ࡱ>  b8bjbjVV <<60+ D=== =Hh !FF!b!0H2H2H2H2H2H2H$MO|VH%$!!%$%$VH kHQ2Q2Q2%$   0HQ2%$0HQ2Q2V :@: pp=-4L: HH0HX:x7P 17P:: 7P|Dr!!^Q2T"L"r!r!r!VHVH1r!r!r!H%$%$%$%$7Pr!r!r!r!r!r!r!r!r! :  Linda Amos Until She cupped her hands Behind his head Clenching the short curls And hoped her grip Was secure __. Cause she wasnt Going to let him go Until he kissed her Good and slow Til she forgot Tp breathe inand---out! Linda Amos Feathered Brained and Giddy with Delight! As a small child I lead a very plain and prim existence. There was sickness and quiet desperation in our home. My grandpa suffered with dreaded Parkinsons Disease And its presence haunted our every waking moment. I was constantly being told to be quiet Or else I was ferreted out the backdoor And set on pillows on the porch swing like a fancy ornament So he could rest after his seizures. There was no humor in our household except On the days when my Great Aunt Polly would arrive. Shed sash shay her way in to house, unannounced Wearing peacock plumes and ostrich feathers. She was not a featherbrained female But she always paraded wherever she went In her big wide brimmed picture hats Decorated with ostrich and bright colored feathers! Anyone who ever saw her never knew She was a silk weaver, who wore roller-skates And scissors on her nimble fingers. She was instead the embodiment of frivolousness! She had rouge painted on her cheeks And her blue eyes twinkled. Shed pinch my little cheeks and tell me to cheer up When there was never anything cheerful in our old house! Her invasion of our home was like a breath of fresh air Because she was single, footloose and fancy-free! Whereas my Grandma was tethered to the house, And only escaped infrequently to go to the doctors office for more medicine or to the pharmacy for more pills, That didnt seem to do anything except to empty her meager change purse of its pennies and dimes. I still find myself smiling When I think about those dull old days When Aunt Polly came to visit Wearing a riot of colorful feathers, A silk purse dangling from her rhinestone encrusted wrist, Black gloves and brightly colored high-heeled shoes. Her infrequent dutiful visits to her shut-in sister Were like the carnival coming to town! Making me giddy with sheer bemused delight! As published in The Magnolia Quarterly October 2011. Linda Banks A Lovely Thought Our eighth-grade motto was Hitch your wagon to a star. I never really understood just what that meant. It was a lovely thought, a pretty picture, but in 1956 no one drove a wagon any more. T-birds were all the rage, and speed limits were made to be broken. Elvis was the king. Poodle skirts, can-can petticoats, ducktail hairdos, black leather jackets... these were cool. We lived every day to the fullest, having fun, falling in and out of love, rocking around the clock. Now here we are, more than fifty years later, still talking about how great the Fifties were. Few of us got what we really wanted out of life. But those who did, I wonder if they understood what hitching a wagon to a star was all about? Linda Banks Miss Alta Fear stole the summer between eighth grade and freshman year. We would be minnows in high school, a not-much larger pond than the elementary school where we drifted through the same subjects in a slow progression. We dreaded the new curriculum, algebra, chemistry, even home economics and agriculture, subjects unfamiliar to us. Most of all, we feared English, even though our eighth-grade certificates attested to our mastery of basic language-arts. It was a deeper, more complex fear. Upperclassmen taunted us with truth gained from experience: the English teacher was strict and mean. We were mixed-up like milkshakes by the first day of school. We arrived on time, loaded down with new supplies and an armload of oversized apprehension. In the English classroom, she stood at the chalkboard, writing her name, Alta Hawkes, in beautiful cursive, white dust trailing her hand. As she turned to face us, she pushed her glasses back from the tip of her nose, magnifying hazel eyes into beacons we soon found out didnt miss a thing. Her hair was the color of a used string mop, shingled short around her pudgy face. She had a short, stocky frame and a booming voice. Our dread had become reality. She was strict. She was scary. She yelled when someone dozed or didnt do their homework, but she wasnt quite what we expected. She liked to hear and tell good jokes. She made English fun, even diagramming and poetry memorization. Best of all, she brought in a case of cold Coca-Colas to celebrate success. With grudging appreciation, we learned grammar and a lot of literature. We even made mangled efforts at writing a poem or two. Every year throughout high school, she guided us down rivers of learning. We never told the younger kids the truth, just passed along the legend, telling it the same way it was told to us. Linda Banks Love Me Tender, Love Me True I was there the first time Elvis died, a dramatic demise in black and white on the big screen of the Grand Theater. Four friends and I sat in the prickly seats of the back row on the left side, sniffling in the dark. When the lights came on, we blew into tissues as we single-filed through the lobby. A male voice taunted, AwElvis is dead It was 1956. Although we had grown up on make-believe, our grief seemed real as we walked into the twilight of innocence. When I heard someone repeat those words in the taunting technicolor reality of truth, I thought of my friends from the Fifties, how we loved dancing to Blue Suede Shoes and Dont Be Cruel, how all of us fell under the spell of the Sixties to Cant Help Falling In Love With You, how we lost touch with each other, and how Elvis lost touch with himself. That August night in 1977, the lyrics of Are You Lonesome Tonight? haunted me, and I knew this grief would last forever. Jan Benson  Chris Boldt CANYON ROAD, SANTA FE two unspoken monologues The Shopper: A jumble of Spanish Colonial artifacts against white, expensive walls: a shop on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. The clerk, an art major, pre-recession, says she loves the pieces, as if they were her own. She introduces us to this new world: an infant Jesus, carved and crowned, circled by milagros, silver shoes, meant to hasten His return; candelabra repousses, clusters of crucifixes, smoky retablos; bultos: every sort of santo that might have urged the Spaniards to kneel, repent, adore, their tortured Lord, in cathedral or in hacienda . On a ledge, above all this commotion; Christs bleeding head, flanked by two half-men; each (as the clerk explains) in his own purgatory. These scabbed figures, perhaps eight inches tall, meant to perch in holy niches, are licked by circlets of gilded wooden flames. The one on the right is negligible, Made -- even I can see -- by hapless hands. The fellow on the left, a master work, though at first glance he calls to mind cartoons in which men gamble all their clothes away and strap on barrels to hide nakedness. Flames of wood ! As difficult for my eyes to credit as the hell they represent. But, the clerk suggests, Look through this Eighteenth- Century device at the writhing figure. He is an old man with a staved-in chest. His skinny arms implore us passively. A marvel of gesso over wood, his face has a domed forehead, the sunken chin of someone whose every tooth has been pulled. (There are all sorts of purgatories.) His glass eyes, glittering in painted folds, seem almost kindly as he inclines, more concerned to caution viewers than to seek his own redemption. Was he done from life? The sculptors father? Perhaps a patron, one whose commissions had been generous? Chris Boldt The santero carved wood to make the head, sawed it from side to side, then gouged two holes in from behind, to set the eyes in place (the clerk has told us how such craftsmen worked), before he sealed the whole, applied the coats that evoked features of a well-loved face. What were his thoughts as he worked the wood, and curved his hands to carve each tongue of flame? Did he hope to hasten heaven by making the fire brighter? The flames higher? A conspectus tormentorum that need not touch the body, but by its very sight might purge the represented figure. Could he guess that, once it left his hand, the piece would undergo another test: the peine forte et dure of Time, that cracked the gesso laid on with such care and allowed the woodworm to infest? Or did he simply carve what he believed he must, and leave to Gods deciding things he could never know? And so, with his tools and hands, perform his own auto da fe? The Clerk These two folks show all the signs of having seen enough. Their glazed eyes and crumpled maps say they caught this shop coming down the hill. He is bored. But since coming through the door, she has become attached to holy things made to caution men against desire. I could tell her much about such feelings, but I keep my counsel, hand her my business card. This couples wardrobe is not by Gucci Their jeans and shoes are ragged. Their cameras, Easy Share. If she returns, it will be to yearn for, not to buy, the little man who burns in his perpetual fire. And perhaps a second look will tell her something of that hungry flame: how we, each and all, dwell within its glittering wreath. ^ Chris Boldt Cassy Burleson A Womans Experience Copyright by Cassy Burleson, August 23, 2011 Thinking of starting another semester with too few resources And now, nearly delirious from the smell of mothballs in my attic, I went to Wal-Mart to get in touch with God and the prevailing ethos and Came home to plant an Anacampseros rufescens from South Africa on my porch. Im calling her Annie for short, and like me, shes drooping in some places somewhat, But shes reported to revive to form small fabulous rosettes with her fleshy leaves, and Turn royal purple in bright light. And Annies also reported to produce bright pink blooms. Imagine that. Pink flowers on a cactus plant .... So I figure if Annie can survive the ride, so can I. Annie and I are two peas in a pot, metaphysically speaking, both worried about adequate drainage, Cramped in there with the industrious ants and damp dirt in this summers relentless August scorcher And Annies in the same blue pot with a scrambling aloe from South Africa, whose healing powers And orange and yellow flowers attract hummingbirds and that scrambling aloe is already inches taller. Im feeling a little wilted myself tonight. You know its never that I expected to be a plant protected, But at this point, some difference to age and enthusiasm would be respected, especially by me. Yet Annie preaches resilience. Drought tolerant, she says. Protect from frost. Provide bright light. Water thoroughly, when soil is dry. Young Annie is wise beyond her years and I am still optimistic. Ego Is Not My Relative Feb. 7, 2012 I know what it feels like To be the smartest woman in a room And look over to the smartest man, and think, I got that. Men must feel this way all the time. Power is a wonderful high, even when its illusionary. And Im sure its the opposite of how I feel when I hear a commercial That says . Which also may cause erections lasting more than four hours. And Im sure the smartest man in the room feels just the same. Cassy Burleson Hail Padre, Full of Grace Summer 2005 By Cassy Burleson Rich blue-veined urbanites hit the beach hard in their BMWs, Red hair blazing on pearlized skin. But theyre not half so bright As the natives in the local tourist shops who make change Over coconut scents wafting over plastic trinkets and sand castles, All courtesy of Jimmy Buffet breezes, third-world labor and Wal-Mart . Tourists roll their ice chests, hurl Frisbees and place umbrellas over Bright new bikinis pasted on slathered down bodies. These folks havent Been licked by that lucky ole sun in decades maybe ever. Ultra-violet rays lap up those clouds and clouds of lard AND the Perfectly aerobicized bikers and Zumba-ites with equal abandon. Twilight moves to night moves and sunrise drives some to hideaway places Where only drug dealers and weekend natives feel safe, and then fantasies End all too fast, even faster when tourists return to big-city sounds, and Some are left with restless, sleepless, sad and lonely aloe vera nights, Beached, bleached and bronzed. Some still waiting for the afterglow . Our smiling Padre waves hello, goodbye, come again soon, all caught by Kodak. And it all becomes bigger and better with each new telling and re-telling in Circles of water cooler chatter and wind-burned retrospection. Hello ... Goodbye ... Come again soon . Padre of happy beginnings, ever-after endings. Get your shot at paradise right here. And they do because they think its so. Cassy Burleson So Much Light Too Soon Gone Before Some things strike you cold and hard like gun metal on your temple of beliefs. This was the death of Callie Tullos, who was blind-sided on a central Texas road with unexpected curves. Callie went pell-mell into a tree before she or her best friend could half-blink or put down roots. Way too quick, but quick enough for some kind of blessing in that little bit of mercy, at least. It was a heaven-versus-hell birthday celebration. And the hell of it was, Hell won, especially for those left Behind. But Heavens better off for it. Still, I am so, so sad, and Ill miss what Callie could have been Immensely. For Callie Tullos was a jewel, pristine as an artesian spring and in her prime and on the Cusp of success. Yet she was never given half a chance to drink deeply of lifes nectar .... Just a sip of life at only 24 success waiting just around the next corner. Ones next corner can be a Long-off thing, sometimes. Like the line at Wilkerson-Hatch tonight, four hours of full of warm tears and Long hugs. And some cowards who cut in line or left early because they couldnt stand the sadness, once They saw the line or got inside and saw those photographs of Callie so full of energy and life-so-gone. Count me in the latter group after three hours of feet freezing and thinking be-of-courage thoughts While I talked to two of Callies friends from kindergarten through senior year of high school and then, The quiet pharmacy worker who, like me, had only met you recently and yet, couldnt believe she would Never hear you say, Hey, girl! again. The funeral guys seemed sad, too. One young man thought you were beautiful but never met you, and The older fellow let me out the door gently with the understanding eye of too much loss too soon. Callie Tullos, you were that kind of girl, a woman wise beyond your years, a woman full of small-town Values, long-term friends and swells of love. Waves of friends ... some of whom you hadnt met yet. Mores the pity. Frankly, its hard to understand a death like this or a God like that. And so tonight, I didnt take down of the Christmas tree on my front porch. I turned ON the lights again. Callie, you were full of so much light. So much kindness ... So much promise And gone way too soon. And so, if youre looking down tonight, I hope you like those Christmas lights left ON for you tonight. Because sweet Callie Tullos, you always were a sparkler looking for a celebration. Shirley Carmichael Sky Cleaner The naked elm tree roused itself, and, nursing at the mothers breast, nourished root and trunk and branch, and, wakened from a winters rest. Shivering in late winters chill, bursting bark to bud and bloom, It eagerly swept the dusty sky, and cleared the grey with blossom broom. Elm, sky cleaner of the spring, demanding a payment for the deed, draws its life from mother earth, and repays her with its seed. Solution One morning, I asked Baby Doll if she had seen Santa Claus? She answered Yeahow. I believed her. I asked her if she had been a good girl? She answered Yeahow. I believed her. Two months later, I asked her if the four tiny babies in the sewing room corner were hers? She answered Yeahow. I believed her. In the next 6 weeks, I am going to have Baby Dolls Yeahow fixed, You CAN Believe That! Shirley Carmichael FIRST VISITORS Alone, in circle, and, by row they wait so humble heads bowed low. They come when winter nears its end, announcing springs around the bend. Though much too shy to meet our gaze, they seem to note our smallest praise; that which we give with lavish hand, applauding the bounty of their stand. Salmon, peach, yellow, white, technicolored blooms, so bright, painting the landscape, vales and hills, those blushing, beauties, Daffodils. Christopher Carmona xicanismo haikus uno lechuza on a high wire a sparking transformer the air waves sing in static a crying woman has drowned her children in a river my ears hide behind shut Is. darkness spills out a crack my closet door ajar el cucuy el cucuy whispers in the dark. devil at the baile cool red jacket dancing all night long on hooved heels. as I lay sleeping bed made of dreams a huevo hides under my bed. dos the rio grande river redundant name my home mi frontera calente dry indios and spaniards both in line at the checkout speaking neither tongue. mexican american chican@ I like winter stand between summer and spring NO FALL! bless me grandma I am not catholic I cannot afford it! Christopher Carmona tres sitting in the corner dunce cap on father, why speak Spanish in class? dressed for Saturday night my sisters quincenera she is a woman for tonight. cactus nopal cactus nopal prickly spines in my nalgas oh ancient plant I cannot love you! mom spins cures for grandmas hands spider webs for stitches aloe vera for soothing a coke for headache. fajitas on the (mex)quite grill beers in my tios hands tripas in the ground its Saturday night. cuatro susto got me in my sleepwalk cant wake me up might kill my dream in mid-belief. Ive never had mal ojo my grandma says never let bad thoughts inside. raining, pelting, hailing outside my bathroom not like Mary on Sunday more like Jesus hanging on velvet cross. poets were killed on the day after conquest of the indios cant have colonized minds reading. dreaming and reading make me write and sing no stringed instruments or airy notes just me, mi voz, quiet like a lion purring for the pride. Christopher Carmona cinco karakawas guerreros danced on South Padre beaches mextiso children sell chiclets on concrete bridges los flores reynosa e matamoros progresso mcallen and brownsville driving down 281 in buick skylark with purple clouds dancing with bright sunshine and windows rolled down breeze on the cuff of my sleeve. bats in the bark sucking sweet nectar from nefarious looking grapefruit tree dad with a shovel SPLAT!!! last sound on radar. greened coke bottle filled with water very dry on the other side grandpa says it keeps the dead quenched. tlacuache running on my roof slips and spills can hear scurrying no more now on ground with lost footing ego bruised. torn summer swing rocking back and forth across America cold and dripping sugary raspa red plastic straws stabbing holes for memories to fill. C. Wally Christian Kite The morning dawned breathless and long-listening Until a freshling April breeze Moved through the new leaves of the red oak. And a kite, silver and black, Like a knight in fulgent armor, Floated weightlessly overhead. I watched his bouncing, lilting, lyric course Across the meadow, Riding the currents of the air On slender, elegant wings, Then back in one long sweep Until, almost overhead, He barrel-rolled like a circus tumbler, Seized a flying bug And devoured it midair. If you must be predatory, Be graceful. The Minstrels Where have all the minstrels gone Who sang when I was young, So young I believed that rainbows were real, Like the rocks and trees around us? Where have all the minstrels gone? We welcomed them as they came over the hill In their colorful tights and their piebald jackets And their lutes inlaid with rosewood and ivory. . They had bells on their caps and their sandals And their songs were warm and full of laughter. They werent afraid to be foolish And they werent afraid to be tender And to sing of honest lovers Who did not change when the west wind turned And the north wind blew through the valleys. Where now have the minstrels gone? Oh yes, there are singers of songs But their eyes are hard And their songs are hard And the children who follow them are so old, And the children know, O, they know That lovers love only til daybreak And that rainbows are mere refractions. C. Wally Christian The Girl (1931-2011) Four! There were four of us in all, And we were the middle, she and I I was second and she was third. She was petite and lovely; I was always glad of that. The girl should have the looks, I thought, The girl among the boys. She had her own room, she being one, And we, we shifted around The sleeping porch, the basement room That was OK; we liked it that way. And when the church lads and the neighbor lads Began to gather round, Woe be to him who raised his voice to her For she was my sister. But I never let her know. I never let her know We were laughing one day And remembering and cherishing. And recalling how much we were the same, We two in the middle And she was beautiful, Even then. Hodie Hodie Christus natus est, The stars of night fade in the west, Hope and life are newly born Upon this pristine Christmas morn; Hodie! Hodie! This day embracing every day This mote in time enfolding every hour, Purging our stygian dark at last away, Bringing the snows of human grief to flower Breathing upon us heavens thawing breath, Banishing in birth the pain of death. Herein is lifes bitter heart made sweet Herein is creation made complete Herein are earth and heaven wholly blest, Hodie! Hodie Christus natus est. C. Wally Christian What Child is this? What child is this, Welcomed by such wondrous auguries, And yet as full of flesh and blood as we? Fingers, toes, as any nurseling child, Eyes to peer and wonder, Lips pressed to Marys breast. What child is this? Not stifled by omniscience Or blinded by the glory of the Father, But senses to feel, to laugh and be surprised, And, Ah, a heart to love and grow in love. Lacking no jot of my humanitity, Blood of my blood, Flesh of my flesh. Yet herein is the mystery unfolding, The sacrament of God incarnate now at last. Rejoice! Rejoice! Finitus capax infinitum! Beasties Thank God for beasties, feathered. scaled or furred, Leopard, lizard, beaver, bass and bird, Creatures of the wet and of the dry. Things that run or wriggle, flit or fly, Things that peer above the waving grass And fix their eyes upon me as I pass, Curious of this strange, bipedal thing That strides their April meadows like a king, For creatures frigid, temperate or tropic, Vast as Leviathan or microscopic, For things that live and love and swarm and teem And--Who can say?-- perhaps like me, can dream. How tedious to live our days alone With lifeless, stolid dust and silent stone, Never to know the throbbing world before us Nor waken to the woodlands morning chorus. Marilyn Clark LINKING For DW Seat. 11. 2010 The churning water & wind of the Caribbean drove Hermine far inland & flooded the home of a friend who installed large fans to turn all night to dry the floors, but fans malfunctioned & fire broke out. & the dog that used to sleep at the foot of the bed wasnt there any more to rouse her mistress who was asleep at home because she declined a friends invitation to spend the night, & cause of death was listed as smoke inhalation & burns. BONE COLD The ice hangs from the eaves like a harvest of parsnips. My walking stick stabs the ice and I take a small step toward the mail box, but an icy blast demands a turn about. My shoulders haunch over and dead leaves swirl about and stick in pockets of snow at odd angles. Strip off the mittens, and ivory finger tips reveal Raynauds syndrome aka deadmans fingers. Feb. 2. 2011 Lee Elsesser Artifacts of Life In memory of Bob Hill, 1939-2011 Always moving hack in time, you spent much of your life seeking pieces of the long ago. You rode the weathered ruts of westering wagons, found the fainter trails of unshod ponies, the winter camps in riser canyons, found the arrow points spear beach, stone knives and scrapers, tools and weapons of the ones who came before, Clovis, Folsom, Apache and Comanche, all the ages of the tribal plain. Walk into the sun, you told me, flint reflects a different light I never saw the flash you saw, never found an arrow head and you collected hundreds. You told me you once rode into a clearing on a butte, into a ring of grinders and grinding stones, manos and metates, In a partial circle, its sacred gap open to the rising sun, one water-polished fist-sized rock lay in the work worn center of every rough sandstone slab, as if tipis still stood behind the stones, as if women In deerskin dresses had just stepped work and on mocassined feet slipped unseen into the evergreens at the sounds of your approach. In my half-dream-world of writing, I see you riding now weaving through the junipers and pinons, weaving through the centuries, through a hundred centuries from one into another with each stride of the horse. Hat pulled low on your brow against the brightness of the day. eyes shadowed, swceping. searching for that special glint of new sun on ancient flint, Lee Elsesser you ride and find tipis in a partial circle open to the morning, women kneeling at their grinding stones, whispering behind shy smiles, the armorer at his stack of points, waving, calling you to see his work. End Piece It is a sudden country, this Colorado corner as if God just turned away in the middle of its making and left everything not so much incomplete as misarranged or unaligned so that time, in its coming, hovers first in the unforeseen and unexpected. Perhaps, it was the last piece in the entirety of creation and, weary of the task, He took no time to add the final polish, leaving form rough-edged and raw, immensity unadorned, beauty so abrupt as to threaten the eye and dare discovery. He might have started here and fresh, experimental, sought the balance between bounty and desolation that makes survival possible but never effortless, and finding the test here too severe for most of those hed send, went on to cast the farther world from softer, gentler molds. It is a sudden country; death always easier than living no challenge in the dying any fool can rush to that. To find gumption enough to run together the days that make a life: Ah, that demands an inner steel and flint to strike a daily spark to light the search. Those who bear that fire endure-- unrelenting like their land. Patricia Ferguson The Grasshoppers Ode to the Ant Because the Grasshopper has a point of view For Gail, the equipment works, the coffee pot, the ice machine, the wheels of society that never, never turn for me. For Gail, with efficiency, can bake a pie or mend a roof. I have satisfactions, too, but little built. I know the rhythms each by name and can discuss the use of each. I understand the art of rhyme, but Gail can spell. I reap a harvest sown for me by Milton, Donne, and Blake. I parse the passages of time. For Gail, the work gets done. Patricia Ferguson Patricia Ferguson Patterns on the Window in the Rain We meet, retreat, sway to and fro, we touch, unite, our lives entwine like raindrops flow together. Now soft and gentle, caressing touch, lace curtains on the window. Rivulets wavering, watchful, distortions of the outside pageantry. Hidden, we speak, our mouths concealing. The rain now hard and drumming, falling fast, sheets of water flowing past, our souls revealed in conflict, as clear as window panes. We meet; we merge; our lives like molecules entwine in endless, flowing drops of water, taking as we separate, a little of each other. Patricia Ferguson James (Jerry) Herring I WISH I WAS A STAR I WISH I WAS A STAR HIGH IN THE SKY I WOULD SHINE SO BRIGHT THE WORLD WOULD KNOW THAT NO CHILD WOULD EVER CRY FROM FEAR OR WANT I WISH I WERE A STAR HIGH UP IN THE SKY SO BRIGHT, SO BRIGHT I WOULD DESTROY ALL THE WORLD'S WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. THE CHILDREN WILL NEVER CRY AGAIN. JAMES CARROLL HERRING JULY 26, 2011 James (Jerry) Herring LASTING PRESENCE In the stillness of the early morning, Your fragrance comes to me and I am awed. I smell your touch, and feel your limbs, Slowly reaching for mine. I know your being and want to be ever so much closer. You came and stayed with me in my darkest night. Your presence was eternally there. Your will guided my thoughts throughout. And now, as dawn approaches, I anticipate your lasting presence......forever. Copyrightjherring. 2004 James (Jerry) Herring 3-21-2012 BAYLOR LADIES They're not little girls anymore. No dolls or buggies Just a ball A basket ball Why Baylor? Why Mulkey? Why Waco? They came from many miles away. Some flew, some walked, some drove. Texas, Arkansas, Michigan From all over the USA They want to be Champions. They have not lost a game. They are 40-0 God be with them as he has been since Day One. Go Lady Bears, Go Coach Mulkey. James Carroll Herring J. Paul Holcomb Just Past Pin-High I love my pitching wedge, all that weight on the club head, and a length that enables me to propel it better than any other club in my bag. Then again, that's my problem. When I use the wedge I swing all out and the ball flies farther than it should. And when I try to finesse my pitching wedge, I miss entirely or miss enough to dribble a gashed golf ball into the waiting rough. But one time in Abilene I was hitting into the wind on a very short par three and I swung that wedge like I always wanted. The ball flew into the clouds as if it were my messenger, and when my golf ball reached Heaven's door perhaps God blew it back. My ball dropped from the skies about five feet beyond the flag, bit grass deep and spun back four. It stopped one foot from the pin and for an instant I had a vision of perfection. I have swung my pitching wedge hundreds of times since that day, but neither God nor any wind has ever again overseen my golf ball according to my fantasies. Still, every time I swing my pitching wedge I remember Abilene; I remember a white sphere falling from the clouds, falling just past pin high ... near perfection. J. Paul Holcomb Published first in The Texas Poetry Calendar. J. Paul Holcomb The Sputnik Challenge, 1957 Southwest of Abilene they tried to join the rocket race. They planned the launch to save our U.S. pride. With Sputnik as the process guide these college guys made their bold stand southwest of Abilene. They tried to send forth first a mouse named Clyde. Hed be the hero if he manned the launch to save our U.S. pride. A left-out music major cried, Wait a minute, we need a band. Southwest of Abilene they tried just once--the rocket rose, then died. The platform burned. Our brave men canned the launch, to save our U.S. pride. The college president just sighed, ignored their bid (but thought it grand.) Southwest of Abilene, they tried the launch to save our U.S. pride. J. Paul Holcomb Published first in The Texas Poetry Calendar. J. Paul Holcomb Vincent Van Gogh, Self Portrait, 1889 I know that guy; Red Carter was second string on our freshman basketball team. Wouldve played more if hed practiced more. The coach couldnt trust him. An inability to control his middle finger, right hand, didnt help either. He got pitched once for extending it toward the referee, another time for aiming it at the stands. Fans booed him and Red didnt like it. Our art teacher tells me thats the portrait Van Gogh painted of himself in the nineteenth century, but I know better. Thats Red Carter and Sarah Cornelius painted it, probably in fifth period. Miss Metcalf helps me to appreciate art, and I appreciate this piece. Reds eyes stare daggers from the canvas; I think his boiling temper is about to blow. Ill tell Big Luke. He told Red to calm down or he would rip his ear off. If Miss Metcalf shows me another portrait with an ear missing, that will prove its Red. He hasnt calmed down. J. Paul Holcomb First published in Illyas Honey. Thom O Joy WHITE IS CHINESE FOR DEATH so she ate only Green for growth no refined -just rough,raw,real foods- no white bread,sugar,flour,white cancer cells more Brussels sprouts,broccoli,peas,beans-thin foods that passed and did not stay with her Color meant a lot to her- pink blush of high blood pressure pink skin where sun burn kissed with cancer She loved brown mud earthen colors Shades that sang of tree and bush,earth and water All she digested,she became. She had no name Gaia. AS YET UNREAD books awaiting eyes and time movies i may never see places i may never visit things i may never accomplish IT IS ENOUGH!(says this ant when looking@the Pyramids Mountain can only be mountain Water can only be flowing Stagnant or still,loses vitality /energy like birds in a cage or animals in a zoo We lose who we are when borders and limits Sky ends somewhere near space Rain needs clouds to displace We need each other more than i can say Thom O Joy BARBER SHOP VERSES You clip your hedges and your hedge funds You hedge your bets by twice digesting People like the sheen of applied enamel rouge I hear blood beating beneath the skin Once each and only original and unique Each of us a co-creation.Cut your cloth according to your art's fashion Allow me form experimentation Most confusing?Response ability- when i criticize rather than appreciate how many languages we are how much lost in translation Walk your footsteps-you are in them Notice how in time we all arrive@different destinations? THOM O JOY March 21,2012 Catherine LHerisson Confession It was not how she wanted to spend her Friday, any Friday for that matter, but especially not this one-- Good Friday before Easter. Her husband was going to be off work that day, kept nagging her about taking this class, reminded her of their long road trips, how they sometimes drove through rough or remote areas. So on Good Friday, instead of focusing on the suffering Saviour who laid down his life to pay the penalty for her sins, she found herself listening to a vulgar-mouthed policeman. Later, wearing ear protection, gripping a semi-automatic pistol, she shot the orange B-27 Dillinger body target fifty times, felt as if she had been the one that had betrayed Jesus, had pierced His body, spilled His blood, shattered His heart with her very own hands. Published in Voices Along the River by the San Antonio Poetry Fair 2010 Catherine LHerisson Only a Candle Lord, you are All Light. In your service are lesser lights-- from floodlights that bring great illumination, to small nightlights that dispel fear in the darkness. And yet, I would count it privilege to be only a candle. Catherine LHerisson 1st place Printed in A Book of the Year 2008 published by the Poetry Society of Texas What Imagination Can Do She shifts in summer sun, leans her head back on the seat, turns her hearing aids off. With eyes closed, she relaxes on a beach in the Bahamas. Sweating, she is glad she dressed in sleeveless top, shorts, beach thongs, this morning. Occasionally, a slight breeze flows through, caresses her cheek. After a while, she sits up straight, reopens her eyes to blazing sun, turns the hearing aids back on. Her husband is still cursing as he tinkers under the hood of their stalled car blocking the left-turn-lane in this city steeped in Texas heat. She leans back in the car seat, turns her hearing aids off again, closes her eyes, returns to the beach. Published in 2012 Texas Poetry Calendar by Dos Gatos Press Catherine LHerisson Willow By The Water Willow By the water, So small and pliable, Will you survive the wind and waves? Stand strong. Alone And by yourself, Youve learned to draw away From wind and waves that threaten you. Stand firm. Rebuffed By strong gales from Opposite directions, You sometimes lean toward the waves. Stand straight. Willow By the water, Growing over the years, Opposing winds have made you strong. Stand tall! 1st place Printed in A Book of the Year 1989 published by the Poetry Society of Tex Patrick Lee Marshall June I dont know what happened, only that June Rushed into my life like a summer storm, Nights filled with thunder and lightning. Laughter filled days, air perfumed with joy. Passions fires exploded anytime, anywhere. Laughter and love, songs we sang to each other. Like the flood for forty days and forty nights We tasted love and life, all of its delights. As the sun left, at the end of a summer day, June just got up and quietly slipped away. As I Lay Dying When I lie dying, As they say. I will pray to see her. Though I will not anyway, My love, Shes half a life away. Note: Title Borrowed from William Faulkner Patrick Lee Marshall Shadow Wars A lightning bolt, a brilliant white Shatters and wakes up the night With an instant thunderous boom Drives all shadows from the room Dark creatures in the shadows stay Detest and cringe at the Light of day They move more freely in the night Devoted to creating needless fright When daylight comes its no mystery Back into the shadows, they all flee There they may rest, but never sleep When night returns, back they creep On the brightest days creatures thrive Buried in the shade, they stay alive Continuously move to avoid the sun In corners creep and along curbs run Hide behind objects, trees or walls Slipping over fences like waterfalls Ever moving, slinking and crawling Hideous apparitions, deeply appalling These creatures try to take the sun With darkness surround everyone Shades of gloom, opposed to Light Through the ages these two fight In storms they quickly jump around Followed by lightning and sound Endless battle thru time and space Light fighting, the darkness to erase When the dark clouds seem to win Here comes lightning screaming in Awesome power, intensely bright Leaving no shadows, even at night Started eons ago, this war still rages And it may go on for countless ages But there will come a wondrous day When Light will drive shadows away Patrick Lee Marshall Through Rose Colored Glasses Another set of pictures arrive in my in-box. An email with friendship pictures attached. You know the kind, cute photos of animals and people. Messages imbedded amongst the pictures and at the end a promise that if you will send this message to seven of your friends something wonderful will happen to you tonight before 11:23 p.m., something you have always wanted. This isnt a joke, dont break the chain. I wonder how much of this needless chatter clogs the internet bandwidth with messages spreading like viruses in a warm humid bathhouse. And to what end? Hope springs eternal, and some people will be compelled to reply with false hopes or nonchalance telling themselves, It couldnt hurt. And time and time again they follow these instructions like sheep lead to shearing, if not slaughter. Many of these are God fearing people believing that all things come from Him and forgetting that He is not easy on any who hold to false images or hopes above Him and yet they still pay tribute to these charlatans who reference Him, but are not representing His Word. The thoughts are sweet like a womans lips that can lead you into temptation, enticing you to gamble on this idea and see what happens, luring you into a habit that can become addictive and non productive, sitting for hours in front of a screen serving a god of light, fast flashing colors, and sound. I chuckle at the innocence and absurdity of it all; recalling when people truly believed they could see the world differently from everyone else, simply by looking through rose colored glasses. Anne McCrady Piece by Piece My kitchen is filling up with the remains of people whose families have taken care of the business of dying. Cleaned-out closets and attics eulogize a life with boxes of bargain-priced items from widowed houses they will re-label as starter homes. Mr. Ludwig officiates these ceremonies. Like a mourner, he follows obituaries from street to street, house to house, hosting the estate sales in our town, his moveable shop the card-tabled rooms of my remembered friends. Knowing I will come to pay my respects, Mr. Ludwig, like a pastor, sets aside sacred cups and trinkets for me, wraps them in newspaper stories I read as solace when, in my loss, I ask how I will go on without my precious neighbors. His practical sacrament offered piece by piece. Jackie Mills Spring 2/11/2012 My daffodils sprouted green leaves, felt the cold and refused to bloom. The Yellow Cowards! The peach tree is poking out picture-perfect pink blossoms. The squirrels are excited. Save me some! Our Red Bud tree caught fire overnight, Ablaze with fragrant fuchsia flowers. The bees are frantic. The new Red Oak, applied a tender bark, Cat sharpens his claws on the new find Mine! He claims. The pecan trees are silently sleeping They wont budge until after Easter Sleepy heads. Texas Mesquites, wise beyond their years, Wait, and wait until the last frost is over. Then it is spring. Baby To-Be 3/19/2010 Were pregnant, shouted the to-be Mother. We are so excited, said the happy Daddy to-be. Can I tell my friends, asked the to-be Grandma. Im only six-weeks PG, exclaimed Mother to-be. I cant wait very long, chided the to-be Grandma. Its about time, added the grinning Granddad to-be. Well paint the basinet, persisted the to-be Greatgrampa. Start a savings account, chimed the Greatgrama to-be. Another grandchild, announced the experienced Grandad A new baby to love, cooed the Grandma of three. Im running away from home, purred the cat! Jackie Mills Cats Under the Couch 1/25/12 It was a dark and dreary night Thunder rumbled, and crashed Lighting flashed its eerie light And the cat ran under the couch Our deaf neighbor came to bore us His great, gravely, grinding voice reaching 100 decibels, or more. And the cat ran under the couch The doorbells incessant ring foretold a young childs impatient arrival. The door opened to peals and squeals And the cat ran under the couch Turn the TV down. he hollered Its a commercial, was her shout I hate loud commercials! he railed And the cat ran under the couch. Fil Peach Firefly She is blinking bright bioluminescence haunting night when she breathes into the darkness in my life. I am led afield in staggering pursuit only guessing where and when she next might shine. Once or twice, when I thought that I was close enough, I tried to hold her for a moment in the net of love. I was nave to think that she could live within my airless jar or that she might shine just for me. When she felt release, she shone again with the cool green glow that lights within each breath, like a beacon warning my souls ship away from rocky death. Fil Peach The Window The window looks up or even a hollow closet door at Sandia, a mountain that gets more than royal purple before the its share of action. dawn of morning sun, namesake watermelon red The window sees in the days last rays, the front door swing, wishing it could be get propped open there once again, or by the rock, then in the semi-arid sandscape the approach, the reach between them. the touch of hands a quick release The window looks in Aaahhhh, across a cluttered room, a breath of fresh air. lit as though it was an afterthought, But then, wishing it could be warm and wet, or a solid door, unlocked, cold and dry, or latch thumbed and pulled splashed, icicles hanging, or tripped and pushed, snow collecting on the sill, or an open bedroom door, locked down tight whose knob gets or opened up, touched, turned and polished clean or dirty, every now and then; you always could see right through me. or a bathroom pocket door, fingered in its slight depression, slid open, its hook tricked open, being closed again, Fil Peach The Breath I held my breath to hold that blue-gill perch, the first of all the fish I ever landed. I held my breath in taking from the mist-net the first hummingbird I ever banded. When they started to announce in Fort Worth that my physics project had won, I held my breath; and then again, my freshman year at Baylor when the Science All-Stars national TV show was run. I held my breath when I first saw, in the cafeteria that fall of 94, the love of my new life. I held my breath lying with her on her parents couch when she said shed be my wife. When we took Tlphrique, the bubble tram in Grenoble, above the Isre River, I held my breath; and then again, when the valley views from Bastille Hill, high above the city, made me shiver. I held my breath as we stood in Cathedral Notre Dame, becoming acutely aware of all its architectural power. I held my breath to see her birthday smile in Le Jules Vernes upper restaurant deck of the sparkling Eiffel Tower. When I looked up inside the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican, in Rome, Michelangelo inspired such awe, I held my breath; and then again, beneath the dome of St. Peters Basilica, where his moving sculpture lives, the Piet. I held my breath when I looked down at the Azure Coast and sea from the hills just to the east of Nice, purest poetry. I held my breath and clung to cliffs overlooking Monaco; saw cactus garden miracles that will ever seem to glow. From so many mountains, highs, hillsides and caves, scenic drops to valleys far below, great times Ive had with folks in the villages and towns around the many worlds in which I go, to lofty snow-capped peaks, the Alps, the Continental Great Divide, strong feelings I have so deeply felt while standing quietly astride. I dont know, now, how for so long I have so often cheated Death, but for so long, such scenes of beauty I have beheld and held my breath. Terri Poff Reduce, Reuse, Recycle Id forgotten how that smile The way you look in my eyes Makes my heart laugh Draws my soul to you. Here you stand after seasons Of salty rain And rainbows And frozen flowers Bringing back the memories of how ready we were for Christmas In the endless summer. Sailing emotions soothe the truth of How you reduced me To the best And worst of who I am. And yes, we were good. Its true that together, we had more than we deserved. Even though you stand here, unable to remember All the reasons you left my door, As you stir once again the molecules knitting my soul, As you remind me why I loved you so fiercely, There is something whelming up that I know to be true: This broken butterfly that was is not recyclable And the beautifully messy parts of who I am were not made to be re-useable At least, not for you. Terri Poff Sunday Nap above us, the metronome of fan blades hypnotically sways the suspended crystal heart your hand in the small of my back your knees behind my knees I breathe where you breathe rise and fall of our breath becomes our rhythm somewhere in the soul entwined afternoon between the edges of duty and dream my heart has enough Jessica Ray Invisible Even with the cold winter winds of winter it seems to be a Sunday morning ritual near the sanctuary but just outside Clothed in a sari she sits erect but serene with detached interest as curious worshipers pass by Black eyes gaze from her heart-shaped face But now its another day Caught in the fierce north wind a frequent passer-by notices a limp soiled cloth lying where once sat the familiar figure in white. In a flash of Sunday morning memories, he recalls There it lies but shes not there Had icy invisible fingers lovingly shaped the white cloth in the familiar form of her own body Could it be that she is a great old soul come as an Egyptian female pharaoh to share her wisdom or . . . perhaps Mother Teresa revisiting the poor the downtrodden the outcast or . . .. . . Could it be the resurrected compassionate Christ come to Earth in one of his distressing disguises* What is she looking for in her isolated statue-like rapture . . . What does she hope to find redemption . . . love . . . healing . . . Once she quietly confessed Im a private person . . . the only color I wear is white my name is . . . Grace *Mother Teresas thoughts of ministering to Indias poor and outcast Jessica Ray Snapshots of Nature in the City Cobalt blue over arches Earth as diamonds and silver brighten heaven ~~ High on a balcony gentle breezes whisper peace to mother dove nestling in twigs and purple hearts Connection Only through the eyes of love do I see you, truly know you ~~~ Memories fantasies ,,, dreams swirl through my soul like a subterranean river racing silently through the desert Passing through many waters - then past the birth pangs of new life Breaking through to the thrill of loves light I ride on the wings of the wind ~~~ Only through the eyes of love do I see you truly know you ~ Last night you took my hand and . . . led me to paradise Brenda Roberts A Harem of Light Spirits The music seeps into my bones I watch as veils flow retreat and return and the hips follow. The undulations! The zells! right, right, left, right, left cover the music laughter entwines first the arms the shifting movements rapidly chasing brass Oh to dance! My hips, seated, protest each attempt to reach up to join this harem of light spirits Flirty eyes, smoky above the sea of shimmering scarves flutter into brief butterflies Oh the dance! Myeyes close and my spirit climbs into the ethereal I feel myself again dancing on a twilight sky She does physically what I do ethereally Oh to dance! slowly brass fades hip scarves quieten and I am returning from some other world The music playing my body, seated, and yet I dance. Brenda Roberts River Dance (a haiku sequence) the flames rise as if from her shoes flamenco dancer flames spread into wings tipping the edge of her red skirt thunder! the frantic tattoo of dancing feet from sun to moon the flirt of a flute change with the seasons a circle within a circle their feet not touching ground bodhran, violin -- violin saxophone jive versus jig a war of senses ************************ spring festival all the haiku images no time to write Cliff Roberts, a.k.a. kawazu in the drawer -- a dry pen, blank pages and her obituary (in memory of Peggy Zuleika Lynch) march winds if only I were a kite soaring ... soaring morning sandwich -- I feed the birds my bread mid march -- three more peach irises than yesterday slate grey sky -- the colorful shops of Dublin spring equinox -- stone bowl half full of sun and shadow Naomi Stroud Simmons Letter from Ogden in the Mid-West My Dearest Frances, Isabel and Lanell: How great! My daughters have rhyming names. I may need any rhyme I can find after my welcome in Tulsa and OKC. Hollis Russell, the bookseller, did sell 200 books at his 3-7 soiree, so thus I am writing this with limp arm from shaking hands, shaking hand from signing books, each recipient requesting "just a short, short rhyme with my name" How many different ways can I use "anther and panther" "Driscoll and Episcal" "Brown and crown" "Doubleday and Hemmingway"? in the swamp of oil barons with only my verse and Free Wheeling to defend myself? I was rescued by my host and chauffeured To what I thought would be a quiet dinner And early return to the Biltmore. (Note their fine Stationery.) Not so, a mansion full of guests who parked their oil wells outside, were inside for more autographs and by now the advertised short verse. I was once told: When you do something two times, it becomes tradition. Maybe I can call it An Oklahoma tradition. Tomorrow I greet the Texas Cattle barons. Maybe I should buy boots and chaps with the $51.00 I received for two poems from the New Yorker. I close with all of the love that keeps me in good spirits When I know that we will be together in a matter of days, hours and minutes now. I think of you constantly, even the train hums your names, Frances, Isabell, Lanell, Frances, Isabel, Lanell as I retire to my berth. All, all my love, and. Goodnight my adorable ones, Ogden Daddy p.s. So far no one has asked me to recite Burgess' Purple Cow Naomi Stroud Simmons Published NFSPS Encore, 2002 Naomi Stroud Simmons From the Inside Out Come on in if you wish while Im cleaning house or should I say cleaning out more like sorting and rearranging these thoughts that are hung in corners waiting to be used like the blouse I saved for years knowing occasions would arrive when it would match the day or the mood or the style but the last few times Ive sorted through these deep closets, it has felt too tight through the shoulders and the sleeves are a fraction short and the design is from too many seasons ago when I was younger and plainer, the more basic appealed to me like simple verbs which now I expect to be more durable, more active, more complicated and suggestive, but the problem still comes with discarding them because they cling to the wall and if I pull them loose they cling to me with the static electricity of rubbing nylon on wool or whatever starts this urge to discard useless lines, collected nouns, outdated phrases, passe vocabulary, outmoded styles, dots, dashes, no caps, no punctuation, but as I said Im sorting and they will end up like the blouses in boxes marked DISCARD . Then, yes, as you may already suspect, Ill be ready to put them on the curb, but not just yet. Jeannette L. Strother Midnight Feasts There once was a lady named Gracie who found her nighties getting lacy. when she turned on the light in the middle of the night she caught the moths making them racy. The Blues You are fully consumed by lifes bruises, you are like him, the dark skinned man showering people with wild blue sounds. Those work songs of love and pain that teach staggered summer evening secrets floating in the wind. A liquid, blossom tongue you have let us hear so like the pronounced smells of early morning bouquets wet with dew. This sweetness of musical strains seeks a warm comforting home, a refuge in waiting and wanting souls. The name for these sounds is The Blues. Rainy Day Blues I opened the door into the morning air to watch that rain come pouring down. I stepped onto the porch just looking at that wet, wet ground. It aint a burying day with everyone just slipping around. We got to lower him down into that Mississippi red, running ground. Six white horses wont draw this coach; this aint Nawlins Beat. Six cylinders will pull this Chevy though Tupelos streets. I tilt my head into the air and nature covers my shameful face. While catching the rain in open eyes, I think, dying is a lovers disgrace. Jitterbug Jive! Jitterbugging nerves bebop in rhythm with thumping hearts, a brain rush that could last all night. In and out goes that staccato, mamba beat it pulls, it pushes us together then apart In ectasy, hand tremble an d shake. This aint caffeine baby, Its :LOVElove. , Jan Nichols Strube LESSONS OF MARTIN COUNTY As you reach the top of Ranger Hill, On the interstate going west The land begins to look barren It seems you just left the best. After a while youll notice Mesquite trees and hills of sand. On this stretch of geography You recognize this is Gods own land. Look closer and youll realize There are lessons of life from this earth. In traveling lifes roads, we learn About faith, doubt, and self worth. Mesquite bushes look quite worthless, But they are survivors for sure. Why doesnt the wind just blow them away? Through centuries they endure. Mesquite trees are not quitters. In droughts the roots grow through rock. They provide lands creatures with moisture, And shade for relief of livestock. The blinding sandstorms give us grit, And strength to help through the night. Encouraging us to hold fast once more We find it is worth the fight. Ah yes, this land is fertile indeed. Please do not pass it by. There is much to learn from the promise Of the vast Martin County sky. Jan Nichols Strube THE NICHOLS PLACE If the little farm house could tell the tale Of how it came to be How thankful we were for the good cotton crops Of 1952 and53 At last we would have our beautiful house And it would become our home We eagerly watched as the walls went up We would each have a room of our own Moving day, I remember it well As we claimed our special space Jans room is still in that little house Ever known as the Nichols Place Sometimes the weather was stormy there And life would bring wind and rain Wed wait in the cellar for the storms to go by Until the sun came out again. The house that we built all those years ago Another family now calls their own God bless the new family on our old farm But sometimes I long to go home. Jan Nichols Strube SHADOWS AND LINES We are here for a while In this space and time; Weaving and wondering Thru shadows and lines. We lose and then we find Our way again. We rise and fall. We soar and then we slide. Under autumn leaves. Winter stars are bright with hope; And latent possibilities. The new sun of spring Beckons us to live again. We glow in the summer light And bloom with a newfound thrill; Until the winds of August Bring harvest and autumn chill. Charles Taylor Imagine for John Lennon Imagine youre standing next to Russian genius novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky with the other members of the radical Petrashevsky group, about to be shot by fellow soldiers from your own former military units. Youre pissing in your pants, standing in the December cold, shackled and hooded; the priest, carrying Bible and Cross, has given Gods blessing on your death, the sentences have been read, the tall golden spire on some church nearby has gleamed in the clear sunlight, Dostoyevsky has whispered, Well be with Christ, and his friend Speshnev has replied A handful of dust, The soldiers take aim from fifteen steps away from the scaffolding, I understood nothing before I kissed the cross, Dostoyevsky later said. They could not bring themselves to trifle with Charles Taylor the cross. He remembers Zolas The Last Day of a Condemned Man, and feels a profound indifference to both life or death. He thinks how if he is spared life would seem, every second, endless, and that would be unbearable. Suddenly someone appears waving a white cloth and the soldiers lower their rifles. A carriage clatters into Semenovsky square, and a sealed envelope from Adjutant General Sumarkov is presented and read. It is the Czars sudden pardon. The jokes over. When they untie Grigoryev, they find he has gone mad. The rest of the prisoners feel nothing. They could just as well as have shot us, says Durov. Petrashevsky demands not to be touched, to put on his own chains. Hes placed in a troika and sent into a life of endless exile. Charles Taylor Dostoyevsky gets four years in a Siberian prison and then must be, till death, a soldier. Later he is pardoned and we have this gift to the hearts of all who love to read and seek wisdom. Imagine, when your poor heart feels like torn tarpaper; Imagine, when you hear the killing and torture; imagine and learn to dwell in a hope not born and imagine what Jack* wrote to Joyce* from the Slovenia headed for Tangiers. The ship nearly floundered in mountainous waves five hundred miles out. Jack discovered inside a luminous calm and wrote: EVERYTHING IS GOD, NOTHING EVER HAPPENED EXCEPT GOD Patrick Allen Wright Seaming the Karma Eclectic I. It begins with the packing like for a long trip or to move or to heal a deep cut which has become inflamed lanced and sutured then knowing of the coming tissue a thick scar for questions and answers that re-inflame. II. Our vessels fill, empty lie dropped, chipped, cracked, broken ready to be remade repainted an expectant lavender a reluctant bluebecause that comes to every body. A new convergence of the twain rises from titanic depths from fathoms of the ice-blue North Atlanticmurky also from the Bismarck, Oslo's slip, a new Russian craft the still black sea. Those cold waters breach the warm Gulf Stream visit our coast. Back then, Christopher sailed southwest to reach East and now we climb East to meet West our new dawn in nothingness: Patrick Allen Wright Being comes from non-being caring, sharing and showing that born with nothing but faith emptiness fills with use. III. Tranquility blows harshly picking sands into the eyes, blurring the scheme into reality. We walk straight-lined crosswalks over the tracks, lie beside the timeless soul pool and watch helicopters and training planes fly. Each of us carries autonomy in-belly to become jetsam flotsam fornication almost forgotten forgiven. So now virgins again we, a single unit never before just nor fair, move in this time our gift. Meanwhile anthropologists scientists with clip- boards and calculators further the development of primitive societies Patrick Allen Wright making them new disregarding spontaneous combustion which yields the open universe. In their death, we take their die to cast our vessels newrecreated. IV. Nature orders. Poets remain the watchdogs of God, and also the secretaries of state, the recorders of music sounding from lips whistling through a mouthpiece. Our craft floats allusive and aesthetic picking the reader personally and carrying through turns surprises giving shimmers and glimmers of depth moving the reader to reread and reread meanings on our magic carpet ride through an early morning open art gallery in a garden clipped by God. V. We live as we believe in ourselves. We grow, becoming as we wish, more or less, but also we imbue what we seem to others. We love the Chambered Nautilus with the intricate simplicity feeding and floating in time. June Zaner Senior Prom Redux. If I could do it all over again maybe I would choose the lavender tulle gown and forgo the dusty rose lace with the mermaid bottom, which left me looking mother-of-the-bride instead of prom queen,not the me I was atsixteen, when being sixteen and having long brown hair and dangling earrings was the best thing in the world. That night, prom night,if I'd been young, acted young, and dated a boy who danced instead of holding his Baptist principles to his chest, and not me, wearingmy long white gloves with the little pearl buttons and the pale pink roses beribboned at my wrist. Or....maybe I should have worn pale blue tulle, pinched and gathered in tiny ruffles to the floor, strapless and boned and soft to the touch, sighing softly as I sat with my silver slippers tucked under the skirts, not moving with grace, not moving with my hands clasped behind his freshly barbered neck.... gliding on the polished woodof the Rice Hotel ballroom. Ihad dreamed of this night all year. this night, this magic night, this incredible once-in-a-lifetime night, which we had been aiming toward as surely as an arrow shot from a bow. I never thought my dusty rose lace would, all these years later, remind me, not of that night, but all the others, when the right choice was so obvious and Imade the wrong one. I looked 30, maybe his teacher, maybe an older sister... and he looked like a young Paul Anka, only frozen in stone, as he stared with a hunger he could not quite conceal at the blonde blue-eyed teen, in the lavender tulle ball gown, who swirled away from her date and then back into his arms with the ease of one so sure of her footing that she floated on the waxed glittering floor of the rented ballroom...as sparkling as the mirroredglobe she danced beneath...one step ahead of me, and me, glamorous it's true, but not even part of the race. by June Zaner, February 21, 2012 June Zaner Drama at Possum Kingdom... We knew that Possum Kingdom lake was shallow at this point. Weeds grew along the shore, concealing old cardboard bait boxes, beer cans, now and then a painted lurelay flaking with rusted points. It was ahiding place for rabbits, birds, and the snakes who lived there. The afternoon hadgrown too cold and windy to fish and the lakeside reclaimed the muddy shore where we children stood, puzzling why awooden boat lay half submerged in the murky water, lost.... We'd stopped there to eat a watermelon under a tree my Dad thought would protect us from the chill...salt, pepper, melon, newspaper from the car trunk, and last the old wooden-handled butcher knife he always kept in the glove box, just for this purpose, and who knows what other use he might have had for it.....it always scared me just a little as it sliced through the melons, juice running down the side like blood, staining the news on the paper below....bringing ants to crawl up our legs. My brother and I would eat awhile and swat awhile, legs growing numb with cold and bites while our parentsquarreled, a buzzing sound we knew might turn at any moment into threats and cursing and tears...we waited. Then we watched as my mother, always terrified of water, lifted her skirts and waded out to the old boat which promptly sank with her slight weight tossing her into the stinking water, waist deep, and mortified that her dramatic suicide attempt over some bit of well-rehearsed trivia had come to nothing, no recue from her children or her husband, no life-saving attempt and then hugs all round....just a cold ride home in wet clothes, her shoes filled with the lake's bitter mud,water-bugs smashed against her stockings... we had always known her world would end, we just didn't know how. June Zaner, February 10, 2012 June Zaner fred & ginger in that holy space between dream and reality there occurs a slight victory over time the pair,speckled as guinea eggs, lean shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting the wind that tries to tear them one from the other.... as somewhere a record drops and she lifts her hand, he takes it into his, circles her waist, recalling all the evenings and all the morning songs which called them to the dance somewhere a radio plays a gentle, swirling song, one fred astaire would have lifted ginger up to......hanging just a moment on the floating notes all pink and silver in the air he rubbed his eyes, another day begun, and turned tostop the alarm which had broken into his dream, another flaw in that whole sleep thing that people seem so fond of touting... he tapped his silver cane down the hall to where his mono-breasted lover sat at her writing, slower now than yesterday, still,both up at day-break, eager for whatever might happen, the shine of butter on the breakfast egg, the steam from coffee, the skin sliding from the peach in their mouths... they have loved each other long and well. he lifted his arms and assumed the pose and placed his cane besideher chair she slid, in herflowing gown, into his arms and they both hummed as they swayed in time, in tune....."We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again, some sunny day......" by June Zaner, revised on Feb. 28, 2012 Richard Zaner Beneath A Cool Modigliani Print ---- 2012, R. M. Zaner I was, I suppose, too young really to appreciate most things in that house, rented but still the one I called home. Signs of my mothers efforts to make our mostly rented houses seem cheerful, less gloomy, wherever we happened to be at any time, nomads almost, moving from here to there while I was trying so hard to grow up and get out. I remember that hanging on one wall of the house was an old print, caged in a cheap frame, glass cracked, adding another dimension to it. It hung there on a wall, yellowed with age, across from another wall riddled with appliances hung as if in mockery of that print, dulled gadgetry hinting at our actual style of life There on that wall, nail sticking out, it hung for all the time we lived in that house, there, in that tiny town on the high New Mexican desert, a place on the map only because through it ran the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, as did old U.S. Highway 66the Mother Road, it was called even back in those early days of my life. Beneath that cool Modigliani print, I would sit and think, knowing I was as out of place as was it. But there it hung and I knew it held hidden and curious messages like those Michelangelo is said to have embedded in that wonderful ceiling in old Rome, many still un-deciphered and furtive as that old print on our rented wall in the hallway next to the kitchen. I would sit beneath it on the bench my mother had picked up somewhere, and I, eyes closed, would daydream of brilliantly colored futures where other walls would be draped with strange gadgets, bright medallions of a style of life I would then have, in a then spacious room, where I would, I knew, find myself safe and secure in one of those bright futures. Richard Zaner When Death Ensues from my storehouse of early memories, isolated yet textured like a palimpsest, is this: I am walking on a sidewalk bouncing a ball, when a man shouts at me; I look up and see him standing on the porch of a house, he is angry for he yells at me, stop the damned noise, and he says, more softly, there are people in here, who need it quiet, dont you know, so stop bouncing that ball. I grab my ball, walk up to him and ask whats going on? He raises a hand, points inside the open door. I follow his pointing finger, look and see a man lying on a table, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. He isnt moving. Others surround him sobbing, solemn, all looking at the tabled man except a woman, who turns and looks at me looking at her; she too is weeping, staring at me staring at her. I shudder, turn around and leave, but dont bounce my ball. That was the first time Id ever seen someone dead. Later, I asked several dead friends about that scene, but so far none have responded, not even when I insistently asked one, when he was laid out, barely conscious, in a hospice bed, still alive but fading: Be sure to let me know, Dear friend, what your journey is, the one, I meant, that had not yet Begun, but was surely on its verge I couldnt tell whether he had heard me ask. Later, when I was not in his room, he spoke the last words any of us ever heard: he said, I could swear he was talking to me, when I had earlier asked my question, while he held my hand tightly, grabbing my eyes with his, barely opened: I have no answers, he said, to no one it seemed, but I knew, sadly, he was speaking to me. -- 2012, R. M. Zaner Richard Zane Consider the Moth: who on rapid wing conducts a ritual flirting with its death; yet, innocent of that, dances dizzily about a dancing flame and, with a sudden dip, plunges to the flame, ecstatic still quivering: dying from too much life. -- 2003, R. M. Zaner House of Poetry Program, Wednesday March 28, 2012 All events are in the HYPERLINK "http://www.browninglibrary.org/index.php?id=45913"Armstrong-Browning Library (The Cox Lecture Hall and the Cox Reception Hall are on the ground floor.) 8:45 a.m. Registrationand Coffee ReceptionCox Reception Hall SESSION ONE: [Cox Lecture Hall] 9:15 a.m. Welcome: Dr. Richard Rankin Russell, Chair, Beall Poetry Festival Committee, Department of English, Baylor University 9:30-10:30 Readings from "The House of Poetry" Volume XXIV 10:30-11:00 BreakCox Reception Hall 11:00-12:00 Presentation by Moumin Quazi, Editor, CCTE Studies, Co-Editor, Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas: "State of the Arts and Poetry in Texas Today" Noon-1:00 p.m.: Annual LuncheonCox Reception Hall SESSION TWO: [Cox Lecture Hall] 1:00-2:00 Poetry Workshop by Jan Epton Seale, 2012 Texas Poet Laureate: "If I had my life to live over: Beginnings and Endings in Poetry" 2:00-3:00 Open Floor Readings and Session Closing Remarks      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