.

Peter G. Gilchrist describes himself as a 49 year
old parent, poet and sometimes lawyer who lives
in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. He amuses
himself by chronicling his experiences in poetry.
His poems in this anthology are simply personal
anecdotes drawn from various times in his life.
He has had a number of poems published in on-
line journals and in print. Some of his other
poetry may be viewed at www.pgilchrist.ca.

John Grey, a citizen of Australia, has been
writing poetry for 30 years. He likes to compose
all kinds of poetry. His work is extensively
published: it has appeared recently in the Journal
of the American Medical Association, Bellevue
Review and Avocet. His most recent book is
What Else is There, from Main Street Rag. His
other particular interests include music and the
cinema.

Max Gutmanns Kindling first appeared in The
Formalist.

Jan Harris informs us: I am 49 years old and I
live in Nottinghamshire, UK, with David, my
husband of 26 years and our son and daughter,
Rob and Sarah. I started writing poetry and
short stories in 2003, and have been fortunate
enough to have several poems published on the
internet and in anthologies, including Oxfams
Poems for a Better Future and the Open
University Poetry Societys Openings 22
anthology. My interests include our animals,
vegetarian cookery, web-site design and helping
to run Dome 2, an online learning community
for writers. I was the editor and web developer
on Madelaine, an online magazine of poetry,
prose, pictures and recipes. Madelaine was
designated a Poetry Landmark of Britain by the
UK Poetry Society in 2005.

Dick Hayes says, I am 57 years old, and I live
with my wife Hilary in Liverpool, United
Kingdom. I work for the Royal Liverpool
Hospital as a manager in Information
Technology. At school I was taught only about
20th Century writers such as T.S. Eliot; so I
discovered the English poetic tradition by
chance in my late teens, through having to
search out crossword quotations. Inspired by my
reading from Elizabethan through to Victorian
poetry, I wrote intensively and worked on the
craft of metrical composition, learned by
imitation. After a break of many years I restarted
writing, this time with a more experienced view
of life. I have written many poems the first
gleanings being Slow Train Passing (a selection of
lyrics), in which Trebizond was first published.
(Edmonton: New Leaf Works, 2006.) I have
several pieces published in magazines, and I won
one international poetry competition.

Laura Heidy (Lo) is the mother of three grown
children and a former medic from Indiana, USA.
She currently resides in Alexandria, VA with
fellow poet Dan Halberstein. Laura has been
writing poetry for approximately five years, and
she prefers to work strictly in form and/or
metered verse. Her poetry has appeared in Verse
Daily, Raintown Review, Pebble Lake Review,
Solares Hill, The Hypertexts, Susquehanna
Quarterly and various other publications.
Vomiting Jonah appeared in The Hypertexts e-
zine, 2005.

Debbie Okun Hill is a new poet who started
her writing career as a journalist for a small town
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newspaper. She later became a public relations
specialist with The Winnipeg Art Gallery in
Manitoba, and Lakehead University and
Fanshawe College in Ontario, Canada. A few
years ago she returned to college where she
completed five additional on-line writing courses.
It was here that she discovered the challenges of
writing a rondeau, villanelle, sonnet and more.
Her poems have already won awards from The
Ontario Poetry Society (1
st
place in the Haiku
Category of No Matter What Shape Your
Poems In, 2005 and 5
th
place in the Simply
Good Poetry Contest, 2005 to name a few) and
have appeared in Quills and in anthologies such
as The Saving Bannister, Vol. 19; The Writes of
Freedom; Unlocking the Muse; Ascent
Aspirations Magazine Anthology One; and The
Future Looks Bright. Spring Thaw was first
published in Winterberry Shadows, Niagara
College, Ontario, 2006.

Keith Holyoak, Ph.D., whose essay, What
Should a Poem Be Like? appears as the first
chapter of this volume, is a poet, translator of
classical Chinese poetry, and cognitive scientist.
Raised on a dairy farm in British Columbia,
Canada., he is currently a Distinguished
Professor of Psychology at UCLA. Holyoak has
been a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship,
and is a Fellow of the American Association for
the Advancement of Science. His poems and
translations have been published in numerous
literary magazines in the US, England, Ireland,
Canada and New Zealand, including The
London Magazine, Envoi, Candelabrum Poetry
Magazine, Orbis, Flaming Arrows, The Lyric,
Measure, and Poetry NZ. Recordings of
Holyoaks poetry with musical scores are
available through Broken Electric Records
(www.brokenelectric.com). For other poetry
samples, see www.keithholyoak.com. The Private
Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen was first published in
The London Magazine, 2002.

T.S. Kerrigan is a member of the California
Bar, a produced playwright, a former theater
critic and member of the Los Angeles Drama
Critics Circle. His verse has been published in
magazines too numerous to mention on both
sides of the Atlantic, and in Another Bloomsday
at Molly Malones Pub (Laguna 1999) and The
Shadow Sonnets and Other Poems (Louisville
2006). Some of his poetry has appeared in the
following anthologies: Off the Record
(Indianapolis 2004), Garrison Keillors Good
Poems (New York 2002), Only Morning in Her
Shoes (Logan 1997), From the West of Ireland
(Dromlought 1994), and The California Poets
Anthology (San Francisco 1986). His poetry is
also available on the website The Hyper Texts
and in an e-book published by The New
Formalist. He was the only living poet on
Strolling with the Poets on National Public
Radios California Artists Radio Theatre. Lines
Written During Pentecost was printed in The
Shadow Sonnets and Other Poems, Scienter
Press, 2006.
Graeme King was born in Melbourne, Australia
in 1950. He started writing rhyming poetry when
he was about 10 years old, and he remembers
having an exercise book full of poems when he
was 11. He attended Ivanhoe Grammar School
on full scholarship, awarded mainly because of
this writing book at primary school! Over the
years he wrote only sporadically, but always
seemed to write something at least once a year.
Almost everything posted on his website,
kingpoetry.com, has been written since January
2005. He enjoys music, gardening and fishing in
the nearby lakes. While he appreciates all other
writers, it is special poems that particularly
inspire him, and he reads many contemporary
magazines to try to gain inspiration from the
efforts of others. He says that he enjoys the
freedom of free verse, but there is nothing like
putting together a clever rhyme in correct meter
that is actually ha-ha funny as well. (We agree!)

LaVonda Krout says, I am a full-time nurse
and a part-time writer, genealogist and gardener.
I have attended adult writing classes at Indiana
University. I have been writing poetry since age
eight (Old Man Winter had a splinter ) and
have been published by the magazines, Midwest
Outdoors, Weeds Corner, Main Channel Voices,
and in the anthology, Gardening at a Deeper
Level. I live among the limestone hills of
southern Indiana, where I raise healthy herbs
and chronically ill roses with the assistance of
my indulgent husband, bulldog and two despotic
Siamese cats.

152
Simon Leigh was born in Melbourne,
Australia; and he lives with his wife Nenagh, a
choreographer, in Toronto, Canada. With
degrees from Sydney University, Oxford and
The University of New Brunswick, he loves
writing, jazz and ski racing, hopes somehow to
save the environment, and still believes that
Western civilization is worth a try. He taught
Business and English at the University of New
Brunswick, U. of Toronto, and Seneca College
in Toronto (now retired). Publications include
two poetry books, dozens of poems and stories,
a prize-winning play, and his just-released novel,
Wild Women (available from Amazon.ca).

Eric Linden writes: Ive settled in the sunny
Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, Canada,
after roaming and rambling my fair share
throughout life. As a construction electrician, I
have seen many beautiful corners of this
province. Writing has always been a significant
part of my life. While I was living in the interior
of B.C., my travelogues appeared weekly in our
local newspaper, along with my advertising for
the travel industry and real estate. Sometime in
2001, I responded to a competition to write
poetry. I didnt win; but began a delightful
hobby, spinning off ballads, pantoums, sonnets,
and other rhyme and meter verse, as well as the
rare bit of free verse. My first book, Lindens
Lyre, was printed in 2006. The British Poetry
Life and Times, several anthologies and
Sonnetto Poesia have printed my works, and my
garland about the Halifax Explosion of 1917 was
accepted by the National Maritime Museum in
Canada.

Irene Livingston won Canadas prestigious
Leacock Prize for Poetry in 2001. She began
writing for adults in 1998, after starting
childrens writing a couple years earlier. She has
been published in Canada, USA, England,
Australia and New Zealand. Recently she won
2
nd
prize in Arc Magazines Poem of the Year
contest, and she placed 3
rd
for Prairie Fires Bliss
Carmen Award. Irene has written a novel, a
series of connected short stories with Damon
Runyon-like characters, called Down Around the
Corners, and a poetry collection. She has created
two picture books, Finkelhopper Frog, and its
sequel, Finkelhopper Frog Cheers, published by
Tricycle Press, Berkeley CA, USA.

Steven Manchester , the father of two sons and
a daughter, is the published author of The
Unexpected Storm: The Gulf War Legacy, Jacob Evans,
A Fathers Love, Warp II and At The Stroke of
Midnight, as well as several books under the
pseudonym, Steven Herberts. His work has been
showcased in such national literary journals as
Taproot Literary Review, American Poetry
Review and Fresh! Literary Magazine. Steven is
an accomplished speaker, and currently teaches
the popular workshop Write A Book, Get
Published & Promote Your Work. Three of his
screenplays have also been produced as films.
When not spending time with his children,
writing, teaching, or promoting his published
books/films, this Massachusetts author speaks
publicly to troubled children through the
Straight Ahead Program.
See: www.StevenManchester.com

James K. McAlister is the youngest author
whose poetry appears in this book: he is now 13
years old. He started writing poems a couple
years ago at the instigation of his Grade 6
teacher at Trinity College School in Port Hope,
Ontario, Canada. James enjoys mathematics,
competitive swimming, making music on cello
and saxophone, and playing with his sister Zara
and his Guinea Pig, Coffee Bear.

Neil Harding McAlister, M.D., Ph.D. (father
of James and Zara) lives in Port Perry, Ontario,
Canada. He specializes in Internal Medicine, and
practices medicine along with his wife, Nazlin, a
Family Physician. He is co-author of five
previous books, and editor and publisher of this
anthology and of its predecessor, New Classic
Poems. Dr. McAlisters scientific articles, non-
fiction and humor appear in professional and
commercial journals. Besides writing, collecting
and publishing poetry, his other hobbies include
backyard astronomy and composing music.
Travel is the impetus for much of his writing.
He maintains two Internet sites: Travelers Tales:
Contemporary Formal Poetry, and Brigadoonery, for
fans of Scottish-Canadian humor.

Zara McAlister, a 17 year old high school
senior at Trinity College School in Port Hope,
153
Ontario, Canada, enjoys creative writing, travel
and fashion. Her poem A Caf in Paris was
suggested to her by one summer that she spent
in Paris, studying in a French immersion course.
Zaras other interests include playing the cello.

Mary McIntosh, at the age of 85, continues to
write almost every day. At present shes writing
her memoirs based on a five-year diary she kept
(and still has) when a teenager from 1935-1939.
As time doth fly, she says, shes focused on
getting this completed. A short writing-related
story with a photo of herself was published in
Bylines 2006 Writers Desk Calendar. The week
allocated to her was April 2-8, so at least she
avoided April Fools Day! Recently she placed
third in an on-line writing contest with her story,
Mondays With My Mother. She was recently voted
secretary of a large writing group that she
attends each Saturday. Some of her work
previously appeared in New Classic Poems.

Mary E. Moore, M.D., Ph.D. obtained a
doctorate in Psychology while working as a
research assistant in the Sociology Department
at Rutgers University. She then attended medical
school at Temple University, later specializing in
Internal Medicine and Rheumatology and joining
Temples medical faculty where she rose to the
rank of Professor. Her last teaching post was at
Albert Einstein Medical Center in Philadelphia,
where she headed the Division of Rheumatology.
Through the years, Dr. Moore had occasionally
written poetry, but she only started to do it
seriously after retirement in 2003. She says that
the main difficulty she has encountered in this
endeavor has been in encouraging the
expression of the right side of her brain after
neglecting it for most of her life. Her poems
have appeared or are forthcoming in Mbius,
Raintown Review and in two anthologies.

Michael Milligan is a native of Westerville,
Ohio, USA; but he currently lives in New York,
where he is a professional actor. In addition to
poetry he has also written many plays including
an adaptation of Jack Londons The Sea Wolf. He
is currently writing a drama based on the myth
of Phaeton, written in verse. He trained as an
actor at the Julliard School, and has since been
seen at Shakespeare Festivals around the United
States. He has also performed with the Royal
Shakespeare Company in Stratford, England. In
New York, Michael performed Will Enos one
man show, Thom Pain, which was nominated for
a Pulitzer Prize. Michael is director of sales for
New West Knifeworks, a Wyoming-based
company founded by his brother. Other
interests include playing the Celtic Harp and
practicing martial arts.

Ellen Birkett Morris is a writer based in
Louisville, Kentucky, USA. She has contributed
to six anthologies, including The Writing Group
Book (Chicago Review Press) and Hidden
Kitchens (Rodale). Her poetry has appeared in
The Heartland Review, The Pedestal Magazine
2004 Political Anthology, and it was the Editors
Choice in The Binnacles Ultra-Short Edition in
2004 and 2005.

Steven Parlato, who lives in Waterbury, CT,
USA, with his wife Janet and their children, Ben
and Jillian, is pleased to make his international
print debut in Rhyme and Reason. He has
previously published in the poetry journal,
Freshwater 2006. Steven holds a B.F.A. from the
University of Connecticut, and he is a recent
graduate of Wesleyan University where his focus
was creative writing. A graphic design instructor
at Naugatuck Valley Community College, Steven
has worked as a professional actor, freelance
illustrator and quality manager. He is currently
nearing completion of his first novel.

Carl Reinholt, retired office supply company
owner and high school music teacher, has been a
pillar of his community of Kirkland Lake,
Ontario for decades. Among other civic duties,
he has been President of the Kirkland District
Chamber of Commerce, the local golf club and
the local chapter of the Heart and Stroke
Foundation. He has held numerous positions in
the Shrine Club, the Masonic Lodge and his
church. Musically Carl remains very active as
first trumpet and musical director of the
Churchill Drive Swing Band. His poem, The
Jump, recalls his passion for track and field
during his own high school days in Kirkland
Lake. His daughter, Lindsay, keeps up the family
tradition of musicianship.

Sally Ann Roberts was born in
Fresno, California, but raised in southern
154
Oregon. At 7, Sally fell in love with the zany
antics of Dr. Seuss. (Her favorite: The Cat in the
Hat.) Yearning to write poetry was very strong,
but obtaining the knowledge and opportunities
to research the many poets she sought was a
great challenge. Sallys teachers were a
disappointment throughout her school life.
Their discouragement, rather than
encouragement to reach goals and realize her
writing abilities, left Sally misled and confused.
At 19 she found the works by: Edgar Allen Poe.
(Her favorite: The Bells) Poes poems are rather
different from those of Dr. Seuss -- and the
spark of inspiration was reborn. Now age 50,
Sally, her husband James and their seven year
old daughter, Sarah Jean, live in historic Wolf
Creek, Oregon, where Sally continues to write
poetry. Prairie Whispers first appeared in a
chapbook, Under the Streetlights. A community
of Poets Collection Vol. 2, Shadows Ink, 2003.

Daphne Rock, a poet from the U.K., wrote her
first poem at age six. She is now aged 78 and still
writing. She is currently exploring positive
poetry for older people dealing with ageing and
death. She grew up in wartime England, leaving
school at 16 and later training for teaching and
social work.. At age 50 Ms. Rock began to take
writing seriously: Peterloo Poets published her
collection, Waiting for Trumpets, in 1998. She
produced poetry pamphlets about Derbyshire
lead miners, South Wales and the Industrial
Revolution, and the almost-unknown Isle of
Sheppey. She received a London Arts Board
Award in 2000. She says, I am happiest writing
about locations with history and the interaction
of people and places. Subject dictates form: I
love rhyme and strict form, but dont use it very
frequently. The poem published in this
anthology was written after visiting a British
Museum exhibition of sculpture: I wanted to
combine sociological, visual and musical
aspects. Ms. Rock is an amateur geologist and a
mother of five who also works with
disadvantaged teenagers.

Joseph S. Salemi, Ph.D. is a widely-published
scholar, translator and poet whose work has
appeared in over 80 journals in the U.S. and
abroad. He has published three books of poetry,
Formal Complaints and Nonsense Couplets from
Somers Rocks Press; and the recent Masquerade
from Pivot Press. He is the recipient of several
literary honors including the Classical and
Modern Literature Award and a National
Endowment for the Humanities Fellowship. He
is currently at work on a book-length poetic
satire of modern American habits titled A Gallery
of Ethopaths: Twenty sections have been
published in various journals. Salemi is the
associate editor of the magazine Iambs and
Trochees, and a regular reviewer and essayist for
the Expansive Poetry and Music On-Line
website. He teaches in the Classics Department
of Hunter College in New York City. The
Sergeants Warning first appeared in Light
Quarterly, Winter 2004-5.

Jeannine Schiavoni. Since childhood, Jeannine
has been part of the Creative Arts Movement,
initially beginning with painting, while exploring
the literary venues by composing silly poems and
stories, and illustrating each with accompanying,
scribbled drawings. These days, this singer-
songwriter-musician-poet serves in her
community as a long term preschool educator,
utilizing the written word to promote literacy
programs for children, while combining poetry
with art and music as enrichment tools and
entertainment. Poems, including The Spring That
Never Was and Dying Things have received awards
in the Robert Frost - Eagle Tribune Poetry
Competition, based in Lawrence, Massachusetts,
while other titles have been included in various
publications over the span of several years.
Although her writing styles include an eclectic
mix of form and pattern, she regards the
traditional use of meter and rhyme as the true,
unyielding foundation for the written word. She
seeks to preserve its standing in many of her
own compositions. Jeannine is currently in the
process of completing her collection of poems,
stories and other, related works for publication.

Dawn Sinclair: Dawn is the name I adopted
for writing poetry early in my career as an online
poet, although I have been penning poems for
more than 40 years, since age 13. Ive added new
formats to my repertoire but I have abiding
fondness for formalist poetry -- classical style in
particular. Ive had a few poems published by
poetry magazines and in anthologies, but it is as
an on-line poet that I am better known. I was
administrator / moderator on several
155
websites but for the past year Ive owned my
own poetry site, Born Poets. Apart from poetry,
I enjoy success as a lyricist and have also written
a couple of novels which have yet to be
published. Married for 36 years, I have two
children and two grandsons, aged three and six.
My husband supports my literary efforts so that
I no longer need to earn a living myself.

E. Russell Smith was born in Toronto, Canada
in 1933, and was educated at McGill University
in Montreal. Since 1960 he has lived in Ottawa,
where he taught high school before completing
an M.A. in English and taking writing as his full-
time occupation. His work has appeared in
newspapers and literary magazines across
Canada, in the United Kingdom and in India. In
addition to feature writing, he has published two
novels, a collection of short stories and two
volumes of poetry, mostly lyric. His most recent
book of poetry is Spring Garland, a collaboration
with Stratford wood engraver Gerard Brender
Brandis. (Buschek Books, Ottawa, 2005.) He is
a member of the League of Canadian Poets and
the Writers Union of Canada.

smzang (pen name of poet Sarah M. Zang) lives
in West Virginia, USA. Her poems have
appeared in many on-line and print journals
including Subtle Tea, YaSou!, A Poetic Village,
Kookamonga Square, Wordflair, Muse Whispers,
New Classic Poems and others. She is the keeper
of the key at the Wordflair Community of Poets
and Writers. Her source of inspiration is nature,
and the relationship of the seasons to the
seasons of human life.

Gerry Spoor writes: Im 52 years old, and live
in a small rural village in upstate NY, USA,
about two hours north of New York City. Im
employed as a National Sales Manager for a
company which manufactures packaging film for
the food and beverage industry. I began writing
poetry about 15 years ago, and now along with
tennis and playing the piano, it has become one
of my avocations. Ive always preferred metered
poetry, more in line with those poets from the
late Nineteenth to early Twentieth Century. My
topics range from nature, to romance to
humor.

Joanne Underwood, a Canadian poet, is a
founding member of the Calgary-based
"wordweavers" writing group. Her poetry has
appeared in the Sails to Calgary edition of the
literary magazine, Peter F. Yacht Club, and at
the Powell River Writers Festival. This wife and
mother has been a flight attendant, a teacher, a
Boy Scout leader and a home
renovator. Writing gets squeezed into odd
moments when her husband is out of town,
which, she says, (un)fortunately happens a fair
bit! Joannes poems are often based around
family members.

Aaron Wilkinson, an aspiring novelist and a
proud Canadian from North Bay, Ontario, says
that he finds poetry to be the best way to
unwind after a full day of wearing the devils
shackles, helping people in customer service.
Words can always be counted on to play nicer
than any single person calling him for
assistance. It should, however, be noted that he
handles even the most irate callers with the same
ease and skill as formal rhyme and meter. He is
currently working on a new piece that expresses
the varied concerns he has about the people
calling on him for help every day. His notebook
travels with him wherever he goes, just in case.

Vincent W. Williams advises, I was born
when I was still quite young, as was also my twin
sister. We do have different balding patterns: she
has almost no facial hair. I had the usual
childhood experiences: kicking dogs,
worshipping cult leaders, trying on clothes at
Victorias Secret, etc. But, not all of my
formative years were so happy, by any
means. For example: I have had numerous
performance experiences; one of the most recent
being that of acting the role of one of the three
kings who rode camels and brought gifts to the
baby Jesus at Christmas time. The camel I was
riding was, sorry to report, a crusty, bad-
tempered beast. He threw me off his hump and
knocked me frankincenseless. Although there is
much more to divulge, let me simply say I am
excessively old, married, and we have two sons,
both of whom are married and learning the
world on their own.

156
Rhyme and Reason Index of First Lines

Index of First Lines

A man sets goals, and struggles to achieve 40
A pallid, panting page appeared and said, 135
A poet who is cursed with sinful pride, 111
A rocky desert stretches far 25
A single ant is harmless. 145
A turtle labors very hard 145
All offices are similar, it seems -- 35
Amazing how well make-up hides his age, 114
An ancient enemy have I, 18
As March winds sear through field and town, 49
As seasons change, and autumn comes ablaze 48
As the telltale heart was beating, 93
Astride the nook where branch and trunk embrace, 54
Away, away I burst! 63

Because he is the older of the two, 108
Begging mail, intrusive calls 142
Behind his makeup, look and you will find 49
Beneath the Celtic cross the morning chill 30
Blackie was missing, and Jane in a state. 132

Chilling as a play by Pinter; 43
Come Children, hear the ocean sigh 69
Come join me at the thrift store, where rank on rank youll see 112
Consternation: Out again! 137
Curtains of rain slide apart to expose 48

Dark clouds oppress the Valley of the Sun. 40
Daughter, close the blinds! cried Mrs. Chen 128
DaVinci painted La Gioconda 143

Feverfew protects unseen 110
From pounding hooves 80
From time to time it can occur to me 129

Girls and boys still dance to music 50
Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile. 32
Grey as the ash from a toppled urn 24

157

Had a bug, in my computer; 138
Hard where the ocean beats the sand, 82
He sprawls before the television set: 120
Here, in this leafy place, 20
His Antony before the war 103
How futile is his proudest boast, 61
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs 125

I climbed the stairs with heavy heart, 105
I cry aloud to warn the crew; 62
I drove on at a steady pace. 52
I have nothing to think of and nothing to do; 18
I hear the music played today, 58
I looked at my face 139
I pen these lines to Sally now whose looks are past compare; 147
I recognize the face I knew so well 121
I seek the strongest image I can find 109
I watch my world through poets eyes 111
I watched the moon on purple hill 96
I wonder why the household fly, 145
If the Bing Bang theory is true 136
Ill never wonder when Im dead 54
In a rusty, battered dumpster 21
In halcyon hospitality 68
In spring when I was just a girl 56
In the halcyon days of air travel 134
It seems I'm not communicating well. 129
It takes a hard-nosed kind of man 66
It was the hunting season when the Earl upon his horse 97
Its funny how bravado bolts 71
Its midnight now, its time to go to bed 147

Kindly gods do not subsist 36

Late last night I talked to Mount Olympus, 98
Let me be sorry, let me take the blame; 114
Let us go back to the black and white world 55
Lets go to the Metro zoo! 102
Listen it lies soft upon the air. 95
Loose, loose every sail to the breeze, 60
Love, before the children thinned your hair 47

Marmota monax was his name 53
My daughter has a guinea pig, 140
My mind swims in you 125

Now piping down the setting of the sun, 67

O that I were Prometheus on a stone! 24
O, when I left Scotland long years ago 72
Oh corn hull, spinach, other dross, 136
158
Oh Shakespeare! Must I live forever blank 23
Olden houses seem to know 41
On barren rocks stroked by the tide 60
Once again new dawn awakens 44
Once upon a more skilful time 58
Only from a suitor worldly wise 127
Our gleaming, new canoes glide off from shore, 38
Ours was the world; you tossed them your bouquet 119
Outside the day was bleak and cold, and winter reigned supreme; 100

Paris Hilton 136

Reflections dance on a glistening stage 48
Remember when as kids wed sit around 79

She sits upon her Grandpas knee, 94
She works as a model 117
Shining ever, hope of love eternal, 123
Six weeks or less, the doctor warned Touch and go give or take 42
Smog alerts and acid rain 26
So where on earth could a missing sock go? 141
Spring cleaning time! Emerged from winters slump 46

Tell me truly, if you please, 145
That April, morning etched our room with light -- 123
That honeymoon in June was over soon; 119
That night we sank inside our coats while dodging fierce December snow 28
That Quality might dare to take a Trade 130
The centipede, dont you suppose 145
The court considers senior counsels pleas 101
The day his girlfriends father let him cut 126
The dress is long and satiny and blue. 116
The frantic pace of summer ends 51
The goldfish life is sad, alas. 145
The hunchback hobbled homeward 81
The janitor who mops the floor 29
The noisy crowd fell silent, 70
The other day our furnace died -- 144
The photos in our album havent changed, 118
The reading done they left at four; 127
The shadow of the willow by the moon 79
The snake who doesnt chew her food 145
The sonnet has its uses, though I doubt 107
The swollen-bellied spider must have spun 27
The wheel affords mobility 106
The winged horse in waiting flies 92
The year is 1520. Rival kings, 33
There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook; 133
They wander down in search of food each year 45
This Jersey fall, the unrelenting rain 122
Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls, 137
Through the blue and frosty heavens 22
To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease; 146
159
Trainee on a software project 124

Unless I draw or sculpt or write 101
Up at the clubhouse every Wednesday night 34

We cross our bridges day-by-day 112
We spoke our last good-bye in Winnipeg 118
Well now Im on the Internet, Im up til late at night, 104
What separated Shakespeare from the herd 19
When I unlatch the dryers door, 141
When Im worn by obligations and run down by expectations 64
When lilacs lick the April morning air 39
When shadows creep across the churchyard lawn 74
When snowman sags, slips, spills to lake 50
When time is kind and makes of me its own -- 36
When tossing grenades, you must follow some rules; 107
With both our spouses still asleep indoors, 126

You drove all day and well into the night, 65
160

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