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Poems by ISPS Members October 2003 |
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Untitledby Tim Breitzmann
Darknessby Fred C. Wilson III
Relationship Recoveryby Michelle True
Old Country Church
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I saw the old church standing there, As I walked on a tranquil country road, Underneath the boughs of an old oak tree, Displaying its leaves of red and gold. It was very old, and worn with time; The paint was faded and growing thin. It had a rusty, cross-like spire; I felt compelled to wander in. A rusty gate creaked open wide, The path of stones was bathed in shade. A sign hung just above the door: "Welcome all, whom God hath made." I could almost hear "Amazing Grace," As in solemn stillness I did rest. Squirrels scurried across oaken beams, And birds were chirping in their nests. Of all the loveliness I've seen On God's great earth, that I recall, The most priceless things to me are those That cost me not a cent at all! I walked outside the old church door, And turned to steal a look behind. It was then I smiled and realized The truthfulness of that old church sign: "Welcome all, whom God hath made," Most certainly that day rang true. Those furry creatures housed inside Must know that God hath made them, too! |
A Most Patient Winter
by James Conroy
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A most patient winter approaches. Twice fooled, I've written her first poem and still she's not arrived. It concerns me that having traveled so wearily she may never leave. |
Halloween
by James L. Corcoran
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pumpkins on the stairs candle hearts doorway to we are all inside our houses with care for children where we all know the bogeyman is alone butterflies turn black at midnight in chrysalis they drink up the darkness and then the bats come out and eat them dry ice summons up the mist from the cold and it rains thunder and lightning hour after hour of relentless press water under stress miniature goblins run hectic to and fro across the wet lawns grabbing in tiny little golden paws a hershey bar Satan lord of the porch now pitch red glowing in the opaque night sadistically distant no crying for any one in particular just filled with a huge hot hole curious buy no one in particular watch the water go between the cars don't cross the street without a monitor walk don't run multiple reflector treaty by the man accelerates the whole process and everyone wins winds up home with a bag of goodies and thanks to the president and the future of economics and thank you God for not biting me |
Rain Dance
by Sister Meg Holden, FSP
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Rain, splashing upon my windowpane, dancing silver drops bring sparkle to the gloomy day. Falling rain beckons me out of my cozy room. Leaving my umbrella behind, I join in the dance of the rain, splashing in the puddles so cool. |
A Thousand Tons of Light
for Michelle Kwan
by Mardelle Fortier
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She is lighter than wind, than dancing snow; freer than the breeze, more unstoppable; more weightless than the intent of a cloud, than a note of a violin. She is weighty as whirling rain, as freezing ice; as a grand piano telling stories of tragedy and pain; as struggle, sacrifice into the abyss of the unknown. She is invisible as mist, as visible as flight; silent as confidence, as chilled lips of the moon; heavy as steel of a backbone. |
Gold
by Larry Turner
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There is a heart-stopping thrill to see a glitter among the sand and gravel in your pan or from that likely-looking rock you’ve just struck in California of 1849, Alaska some decades later or perhaps somewhere on earth still unknown. Or so I’m told. I don’t much scramble up mountains or wander deserts and tundra. My taste runs more to Birkenstocks than hiking boots. But I have that same heart-stopping thrill at my window as gold collects in my back yard at a tube of thistle seed. |
And Then There Is the Analyst
by Sally Calhoun
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The analyst, at eighty, sits in his living room having said goodbye to his last analysand, then counts the books in his bookcase, and begins a summing up. The value of his undertaken life seems immeasurable. A few gifts remain in his office; many memories linger, slipping like moonlight through the shadowy corridors of his soul. Does he have one? This particular analyst wonders about that; he has been true to the saga of the libido, forever obedient, and suddenly it is as though he has awakened from a startling dream filled with "aha's." The doctrine seems to have disappeared; he wonders where it is, and why it has gone, and for one terrified moment he thinks he may have wasted his life. The thought is so distressing he counts the ferns on the table by his left hand, scours the wood carving to his right with an abject gaze, and swallows panic. Where did everybody go? The seconds tick away. There is no stopping now. |
Phoenix
by Pat Petros
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The October night buzzed with excitement, lighted by fireflies and anticipation of endless bonfires. Mother and I were on one side of the cornfield, Dad on the other as we took burning brands to set alight dried stalks that Dad had harrowed into long rows--flames roaring from both ends to meet in the middle, and extinguish themselves there. With heat-caressed face and legs I walked, spellbound by the hiss of fire snaking along each row, turning the moon red-- dimming stars and fireflies. Smoke drifted, pungent, hot, until the field, under its nourishing blanket of ashes was left to rest. |
Night
by William Marr
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between today and tomorrow a demilitarized zone marked with black flags |
Swing Dancing
by Barbara Eaton
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Without love, Where would you be now? Hands clasped, Arms out at sides, We come together, Then apart, Hands clasped. Without love, Where would you be now? You twirl me, We nest like spoons, Your arm around me Hands together You throw me forward One hand held tight. I spin under your arm, We still hold hands. Without love, Where would you be now? Smoothly, We come together, hands clasped Arms out at sides And twirl again. Without love, love, love, Where would you be now? |
Hobby
by Wilda Morris
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Don't forget the smallest slight. Keep score of wrongs, made about you in the past. Past records of ruffled feelings, lick your lips while licking glue to save up grudges. Stamp collecting. (Published in Alive Now, May/June 1981) |
Now, Sweet Now
by Alan Harris
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When quiet has its way, a subtle glow may grow inside the heart’s heart. One’s furnishings reflect a different cast of light when silence fills the room. Consonance with core allows a laying down of petty weekday will. All cells become as servants to a Master higher than the calls of sense and self. True, jostlings and lacks and irritating chores await the coming down. Dark evil, multiform, may offer up its dirt, and errors their regret, but in this now, sweet now, a subtle glow is growing inside the heart’s heart. |
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Copyright Notice: Copyrights for all of the above poems remain with the individual authors. No work here is to be reused without permission from its author. |