NovemberNovemberNovemberNovember2012012012016666

1.

(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.

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

or as soon after the 10th as possible.

“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.)

Louisa Godissart McQuillen...4

Carol Dee Meeks...9

Marie-Louise Meyers...23

Jacqueline Moffett...12

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...17

Dr. M.P.A. Sheaffer...6

Henry Spottswood...22

Jean Syed...6

Loretta Diane Walker...15

Lucille Morgan Wilson...16

Michael Bourgo... 21

Gail Denham...14

Marilyn Downing...5 & 20

Madelyn Eastlund...7

Vicky Fake-Weldon...19

Lynn Fetterolf ...10

Ann Gasser...11

Mark Hudson...3

Inge Logenburg Kyler...14

Emiliano Martin...18

A Note From Your Editor:

We try to get each issue

of PENNESSENCE

out by the 10th of the month

or as soon after as possible.

This year’s Election Day

was November 8th,

and the poems we received

about the election

were, of course, submitted

before the event took place.

Because of this,

it seemed to make sense to

group them together,

serious or light,

on the following four pages

which precede poems about other subjects.

2.

3.

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND

—by Mark Hudson

By now everyone who was going to, has voted,

regardless, our nation has been demoted.

What must other countries think of us?

A place where politicians are free to cuss,

a place where "rock lyrics" corrupt our teens,

and who knows what goes on behind the scenes?

Oh yeah, the rock lifestyle is evil and untrue,

but conservative businessmen are doing it too.

As a child of the eighties, I start to reflect,

was there reason to the ideals I chose to reject?

Was I just going through rebellious phases?

Isn't God the only one deserving of praises?

Some of my heroes from yesteryear,

are old or dead, and no one sheds a tear.

Republican, Democrat, all the same,

We're American, and it’s a crying shame

how we used to be the world's biggest superpower,

now Terrorists can make us hide and cower.

The super rich build their mansions bomb-proof

while homeless people don’t even have a roof.

The ominous deadline to vote came and went,

and for some it was a victorious event.

For others, the end—of what? I don’t know,

guess we will just have to see how things go

after the ballot and voting booth

decided who lied, and who told the truth.

For me, either way, I must stay free,

and the way I can do that? With Poetry!

grom Clipart Kid

ELECTION DAY: WHO CARES? —by Louisa Godissart McQuillen

For such a big Election Day,

This turnout is quite rare.

Few voters came to cast their votes,

And fewer seem to care.

While some folks vote no matter what,

Some others come to jest.

So how the right choice gets the vote

Is anybody’s guess!

What happened to the good old days

When people sought the best?

They simply chose “integrity”

And voted out the rest.

I hope by next Election Day

These halls will crowded be,

With voters rushing in the doors

For all the town to see.

It leaves us with a chilling thought

And we should be aware . . .

Do we want to keep our country strong?

Does anybody care?

4.

illustration from 123rf.com

5.

MAXINE FOR PRESIDENT!

—by Marilyn Downing

We can only hope for someone

who might set the record straight,

whose uncluttered vision poses

how to make the U.S. great.

She fires off her lipsticked mouth

like a repeating gun.

She’s got the Congress in her sights

for what they’ve left undone.

Then she targets all the Fat Cats

who buy votes as they please,

and lashes out at candidates

who lie and cheat with ease.

She makes our bloated government

look silly and unserving

as they perpetuate themselves.

It’s really quite unnerving!

So let’s listen to the blue-haired dame

who puts the pundits all to shame,

naming the parties we should blame,

if we hope to fix the political game.

6.

TO ANONYMOUS

—Jean Syed

He says he’ll make America better,

This fibber who’s a vulgar roué.

To the union he is a debtor

But says he’ll make America better

By allowing him to have a vendetta

To all who stand in his filthy way.

He says he’ll make America better

This fibber who’s a vulgar roué.

2.

PUTTING PRIORITIES IN FOCUS

—by Madelyn Eastlund

This afternoon we whiled away

time I had set aside

for all those things that must be done

before the eventide.

And now twilight accuses me

of tasks I did not do

but I do not begrudge the time

that I have spent with you.

Tomorrow comes I might be gone

but chores will still be there

and so today I prefer time

that you and I can share.

Then I must crawl into my bed

with daily work undone

content to leave my undone tasks

until tomorrow's sun.

I am not sure that worthy things

will change the winter's gray

but memories we share, my dear,

will warm the coldest day.

Perhaps the truth is: all those tasks

I think I must get through

are not one whit as important

as sharing time with you.

7.

8.

QUADRATIC

—by Dr. M.P.A. Shaeffer

In this frozen tundra,

We’re fresh out of dragonflies

And pond skippers

Darning needles weaving

Summer tapestries

In this cemetery of the Connect-a-Dot man

I feel the misplaced

Grain of my life

Under the mattresses of leaden brains

Like the princess’s pea

Here in this blanched-out gulch

Where ponds once brimmed over

And no one thought of inventing

Windmills

Or of reckoning with

Bleached lines trying

To connect faded dots.

illustration from www.lavaguardia.com.

ANNUAL THANKS

—by Carol Dee Meeks

The season of thanksgiving

and reason we are living

upon America’s banks

highlights time for forgiving.

On the shores from east to west,

remembering the Pilgrim’s quest

when they landed on Plymouth Rock;

the Mayflower trip was full of zest.

On their knees they offered thanks

for new home and future ranks.

Landing safe with newborn hope,

freedom flowed from plank to plank.

Every year we now remember,

celebrate with household members,

giving thanks this time this season

honoring the holiday of November.

9.

Picture from The Daily Beast

WINTER COLORS

—by Lynn Fetterolf

The hemlock, at dusk, leaves

a purple smudge on the stark-white snow.

The bare trees seem gray with sorrow

for the loss of leaves,

each smoke stream reaching for heaven

mirrors their grayness.

All is colorless or nearly so,

vague shades of white or gray,

even the usual blue of the sky

is bleached to monotone.

Only the purple smudge

left in shadow by the closing day

tells the possibility of color.

10.

from her book

‘Guided By Grief’

11.

REMEMBERING BILL

ON VETERAN’S DAY

—by Ann Gasser

Bill was a very special friend

with whom I'd laughed and cried.

We'd been close, but had parted months

before I learned he'd died.

They said the Iwo Jima skies

were black with smoking planes,

Marines dug foxholes on the beach--

to shield from shrapnel rains.

They said he was a hero who

died as he saved a friend.

And we who knew his selfless ways--

yes, we could comprehend.

I doubt he ever saw that flag

they raised up on the hill--

the incident they photographed--

whose valor thrills us still.

A host of maybes and what-ifs--

an age of years has passed.

Time scabs the pain, does not quite heal--

the numbness seems to last.

It's just when flags are flying high,

parades are marching by,

I think of Bill and all of those

who were too young to die.

It's then my tracer bullet thoughts

scud back to days of yore,

when all of us were innocents

forever changed by war.

photo from KERA

12.

FEATHERED SOLDIERS

—by Jacqueline Moffett

Six inches of heavy, wet snow

covers the ground

Roads plowed, walks shoveled

Rhododendron leaves tightly curled

This bush is nature's thermometer

Pine branches heavy with flakes,

suddenly shift their load

Birds depart to a safer haven

Hungry ducks check the corn fields

for frozen kernels

Starvation is reality for these feathered soldiers

Each winter day presents a struggle for survival

All species look forward to an early Spring

Let the tulips burst forth!

photo from www.alamy.com

MAYBE BATS?

—by Gail Denham

Esther peered inside the boxcar.

There could be bats – who knew? She

had zero tolerance for hundreds of God’s

crawly, scary creatures, except fireflies.

Her anxious mind flitted to memories of blue

Mason jars filled with those bright bugs, then

to her little brother, Samuel, who put a firefly

in his mouth. His cheeks glowed till he gulped.

Esther had always wanted to save fireflies

in a cage so they’d light her room at night.

Always seemed so alone in the dark,

although she never told Mom about that.

Mom never got over how Esther let her baby

brother eat a bug. But bats – that was another

whole situation. Maybe they slept during

the day. She sure hoped so.

Gathering her skirts, Esther climbed

into the empty train car. Now what was it she

came looking for? She sat on an old box

waiting for that flash of memory to hit.

13.

14.

WINTER’S MENU

—by Inge Logenburg Kyler

To every thing there is a season.

Ecclesiastes 3:l

After garden work is finished

and the pumpkins gathered in

and the tree frogs are no longer

noisy with their evening din,

when the nights grow ever longer

and the stars shine extra bright

Old Man Winter comes to visit

with his paint cans full of white.

Time it is to do some reading

or to visit friends of old

or to take a walk while bundled up,

or study things foretold.

NOVEMBER FALLING

—by Loretta Diane Walker

A red leaf dropped in the belly of November

when you made the announcement.

You thought I retired from worry,

packed up that nervous twitch one gets

when you have children.

Now that you have your own

twitch as you nervously pack up

the children’s belongings

to move to a house without his name on it,

how do you think I can retire from worry?

You said of me once, “You’re not Delilah,

you’re Samson.”

I say this of you, “You have the heart

of Hercules. Your beauty is like the embroidered

shades of fall:

dogwoods with small purple heads,

hickories with sturdy bronze bodies,

a carnival of red maple leaves rolling into themselves,

sculpting a scarlet mountain.”

The oak, the one outside my door, reminds me of you.

It did not shiver when the first coat of cold

zipped itself around its bare trunk;

you did not waiver under the thrust of his lofty words.

How I wish you were a child again.

We laughed and the world was light.

We laughed and the cool night air grew warm with joy.

We laughed and life was simple.

15.

16.

KEEPING VIGIL

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

You lie,

dry fallen leaf

with unfilled plans ahead.

I guard your silent bed,

deny my grief,

but sigh.

Grass still

September green

betrayed by autumn’s guile

bends low to wait awhile

another scene:

April.

Next spring

upon our hills

bold renewed verdancy

spurs lilting melody

that my throat stills,

waiting.

photo from

Todd Johnson Vancouver Realtor

17.

NOVEMBER HAIKU

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

Halloween candy

culprit behind decayed teeth

a dentist’s delight

photo from Parenting

18.

photo from Parenting

HAIKU

—by Emiliano Martin

the wind is pushy

with ambition running free.

the leaves surrender.

19.

AUTUMN MIDNIGHT

—by Vicky Fake-Weldon

The longest night will settle in.

The arborvitae and white pine

provide a drafty bedroom, when

the titmice, cardinals, and wrens

need warmth and rest for little wings.

For when warm weather is a dream,

and snow transforms a winter scene,

the songs and nests of spring will wait-

the longest day still months away

20.

COMPULSORY READING AT

THE BREAKFAST TABLE

—by Marilyn Downing

Most days it’s routine to scan

obituaries, hoping no familiar name

or face is on the page. A quick glance

at bold print names and ages

or selected photos taken decades ago

assure me I am not listed that day,

and I too can hope – as most do –

to enter Eternity mystically

restored to my prime years.

But nothing quite prepared me for

the infant footprints pictured above

one short history of a life lost –

footprints unique to the tiny child

whose family arms and hearts are empty

whose feet will never touch the earth.

photo from sheknows

21

photo from jmlysunpress,com

AMONG MY PEERS

—by Michael Bourgo

We are all one misstep

removed from disaster:

either by diagnosis or accident,

a fact we soberly accept

as the truth of our age.

Dreams from years long ago

have not come to pass,

whether private or public:

we are resigned to a present

imperfect and unpromising,

but find no reason to surrender,

no excuse not to hope.

We await each dawn,

happy to be alive,

to be full of thoughts

in these still lovely days

which color our moments,

to find the words we must say;

and to watch the children

who run, laughing through days,

who will people a future

which we may not see,

but already welcome

as if we were there.

22.

IF I HAD ONLY

—by Henry Spottswood

this man's art, that man's scope,

and my red '57 Chevy Bel Air

with skirts, spinners and duals.*

If only I'd had a snappy comeback

each time I wanted one, and a clue

many many times to a lofty rhyme,

and a card from George Eliot

thanking me for a bracing evening

and assurance that were I to dial,

I'd reach Shemp, Larry and Moe.

I'll settle for an idea for a knockout

poem, and knowledge of the difference

it would have made, had I known.

*for us who were teens in that era

skirts were fenderskirts,

duals were dual exhausts.

and spinners -you may web search that yourself-

23..

BROWN-EYED SUES AND NICO TOO

--by Marie-Louise Meyers

A clump of brown-eyed Susans perched near the barn door

where a wayward wind scattered the seed. The flowers’

brown eyes were mellow--looking through the golden fall of petals

like my daughter’s hair, but her eyes are a shade of wisteria blue.

Sue deposited the seeds of her affection

in loving increments to Sassy, her first born Love, then Danny Boy,

both deceased now, and Nico, the donkey, who is still very much aware,

though now in his twentieth year, and surely will live another twenty

with his Mistress, who was a mirror of their souls..

Sassy the dark bay Morab, who stole her heart in New Hampshire’s wild,

and lingered long after in Chester County’s green pastures.

Danny Boy, of flaxen fleece and sturdy will, whom she brought along

to sing his own Song of Belonging.

Nico is stable and predictable still, his brown eyes looking through

her azure blue, absorbing both sorrow and joy in equal measure,

We tweak his ears, while he prances for my affectionate grandchildren.

When impending danger suddenly appears, he winds up, those ears alert,

while his piercing bray shatters the surrounding countryside--

as they did when Danny’s colic ended his reign over the meadow.

Perhaps the Donkey remembers the Chosen One,

who rode on this most docile of beasts from Birth to Death

amid Life-Long threats, the drumming echo through the centuries,

cataclysmic upheavals and storms of protest.

Yet when the pasture below was closed to him,

Nico yanked the brown-eyed Susans from the Earth.

To me they were worth more than a temporary door stop,

so I saved them in a glass vase to replant again

when the spring of his hooves delivers again ingenuous roots.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

November

2012012012016666

Ann Gasser...31

Carmen Martucci...25

Jean Syed...29

24.

Michael Bourgo...28

Gail Denham...30

Madelyn Eastlund...26

Lynn Fetterolf...27

25.

photo by Don Prioleau

A STORMY FALL

—by Carmen Martucci

The dripping from my window pane,

and whilst I gently sleep,

encouraged deeper slumber than

the charges of Bo Peep.

And dreams of friendships long lost gone

that seemed to last all night,

they only took the early dawn,

just prior to daylight.

The clouds were dense as mist still fell

and yet my body called

because my bladder, it did swell,

and nature never stalled.

And so I stepped off of my bed,

just after my last snore;

but rather than a grip instead,

‘twas water on the floor.

"What's this!" I sighed, aghast and shrill,

and just before the slip.

I hit the deck and floundered till

I managed one last flip.

I finally rose and stood again,

inspecting what went wrong.

I rubbed my hip to soothe the pain,

but cursed a desperate song.

“The boards they are a wishing pool,

until I use my mop!!!

I’ll close the pane but not my soul,

and pray the rain to stop!!!”

26.

Dear Abby

(with apologies to A. E. Housman)*

—by Madelyn Eastlund

When I was not quite twenty

I heard my boyfriend say

“I just give kisses, baby,

But not my heart away;

Give hugs away and squeezes

But keep my fancy free.”

But I was almost twenty:

I knew that he loved me.

When I was just turned twenty

I heard him say once more:

"A ring I will not give you

And your nagging is a bore;.

I met some dame has plenty

And you and I are through."

And now at half-past twenty

I shot him, oh, 'tis true.

*”When I was One and Twenty”

27.

GERIATRICS

—by Lynn Fetterolf

Geriatrics, what a name,

it’s like theatrics without the fame.

Yes, we’re older, passions smolder

but we’re not beyond excitement

though our backs may be a mite bent.

We grunt and groan and whine and wheeze

and things don’t work well, like our knees.

But, oh, my dear, please understand

our brains are filled with golden sand

that’s flowing through the hourglass

and miracles of wisdom pass

through the gardens of our fertile minds.

Those gems of knowledge young folks find

surely came from a geriatric brain.

So overlook the muscle strain.

We function best in mental flight.

Our intellect can give insight.

Don’t count us out when hair turns gray.

We’re still learning and teaching every day.

photo from quotesgram.com

WAITING FOR NOVEMBER

—by Michael Bourgo

It cannot come too soon,

a plain and somber day,

the skies in quiet gray

and fields without a bloom.

Good-bye to lush display,

the sun too bright at noon.

It cannot come too soon,

a plain and somber day.

Let summer's senile swoon

run out its final play,

and equinox give way

to cold inviting gloom.

It cannot come too soon.

28.

photo from MountainPictures.net

29.

TO ME SWEEPING LEAVES

—by Jean Syed

Autumn is such an untidy season,

Resting in a green but scurfy coat.

Housewives glower with good reason

Autumn is such an untidy season

They think it were allowed treason

To kick leaves in fall’s fiery throat.

Autumn is such an untidy season

Resting in a green but scurfy coat.

photoo from RewardsForRecycling.com

STOP AT THE BAKERY

—by Gail Denham

My mother’s comments cut like swords:

“She’s never learned to butter toast”.

Only more of Mom’s mean words,

but now I’d like to boast.

At one surprising family dinner,

I supplied the dessert course.

The cake was such a super winner,

I’d ne’er reveal the cake’s sweet source.

30.

photo from Sam Tell Blog

31.

THERE IS ALWAYS A REASON

—by Ann Gasser

Why does she wear this stupid hat?

She’s got a very good reason for that.

She is not eccentric, she isn’t a nut,

she’d like to kick her hairdresser’s butt.

When she got a haircut the other day,

that zealous stylist got carried away

and truly scalped her—she feels so bare,

now wears a hat when she goes anywhere.

If she were a man, she could just shave her head,

but women won’t do that, they’d rather be dead!

She will sing “Hallelujah!” and joyfully shout

on the day her hair at last grows out.

This painful memory will linger on

even after she goes to a new salon.

So, Ladies, beware, of the passing years,

and too-eager stylists with snipping shears.