Marilyn Downing...8

Meg Eden...6

Lynn Fetterolf...15

Ann Gasser...3

Nancy Henry Kline...7

Louisa Godissart McQuillen...11

Emiliano Martin...5

Carol Dee Meeks...10

(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors

28 lines or less,

formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,

and other shared images.unless stated otherwise

PPS members are invited to submit.

Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received

Target date for sending out—10th of each month

“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..)

April2013201320132013

1.

Marie-Louise Meyers...13

Jacqueline Moffett ...4

Susan Nelson Vernon...12

Loretta Diane Walker...16

Carolyn L.Williams...2

Lucille Morgan Wilson...14

Charlotte Zuzak...9

2.

John Muir Country

—by Carolyn L.Williams

The forest floor--

Mushrooms, violets,

Green clover galore--

Redwoods tower,

The eucalyptus spills its bark,

Aromas refresh the walkers.

Nourished by dew,

Dogwoods, forget-me-nots grow, too.

In open meadows, blooming wildflowers--

Orange poppies, lavender lupine and pink succulents

Add color for hummingbirds.

Once the fog lifts

Above distant hiking trails,

Would-be Ansel Adamses,

Tri-pods and digital cameras aimed,

Capture reflections mirrored in crystalline pools,

Water cascades down granite cliffs,

Spray rises from snow's spring melt.

Nature's living classroom displays

Energy that cannot be spread-eagled on the corkboard.

Preservers prevailed

Over lusting developers.

Photos submitted by Carolyn

3.

THE SPLENDOR OF GRASS

—by Ann Gasser

Botanists explain that grass has no brain;

HorticuituraIsts (I'm sure you'd have guessed it),

say in every front yard it is in high regard;

but in gardens most gardeners detest it.

Grass is shunned and misused, it is often abused,

but undefeatable, immortal, renewable;

it has proved of great worth as it carpets the earth

with a zeal that is quite unsubduable.

While Man disembowels the earth and he fouls

her with deep scars and ugly bare patches,

grass blankets and seals, it soothes and it heals

spreads its green till the whole landscape matches.

When the running of feet to a juvenile beat

tramples grass till its strongest blades flatten,

grass won't mourn, it won't moan, it waits till they've grown

then grows back as lovely as satin.

Even where it's been stained with the blood of the slain,

on battlefields past our forgetting;

In a decade or so it will all barely show

and will look like a lovely park setting.

It defies summer's scorch or the flame of a torch.

It will rarely freeze out in sub zero;

Seeds are sown by the breeze, fertilized by dead trees,

and on golf courses grass is the hero.

So, here's to real grass, may it always surpass

artificial, no matter how tough.

Salesmen may sell you, but bovines will tell you,

that nothing can beat the real stuff.

LAVENDER LILACS

—by Jacqueline Moffett

“In the spring, a young man's fancy

lightly turns to thoughts of love.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

One warm April day, the scent of perfumed lilacs

brought a pleasant memory to mind.

It was the Sunday morning my fiance' presented

me with a huge bouquet of purple lilacs,

heart-shaped leaves still wet with morning dew.

"Thank you, how lovely,

you picked the flowers yourself?"

Smiling, nodding his head, he was pleased

with his token of affection.

Now he spends his days in a nursing home,

thoughts of clustered blossoms far from his mind.

Was the pledge of undying love and the flowers

he brought many years ago still remembered?

Sitting in his wheelchair, a crooked smile crossed

his face and the words, "I think so."

was all he could manage that afternoon.

4.

5.

ONE FOR THE ARTIST

—by Emiliano Martin

Among artists

when originality

brings the ability

to touch…

one can tell the personality

(individual or collectively)

we often enjoy so much.

6.

THE FAMILY’S DOCTRINAL INCLINATIONS

REGARDING SOCK WEARING

—by Meg Eden

Dad and I refuse to believe in socks.

We are not religious adherers to wearing

things on our feet, though Dad sometimes gives in

and covers up to his ankles. Blasphemy!

It’s nothing against sock-wearers. I just don’t want

my socks imposing their belief systems on me. I don’t like

how they cling to my skin like Jehovah’s witnesses.

How they indent their doctrine patterns into my ankles.

When I put socks on, I feel guilty stripping them off,

after their sweat appeals and sticking and staining.

I don’t want their pathos, but only the simplicity of bare raw truth.

We are witnesses only through exposure—what witness

is in hiding? In costume? Witness results in discomfort.

When I walk, the gumballs press against the inside of my foot.

I consider no alternatives. I walk.

BLESSINGS

—by Nancy Henry Kline

I walk the woodland trail.

Two fawns rest in a clearing.

I stop

and sit on a rock.

Their ears twitch, but they sense no danger.

Our Mother Earth binds us.

Their eyes are loving, trusting.

I ponder the cycles of life/death/life.

They are the sacrifice -

nourishing wolves,

and enabling others of their own species

to survive the winter.

I grieve, because I lack their faith.

They let die what must die.

I approach our sacred place,

and tie a strip of white cloth

to the branch of a sapling.

Our Mother blesses us.

7.

ONE BOTTLE ON THE SHELF

—by Marilyn Downing

So ordinary,

dull clay, lightly coated with dust,

the bottle sits upon a shelf surrounded

by objects ordinary in themselves,

its cork jammed firmly into its mouth.

Formed from substance of the earth,

the bottle has endured molding on

some potter’s wheel before firing gave

permanence to its shape and inner space.

But when I take the bottle

from the shelf and pry the cork,

its genie billows forth,

an amorphous cloud expanding beyond

reality into imagination’s copious realm.

The genie at my bidding powers profusions

of sights and sounds, tangs and textures,

travels and treasures and fantasy.

His flying carpet swoops close to earth,

then soars beyond the universe.

Sometimes the journey expands

mere seconds into eternity.

When we alight, my final wish

-- always the same -- restores

the genie to his bottle while I

compress our flight of fact and fancy

into a poem.

8.

9.

SEARCHING FOR STRENGTH

—by Charlotte Zuzak

The weather reflects my feelings today:

the dirty grayness that precedes spring.

I really don't feel like fighting my cancer

or hearing your prognosis prediction, my friend.

The rain and sleet collect like my tears,

anger and hate react to your questions.

Am I doing well? Yes, but today I want to

be left alone.

I drop stitches in the knitting I'm trying to create,

don't follow the book as I try to read.

Self-pity won't cure, won't help me to move.

I leave the house and walk through the woods,

losing myself in what surrounds me,

dropping the depression in bits and pieces,

looking for help from nature.

10.

A POET’S WORLD AND STYLE

(A Mason Sonnet)

—by Carol Dee Marks

It’s not revenge to plan an art display

nor scratch a scribbled scrawl with novice pain;

nor craft ideas ’cross a page of dreams.

Some formal lines address a sonnet’s sway,

some ballads hum with artists skilled in Spain,

and Rondeaus join their songs in French esteems.

Unread, a poem loses writer schemes

as authors’ skill permits a rhyme to reign.

A poet pens clown’s mouth with crimson smile

in whisker points, so work won’t be in vain

and make him steal from ears a rose bouquet

or toss graffiti down the camel‘s aisle.

It is a craft where bards paintbrush their style

of past events and taste along life’s way.

11.

‘TWIXT THE NIGHT AND THE DAY

—by Louisa Godissart McQuillen

When skies are beginning to lighten,

and trees are in silhouette there,

That is the time of the morning

when I go to my Father in prayer.

I praise Him for being my Savior,

and I bless Him for taking my place;

I thank Him for braving Golgotha

as I bask in His warm embrace.

By the time I’ve petitioned and listened,

there’s so much I still want to say,

That I can’t wait to come back tomorrow . . .

in the time ‘twixt the night and the day.

Louisa Godissart McQuillen ©1998

12.

GAEA AND OCEANID

—by Susan Nelson Vernon

Deep soaking rain storms

carried on westerly winds

nourished my garden.

Magnetic moon played its part,

tides falling against the shore.

Forces as partners

revolving in unison

quench a thirsting soil.

Drawn into the cycle, I

tilt my water can toward earth.

July 31, 2010

13.

THE KITE

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

His blue eyes transparent as the sky,

follow the kite out like perspective

avoiding the cloud formation

while the sun implodes on his delicate blonde skin,

his fingers playing with the string stretched thin.

It came in a kit though he embellished it

with his childish scrawl,

almost poking through the thin membrane,

but the dream remained aloft

in the give and take of the wild March wind.

His Kite was not the highest, but the longest lived

though his hands were the smallest to negotiate,

its highs and lows without losing track of it.

The contest was his, the prize of his choice,

the bride of his choice, as were all things he ever aspired to

born in that Spring wind with no strings attached.

published in “Menupause”

March 2013

14.

LACKING SPATIAL DIMENSION

—ny Lucille Morgan Wilson

I reach to wind the cuckoo clock,

pulling the chain across hungry teeth.

The slow grind of each link

drags against the promise of minutes

to be masticated and spewed out

into some vaporous future.

Weights leaden with memories

resist the passing of each day,

insist on meting it out

in bits of childhood, bites of youth,

and hard-to-swallow lumps of later years.

Between, there are the times

the little bird escapes from the box

to chirp triumphant syllables.

I savor those wild notes,

linger over their salt and sweetness,

but the inexorable chain slides from my grasp

to mesh with a hidden gear

that will not share its secret of continuum.

15.

SPRING ARRIVES

—by Lynn Fetterolf

I stoop to examine the tender tips

of crocus announcing their arrival

in this lemon yellow afternoon.

I marvel how Spring heralds its coming

in precious subtleties, to name a few:

the palest shades of green adorning trees,

erasing their stark winter persona,

the whitest white of clouds sparkling against

the brightest blue of sky, the lavender

of hyacinth, their fragrance long buried

beneath winter’s snow. Soldierly daffodils

stand at attention in their pretty

sun-yellow helmets. I hear the gentle

coo of silver mourning doves seeking mates.

My step slows to a hesitation walk.

I’m loath to miss a single harbinger.

FLUIDITY

—by Loretta Diane Walker

Beware if you find yourself dancing

barefoot in the arms of an aged poem.

Those centuries of words

can stampede across the page

and scrape layers from the earth.

They can snag your wrist with mystery

and bruise your stomach with amazement.

They can impede judgment

with the power stashed

inside nouns and verbs,

rescue an ego slipping

into quicksand of self-righteousness,

crawl inside the soul and make you laugh.

Poetry is not delicate.

It is a sturdy target.

Aim arrows of criticism at its big mouth.

They will ricochet against strong teeth.

But its hard hands will not scar flesh,

crush bones, or break wings.

This morning I witness its long fingers

sliding up and down a child’s yellow pencil,

joy sweating in its old palm.

16.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

April2013201320132013

Richard T. Lake...24

Carol Dee Meeks...20

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...21

17.

Marilyn Downing...19

Ann Gasser..22

Nancy Henry Kline...18

IT'S TOO LATE NOW

—by Nancy Henry Kline

I"m depressed. I don't know what to do.

I've been sick for three weeks with the flu.

I think I will dye my hair red.

There's congestion in my head and chest,

and I ache, so I can't sleep or rest.

I think I will dye my hair red.

I have pondered how I'll look inside

a pine coffin too narrow. I'm wide.

I think I will dye my hair red.

My mourners will gasp, "That's not Nancy!"

Her hair's gray and stringy, not fancy!

I think I will dye my hair red.

I once wore a red wig in a play.

I looked thirty years younger that day.

I think I will dye my hair red.

Must do something to boost my morale.

The Grim Reaper should not be my pal.

I think I will dye my hair red.

But since I've never been quite so tired

I believe I've already expired.

So why bother to dye my hair red?

18.

19.

THE JOGGER

—by Marilyn Downing

Legs like pistons

pounding, pounding . . .

he chugs along a trackless

route.

Steam belches into

frosty air . . .

puffing, puffing . . . .

Cars slow or stop at his

crossings.

Arms tensed

pumping, pumping . . .

he assumes the right-of-way

until he pulls

into the station --

an easy chair

in front of

the . . . (whew)

T V.

20.

CONCERNING LIMERICKS

—by Carol Dee Meeks

A limerick flows like a stream

psychotic, exotic in theme

they wiggle with zest

and gusto and jest

then run down your sleeve

like ice-cream

21.

DILEMMA

—byPrabha Nayak Prabhu

Today when I sit on my stoop

And watch the chickens in their coop

I start to wonder if it’s right

To always keep them in my sight.

What if I let them out to run

And in the open have some fun?

But then they could trip over rocks

Or be attacked by evil hawks.

I somehow can’t make up my mind

When caught in such an intense bind.

I think it’s best to go indoors

And mindlessly do household chores.

22.

BUT THEY NEVER CALLED HIM “RICH”

—by Ann Gasser

My husband’s name was Richard.

He always had high self-esteem.

As a child he thought he and 'Uncle Sam”

were a patriotic team.

At school each morning kids pledged allegiance,

their hearts gently covered by hands,

“To the United States of America,

and The Republic for Richard stands.

Perhaps he was disappointed

when someone took time to explain,

but by that time the fact he was special

was deeply ingrained in his brain.

FASHION PREVIEW

—by Doris DiSavino

Miucci, Gucci, here somes Pucci,

Blahnik, Schmanik, La-dee-dah-nik.

Wonder why my happy grin?

This spring “disheveled chic” is in.

23.

‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE TAXES

—by Richard T.Lake

‘Twas the night before taxes were due to be filed

and reportable numbers were piled uncompiled.

Despite my best efforts to file my return,

that task lay ahead and my schedule astern.

Should I strive to complete each form that is due

or just do the forms that I know how to do?

Which way would be better if an audit is fate?

And what is the harm just a week or two late?

The instructions I read, ten times and times two,

and with less understanding each time I went through.

So how do I know all the forms that I need?

It isn't spelled out in the stuff that I read.

And what is my basis? On what is it based?

And when it's determined, just where is it placed?

If I pull all the figures from out of the air,

will anyone notice? Will the IRS care?

And since all my children have left me alone,

can I claim as dependents the pets that I own?

My pets are like children with wing, fur, and fin,

and should be exempted. They're non-human kin.

And what of my spouse, who's not yet an ex,

who hasn't been seen since bouncing my checks?

Is “Married Filing Separately” the way I must go?

Or can I choose filing for ex–heightened woe?

The process is maddening, the results, less than sure.

Except for the certainty of ending up poor.

Despite all my work, each night after night,

to file by the 15th, it'll miss being right.

A simple way's needed to abolish this curse,

to render to Caesar, not make matters worse.

To have "Piece Of Mind" and still beat the clock.

I should've, weeks ago, gone to H&R Block!

© April 1997

by Richard Lake

24.