Poetry Parade 2015

Poetry Parade 2015 Last Day Bonus: Spectator Poems (Organized by submission date – a total of 18)

At Home on Mill Creek by Patricia Wellingham-Jones Los Molinos, California An old ranch house perches on the south bank of the creek where lava-strewn plains link oak savannah and silt-covered creek bottom. The resident of this homestead thinks often of the aboriginals who once gathered in this place. Now silent, the old campsite rang with sounds of living, warmth of tribe, evidence of their existence found when gardening and following floods – stone pestles of varied sizes, an acorn-grinding stone or two, smaller mortars for smaller items, useful all. The resident, hair tousled from a nap on a soft couch, stirs rice at her stove for curry. She imagines the mother at her campfire stirring a pot of acorn gruel for the children asleep like a tangle of puppies on the hard ground.

Come Spring by Edward Hujsak La Jolla, California

If, my father muttered, I am still among the living Come Spring, We’ll plow the far corner, Where the power lines run, And plant barley. I nodded, Knowing the job would be mine, A bit reluctantly, Because robins fed there And nested nearby.

The Line of Pines by Janet Leahy New Berlin, Wisconsin The old barn slumps into itself the hayloft falls plank upon plank, half-doors on the horse stalls sag, give way. The bulldozer moves into the heart of the barn, the milking room, twice a day cows stood to give milk, each in its own stanchion. An emptiness settles upon the land, the cow path reduced to dark matter. Development stops at nothing, not the line of pines, the red-delicious orchards, not the rising winter wheat.

When Would You Know He Is The One? by Raphael Almagor Hull, England When hearing his name makes your heart jump You’ll know he is the one. When you would wish to spend the defining moments of your life with him You’ll know he is the one. When you long to share your intimate hours with him You’ll know he is the one. When you feel your life is incomplete without him You’ll know he is the one. When his happiness becomes a constitutive element of your happiness You’ll know he is the one. When causing him pain causes you pain You’ll know he is the one. When you miss him like crazy when he’s not around And you feel irreplaceable void in your heart You’ll know he is the one. When he comes under your skin You’ll know he is the one. When you grow to believe that there is no justice in Love You’ll know he is the one. When you feel your life would become meaningless without him You’ll know he is the one. When you feel unity with him You feel you would do your utmost to keep it You’ll know he is the one. When you would be willing to fight for your love as you fight for your life You’ll know he is the one. When you could not see yourself with anyone else You’ll know he is the one.

When you feel he is exceptional and could not be substituted You’ll know he is the one. When your being is no longer defined as an independent human being You’ll know he is the one. When you picture your ideal home and you see him inside You’ll know he is the one. When you would like to grow old with him You’ll know he is the one.

Towel and Basin by Michael Escoubas Bloomington, Illinois “Instead of going to heaven at last, I’m going all along.”--Emily Dickinson This morning I plodded in pajamas and bare toes toting my full water pitcher, prepared as an offering for my hanging blue Fan plant. The tall grass washed my feet as Jesus might. I was met by a congregation of glad-handed Hostas greeting and touching me, choirs of Clematis robed in purple, jovial Jonquils clad in yellow, sun-facing Spiderworts, and sweet green Mint mingled with spicy Oregano, breathing their fragrances, glistening and glowing in sunlight and dew. They danced when they saw me; asked no questions, made no judgments, anointed me with dew, toweled my dusty feet with warm sun, then sent me on to do for another what they had done for me.

April by Bill Batcher Riverhead, New York It doesn't break a sweat or make you wear too many woolen overcoats and hats, (perhaps galoshes for a day, but that's the end of it). It doesn't seem to care it is not first or last. With thirty days it is an average month, and none of those are for parading flags. April agrees to bring us Easter Morn but does not raise a fuss if March usurps that Holy day. Its nights are not too short and not too long (though even equinox does not belong on its grid). There isn't much to say, yet in its quiet way with softened voice, I find the days of April middling nice.

Home by William G. Davies Jr. Elliottsburg, Pennsylvania Evening settles like a soft comb through mahogany hair, the clatter of supper dishes stacked one on top of the other still warm from the dishwater, love and weariness crenellated into this clapboard fortress.

Soul Kite by Latha Krishnan Dubai, United Arab Emirates

I see you.... And for the next two days My soul soars high above Like a kite That hovers and flutters Far away in a place Where it meets your soul And there is just them .. Soul kites - yours and mine! Down below I go about life’s motions And carry out humdrum duties Like an automaton! When the third day dawns My soul-kite begins its descent Back to earth where I coax it into me With the voice of reason and inevitable truths That neither it nor I can deny. We try - my soul and I To get on with life As contentedly as we can Till..... I see you again!

Here are two slug poems from Penelope Scambly Schott’s latest book, How I Became an Historian (Cherry Grove, 2014). She shares them in honor of the poem, “Charitable Deductions,” Kate Bernadette Benedict’s poem that was featured on April 10th. Penelope lives in Portland, Oregon: Keeper 1 When a slug slimes upward how does it know it is not flying? If I were a slug I would climb a pillar of grass and genuflect with the perfect knobs on my horns. 2 Once for a week I kept a slug trapped in a glass jar— yes, I did sprinkle water drops and fresh lettuce — so I could paint its portrait. My slug was lovely on canvas. 3 When finally I tipped the jar to let the slug go, it departed slowly. I want to believe that my slug might remember me with patience if not worship. _______________________________________________________ Pestering the Slug It glistened by the step,

chocolate brown with knobs on its horns. I pulled out a stalk of grass and tickled the slug’s patterned back. Next I poked at the light and shiny belly. The slug curled itself up. With my huge hand, I hoisted the slug onto a wad of dry grasses and let it plunk down again. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. The uninjured slug had uncurled itself and lifted its flexible horns, and now it was oozing away from the step, moving fast for a slug, whereupon, for the first time in my long and mostly harmless life, I fully understood the unblameable charm of evil.

A Thin Place by Vivien Steels Colwick Park, Nottingham UK

The air shone differently there. As we wheeled in with sea birds singing their shrill welcome against the wind, their cries echoed from sharp cliffs. Our boat carved waves clear as glass. The retreat was a stone house. No piped water, only a hand-pump from an eternal spring welling up goodness by the Mother stone; no electricity, only candles flicking their moon-soft illumination around moving whitewashed walls; no central heating, only gnarled logs and peat turves offering warmth with blue aromatic smoke; no ready-made meals, only earth’s jewels grown with the comfort of seasons, and eggs from the wandering chickens, fish from the swirling sea cooked on an old leaded range; no flushing toilet, only a closet to sprinkle with sawdust and soil to hide our tracks beyond the garden. For this was a thin place close to eternity where time was no more. And we just were with seals and sea, birds and sky, hanging like stars in the vastness of the universe, presided over by a God whose only pretext was the love of creation. (This poem was first published in Reflections 53 in 2004.)

Kathy Rankin, from Phillipsburg, NJ, says this classic poem is one of her all-time favorites. “I remember a high school English teacher of mine reading it out loud in my class one day and I've never forgotten the passion she gave the words. So much so that, every time I read this poem now, I hear that teacher’s voice and then think of my husband, John—who, for me, is the one who elicits that depth of love.” How Do I Love Thee (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day’s Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

This One Apple by Judith Heron Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia the first to fall from your tree. The tree under which I have sheltered many times, where each of us has dreamed of love. The apple I left on the sideboard while it was still green, take down today, set it on the cutting board, lift the knife. The one you brought to me from back home placed into my open hand, wealth of generosity in your smile. How could I have thanked you then? This Gravenstein that fills my palm and somehow gives each of us permission to recall— my grandmother’s applesauce cake, your mother and her streusel. A tree that knows how to live lightly on the land, put down deep roots, survive and even thrive throughout a drought. These grateful things upon my tongue sing out with every bite.

Ode to a Dog by Julianne Carlile East Troy, Wisconsin Happy the person with a dog, Companion of the first degree. Awake or sleeping like a log, They’re fun to see. Waking you at an early hour, They always start your day off right, And do not mind your greater power; They will not fight. To a woman they are a child; To a man, like a wayward son. Whether they’re quiet or quite wild, They’ll take a gun. They’ll shuffle off this mortal coil And leave you sad; you’ll miss your elf, Whether you put them in your soil, Or on your shelf. Because I do remember mine, Staring, rapt, at a bedroom wall, Where he does now in fact recline. He heard my call.

Your Average Muslim Joe and Mary by Arif Ahmad Monroe, Wisconsin

Eradicated en masse by the Muslim fundamentalists for not being Muslim enough and siding with the West Tried unilaterally in the media, embarrassed, condemned, regarded with suspicion, frisked at the airports, many having lost their lives and checked off as collateral damage by the warring West Often misunderstood and taken out of context Never for a conflict, we like it quiet and out of limelight Not expecting anyone to bail us out or elevate our status Some fault for all this surely lies with us We are your average Muslim Joe and Mary, the single largest casualty, the silent tragedy of this war on terror And it is for us to find a way out of this rut To become a world-class scientist, a politician, an artist, an entrepreneur, a philosopher Excel at living and never say never

Missing by Rhona Aitken Exmouth, Devon, England Loving removes faults from those you love; it acquires the aura of a velvet glove. Soft and treasured, your love held me together, though there were moments of stormy weather when perfection did slip. But perhaps I was the one that caused the un-accustomed blip. Who knows. I remember consequential kisses. That is something my life really misses. But not as much as inconsequential kisses.

Fade to White by Marilyn Fleming Pewaukee, Wisconsin

the way snow blankets a city— streets and alleys—sidewalks bus stops disappear in whiteout —the same way a farmer walks in overalls pant legs powder coated swinging a pail of lime tossing handfuls on walls gutters and walkways—dark stains fade to white— winter livestock huddle in the barnyard snorting puffs of steam snow covers the manure pile —wisps of heat vapor rise lies are like that—wearing city clothes a false dawn whitewashed—spilled salt a pinch tossed over my left shoulder at the black devil lurking there (This poem first appeared in Lake City Poets online anthology (Issue 13, January 2015).

Signposts by N. Quinn Greer Greenville, South Carolina There it goes Further and further away Milestone of the past The bump in the road A bridge now crossed A curve suddenly after a dip Limited sight entrance Behind me now Moving further away A milestone Diminishing back behind Ahead next exit Weigh station How heavy the load Rest area Relieve and breathe Now The changing horizon Drawing ever near