July2020202020202020

1.

Adrienne Braun...13

Michael Bourgo...3

Gail Denham...16

Marilyn Downing...8

Ann Gasser...4

Byron Hoot...7

Mark Hudson...10

Chuck Joy...5

Emiliano Martin...14

Marie-Louise Meyers...6

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...11

Patricia Thrushart...9

Girard Tournesol...12

Kenneth Vincent Walker... 15

Lucille Morgan Wilson...2

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

formatted and illustrated by shared photos or digital paintings,

digital collages,and other images by Ann Gasser, Editor.

PPS members are invited to submit

1 poem of 28 lines or less in any form, on any apprpriate subject,

for the Main Section each month,

and/or

1 humorous rhymed and metered poem of 28 lines or less

for the Lighter Side Section.

Double this if the issue covers two months.

Deadline for receiving—hopefully the1st of each month,

Poems appear in order received if possible.

Target date for sending out—10th of each month

“ Pennessence”– “ Pennessence”– “ Pennessence”– “ Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS, Inc.The Essence of PPS, Inc.The Essence of PPS, Inc.The Essence of PPS, Inc.

2.

PORT OF PASSAGE

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

He hung the gate their first summer

in the little house at the edge of town,

finishing touch to the fence

that marked the perimeters of their domain.

She planted flowers on either side:

impish pansies and twinkling alyssum

at the feet of friendly cosmos

that nodded to passersby.

The gate swung open often through the years

as he went and came from work,

the children from school.

Well-balanced, it swung easily

to let its owners out into the world,

as eagerly to welcome them home again.

During Mary and Tom's teen years

it still opened readily enough, though

it developed a tell-tale squeak

if the homecoming hour was late.

Later on, the gate squealed a welcome

to grandchildren, a foretaste of rounds

of laughter that rocked the little house.

Now the gate sags drunkenly from one hinge,

leans into the yard where daisies straggle

through matted grass, trying to reach

an ill-defined flagstone path to the house.

The silence hangs thick with memories

that need neither gate nor fence

to define their coming and going.

3.

EACH DAY

—by Michael Bourgo

Each morning it’s the same--

both of us are on watch--

did he or she get up? If yes,

all is good and we proceed,

for life is still our familiar:

we can relax once more

over coffee and our puzzles,

wander through the morning

as the sun goes on its climb

until it’s time for lunch,

and as its sandwiches end,

as the sun begins to slope

and we are both still here,

we decide what’s for dinner.

photo sent by Mike of himself and his wife

4.

WOKE IS NOT A JOKE

—by Ann Gasser

In the “Age of Exploration” gold was not the only prize,

some searched more intently for “A Fountain of Youth,”

and even today millions are spent each year on creams and hormones

to keep us from wrinkling and sagging. But I heard a military man on TV

complaining that this “Peter Pan”complex is not a good thing—

we now have a country where a loud part of our population is

perpetually “adolescent,” wanting everything handed to them

because they are “entitled,”and if they don’t get what thy want,

they will hamstring our police, burn down our cities. He says

if we are to survive these crises, defeat the shadow “Marxists,”

and the traitors who fund them, we need “MEN and “WOMEN”

using mature wisdom learned from history, not pajama boys and snowflakes

brainwashed till some aren’t even sure which public lavatory to use.

I admit I am partly to blame—I did not read enough of my children’s

textbooks to know what they were NOT learning. I thought Madelyn

Murray O’Hair could never get prayer out of our schools, I did not run

for a seat on the School Board or attend meetings or make phone calls

to do what I could to help root out the Leftist teachers and professors—I

thought my vote at election time was enough. I never saw “1984” becoming

a reality while I was busy at work, church, home, or shopping for things my

family could easily do without.

So where do we go from here? Do we just accept that our pre-covid-19 life

is gone—like the wind? Do we just pray our tepid little prayers and hope in

time our children will somehow learn the truth—that Socialism and

Communism are not cure-alls as their Leftist teachers have taught them? Or

do we stand up and fight loudly for what we believe—for our culture, our

God, our Freedom, our Anthem, our Flag, and our American way of life—

not worrying whether we are popular? TODAYis a great day to start!

LIKENESS

—by Chuck Joy

the poem amuses itself,

a laughing baby on her back, kicking at colorful mobile,

nursery flooded with happy lemon sunshine.

Who would hesitate to bring such joy into the world?

Poems never tantrum, never

screw their little faces hot and red

screaming negation, if any try

they’re edited back into harmony.

Poems grow up but they don’t run away,

all their possessions gathered in a red-and-white kerchief

tied to a stick, disappearing toward sunset,

if they didn’t come back they wouldn’t see print

and they do get their hearts broken, poems

left to cry into their pillow or their beer,

their author, the poet, making haphazard word choices

getting away with a shoddy likeness.

5.

6

GLOW WORMS

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

How strange to feel fireflies alight on you

in our new menu of social distancing.

Too polite to pass you by with their

light show on and off.

It’s all we have left to talk about now

fireworks are banned for the Fourth of July,

You may think this is just a token,

but they illuminate a world gone screaming mad,

while they are at ease streaming light beams

into the dark and despairing air.

Whatever you do, don’t sneeze on them

for only you can carry disease

across the blurred lines of demarcation.

They’re in a rush

to embroider a life gone lack-luster

in our sense of righteousness.

How they bring delight back into Being,

even to us, gone unsightly and unkempt

lacking a stream-lined appearance and cut,

not rare like this tiny bug

which illuminates the very air we breathe

without conceding to a brush off

to make us Believers.

7.

BEAUTY

—by Byron Hoot

I am a hard man in the hard

world of beauty so shaped

by the equivalents of all kinds

of weather from which the beauty

that does not discriminate

waits, wants to be seen.

I don't claim any of that beauty

but do not deny I have an eye for

it, the way things fit together,

the sense of what it takes to get

a moment just so, one heart

next to another, stride in rhythm

beyond stumbling -- I feel and see

and hear and touch that.

I have lived a life nearly

equal in gain and loss,

joy and sorrow, hope and despair,

longing and desire

to know beauty

when I see it: how hard

it is to reach itself,

how long -- once seen -- it lingers,

how the hardest beauty of all,

compassion,

enters

slowly.

“Erato,”

the Muse of Lyrical Poetry

8.

OUR WORLD IN 2020

(Odd Words for Odd Times)

—by Marilyn Downing

To write about present days we’re living

calls for veridical words to assess

the gravity of lives sequestered

around the setaceous world.

No skimming over the surface quite

equiponderates serious effects, caused

by a sneaky virus—economies suspended,

social distancing, face masks obscuring

smiles and frowns alike.

World history is truly spenglerian,

as volumes record so diligently,

limited to two-hundred-year cycles,

created from chaos, evolving from

idealism through lusts for power,

languishing in complacency.

A miniscule virus conglobates our globe

with shared events of somber news:

We are experiencing the frontality

of a pandemic, not yet imagined

by sci-fi authors of

Animal World….

Lord of the Flies….

Brave New World….

Editor’s Note;

This poem was written to meet a challenge requiring the poet to use 5 or more unfamiliar words

found in a dictionary. Words chosen for this poem were:

veridical: truthful setaceous: bristly equiponderates: to be equal in force

spenglerian: historical theory that all cultures decay conglobates: forms into a compact ball

frontality: frontal view without lateral movement

9.

THE ALLEGHENY HILLS IN SUMMER

—by Patricia Thrushart

The hills in summer shimmer,

swept by silky seeded grasses

that bend above the lark’s soft nest,

built beside the tracks of milky cows

that graze content, then amble on;

crowned by standing timber

where coyotes sing their hunt

and deer hide their spotted fawns

in stillness and hope;

where paths drop to dusky streams

fed by winter melt,

sheltering scaly fish marked

by a shining rainbow, twisting

through murky waters to rest

in deep weedy pools.

I walk paths that scramble

through lichen boulders

shrouded in laurel;

I climb the pinnacle before

the sun drops lower, to breathe

the evening’s clear bright air.

10.

RETURN TO THE DUCK POND

—by Mark Hudson

I found out my art professor

wanted to start an en plien air art

class. Then I find out we’re going

to Lovelace park, by where I grew

up at the other end of town.

He picks me up, and

I see La Rosa’s pizza is still

in business. So is the Hot Dog Island

in the middle of the intersection,

and Sarki’s,

where Jimmy Carter once ate.

We get there, and I find

a shady spot to paint. I have a

flimsy easel, and it’s a very windy

day. By the end of the day, I am

covered in paint.

There are many other

distractions, like a father teaching

two boys to fish. The younger

boy enjoys it, and the older

boy says, “I want to go home!”

So they do.

And so do I,

new painting in hand.

11.

GULLIBLE

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

It isn’t hard to make him feel

important while having a meal.

He’ll quickly sign a risky deal

not seeing through his rival’s spiel.

12.

STILL THE SUN

—by Girard Tournesol

Still the Sun

There yet may be rainbows

It rains

The End’s bath

Smoke and tear gas fume our clothes

Incense for our time

Unbelievers turned saints

Deliver us from evil

13.

photo from shamanlink.net

LEAF 2

[OR HINGES 3]

—by Adrienne Braun

How can you break free-

talking out of your twig-

leveling up from hinge

and settling forth

your spatulate spread of green?

What eye becomes true?

What narrowness do you lose?

When keen seeing is yours

to tell the click of sun

on your hinged door?

14.

GENTLY

—by Emiliano Martin

Quietly,

she looked at me

in a way that made me feel important.

She reached for my hand and held it gently.

I fell into the depth of her eyes,

sensually filled

with sincerity.

I drew her closer to me,

allowing me to embrace her.

The thirst of my lips

was tastefully quenched by her kiss.

The rest…

was like a heavenly dream

where the words I wish to skip.

15.

JENESEQUA

—by Kenneth Vincent Walker

There's that certain some-

thing about you that I just

cannot put my finger on.

I cannot grasp it to clasp

it lest I had a magic wand.

There's that certain way about

you that I'm lacking in translat-

ion with mere words. I cannot

raise it as to phrase it lest my

mind goes to the birds.

There's that certain aura about

you that's just beyond my

nimble reach. I can see it, but

I cannot be it, and cannot

learn what you cannot teach.

There's that certain something

about you. Some may call it

Ooh la la! Yet to others unique,

simply magnifique, subtly

understated, this jenesequa.

16.

ZACH, THE SWEET TALKER

—by Gail Denham

Sweetness drips off his fool tongue,

like the steady drip, drip of sap

off maples in spring, or like

the overturned bottle of glue my son

left on the dining room table.

Yes, sugar would curdle in his hand,

turn to sea salt, he was so full

of sweet phrases that were untrue,

full of baloney and sauerkraut.

It was my job, I felt, to tone down

this illustrious over-payer of un-meant

compliments that somehow stung

rather than soothed.

I’d pour vinegar into that gap under

his nose if I could, and follow

that will some kind of cleanser

meant to readjust his inner workings.

His gorgeous talk was only throat deep;

didn’t extend to a kind and generous heart.

He might kick your dog while kissing

the back of your hand.

“So what’s the story on the shoe Elsie

threw at you, Zach, after that last dance?”

I asked him. “Did you tell her how refined

she looked tonight, while caressing

the rear part of her dress?”

Oh Zach, he was by far the sweetest talker

in all of Mulhaney County, the drip.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

July2020202020202020

Mark Hudson...19

Vicky Fake-Weldon...23

Lucille Morgan Wilson...24

Colleen Yarusavage...20

17.

Michael Bourgo...25

Gail Denham...22

Marilyn Downing...18

Ann Gasser...21

18..

SICK HUMOR FOR 2020

—by Marilyn Downing

What is everybody to do

with a virus worse than the flu?

We walk around in disguise,

showing only our eyes,

hoping science finds a cure that is new.

Microscopes show covid appears a bouquet,

but it’s not pretty and won’t fade away.

No country is spared

and we’re all living scared

that this virus will permanently stay.

As we wait for science to discover

the cure, we must stay under cover,

keep social distancing laws.

frequently washing our paws,

until the pandemic is finally over.

photo from SciTecgh Daily

19.

A GENEROUS SISTER

—by Mark Hudson

My sister has been helping me with stuff,

since the Corona Virus made life tough.

A couple of times, she brought food and TP,

paper towels, soap, and other things for me.

I send poetry to various contests on lists,

and with the Lockdown, printers are missed.

So she’s helped me to print out some of my best,

and mail them at the post office when they are addressed.

Last week I went with her to post some mail

and we saw an old lady who looked very frail,

who leaned on a cane, had one arm in a cast.

“Do you need a hand ?” my sister asked.

‘Thank you!” the lady said, “You are kind.

You’ve kept me from falling on my behind.

I hope your Christmas is bright and merry—

with a hot fudge sundae topped by a cherry.”

We looked at each other—was she a Looney Tune?

It was ninety degrees in the middle of June.

“But,” Sister said, back at my place at last,

“Maybe she’s happier living in the past!”

My sister is an Optimist, she takes it all in stride

as though the world’s a giant horse, and she just loves to ride.

I’m trying to be kinder, more generous like my sister,

and I guess when I’ve achieved my goal, I’ll be an “Opti-Mister.”

20.

SUMMER DELIGHT, REDUX*

—by Colleen Yarusavage

So, last month, the truck came our way,

with ice cream treats, making our day!

But now, it has stopped;

our street it has dropped.

Guess our neighborhood didn’t pay!

It once was a childhood mainstay,

and caused kids to stop in their play.

The bubble has popped;

on my street it flopped.

Its absence is my great dismay!

* Written as a follow-up to my ice cream truck

poem that was published in the last Pennessence.

photo from mamiverse.com

ME AND POLLYANNA

—by Ann Gasser

In these days of Covid-19 hermitry

I am Queen of the miniscule kingdom of ME.

I get up when I want to, retire when I please,

no one to care whether I cough or I sneeze.

And although there’s just me, it does not matter much,

I have multiple ways of keeping in touch.

I can listen to my kind of music—the Blues,

or hear talking heads give their slant on the news.

With the latest in Virtuality

I can go anywhere via my TV.

I can have shopping sprees on the Internet

and a truck will deliver whatever I get.

And the greatest invention of all is—don’t scoff,

those thank-God-for buttons that turn it all off!

21.

22.

AFTER WEDDING BLUES

a Minute

—by Gail Denham

The money spent on flowers and dress

caused him distress.

The honeymoon

seemed old too soon.

Three days spent in a cheap hotel

a lot like hell—

no fridge, small towels,

a dog that howls.

They both supressed a thankful shout

as they checked out.

And it was no surprise that they

each went their way.

image from photobooth

BESIDE THE ODOROUS TOMATO PLANTS

—by Vicky Fake-Weldon

I brush against the peppermint and smell

aromas from the garden's minty brew.

The garden gives me peace and soon I well-

up, my emotions nourished by the view.

Pink, fragrant milkweed flowers are in bloom,

a nectar stew in nature's grand design.

Soon, Momma Monarch gets a private room

where sweet smells and some odorous combine.

23.

photo by Vicky Fake-Weldon

24.

PIE IN THE SKY --- OR IN THE FACE

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

The air is filled with fluffy dreams of better days ahead,

Tee-shirts emblazoned with a name, and mottoes, blue and red.

slide through the crowd like phantoms—three cars in each garage,

good wages, more vacations, all part of the mirage.

For weeks the Gallup poll reports great upward strides in rating;

no question there will be a change for which the country’s waiting.

But when November’s come and gone, a chill reclaims the land,

like seasons just before it; no miracles at hand.

The name on everybody’s lips in scorn is spoken now.

Real life resumes the treadmill of barbershop and plow,

until the next Pied Piper’s flute stirs up the hung’ring mob

with visions of Utopia for every Jane and Bob.

When will the common man catch on that idle hue and cry

melts soon away, post-election day, like meringue on lemon pie?

25.

THE HOATZIN

—by Michael Bourgo

The hoatzin is a living fossil

and a bird whose ways are docile:

he does not mind when we get near,

but there’s a thing that folks should fear:

in any ranking this guy takes first

for the bird who smells the worst!

He lives down south, mostly Brazil,

and the call is no sweet trill:

it has a lot of grunts and screams—

a tune that sounds like our worst dreams!

So here we are: what should we think?

The bird can’t sing and makes a stink.

Let’s add there also is no prize

for the silly way he flies!

But it seems he’s quite a parent

and from his family, never errant,

so give him a break, this smelly lad:

He shows that no one is all bad!