JanuaryJanuaryJanuaryJanuary2016201620162016

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

“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..)

Maureen Applegate...12

Michael Bourgo...5

Gail Denham...9

Marilyn Downing..7

Lynn Fetterolf...6

Ann Gasser...11

Mark Hudson...4

Emiliano Martín...2

Louisa Godissart McQuillen...3

Carol Dee Meeks...8

Dr. M. P. A. Sheaffer...10

Lucille Morgan Wilson...13

MOODY

—by Emiliano Martin

Between the

lament of moons

and the smiles of rising suns,

obvious changes of the mood

surface to the light

and darkness,

that we humans have to go through

daily.

2.

from Michelangelo’s masterpiece

“The Creation of Adam”

3.

AN EAGLE NAMED “JUNIOR”

—by Louisa Godissart McQuillen

When Junior’s near, from what I hear,

he gets their full attention.

He hovers high above the ground

in animate suspension.

It is his job to pleasure them

and so he does it well;

with dips and dives and pirouettes

that further casts his spell.

Now Junior’s ways are creature ways,

and high above their own.

He wisely watches from a perch

to catch one all alone.

Yet wisdom only goes so far

and these are real big prey;

he’d better wait and hope his mate

somehow will come his way.

“O what a feast these two would make,”

he heard his partner holler.

She knows he cannot pick one up—

they’d have to be much smaller . . . .

You surely love those awesome birds,

as much as tongue can tell.

And how those hungry creatures

would love you too as well!

Louisa Godissart McQuillen ©2015

HUNTERS AND HELPERS

—by Mark Hudson

Jenny’s a coordinator for a non-profit endeavor

where hunters share one of the best ideas ever.

This group of hunters, hunt as a feat,

bring their carcasses and donate meat.

They take their prizes to the butcher first,

wrap them up, with flavor that bursts.

They send them to troops in Afghanistan,

which has turned out to be an excellent plan.

Those troops might otherwise not have deer meat

and for soldiers who hunt it is surely a treat.

In Alaska, if a moose is hit by a car,

they take the carcass to a place not too far.

They save the meat for the hungry to eat,

and it doesn’t just go to the elite.

We should think of others, there is no excuse,

so come on, Alaskans! Share your moose!

4.

5.

DIARY ENTRY FOR

JANUARY 19, 2010

—by Michael Bourgo

Another day of fog and ice,

and too easy to dwell on loves

distant and unseen,

like the sun itself.

It's a time that makes worry,

thoughts of falling on the ice,

pulled by a restless dog

tired of the house,

and anxious, as am I,

to live out doors once again,

to be more than mere visitor

to the open confines.

We've given up our favorite path,

impassable with snow and slush,

and settled for the city park,

the road thoughtfully cleared,

and wander past the farm zoo,

my thoughts in ethereal zones,

while a terrier and a gray goat

watch each other through the fence.

6.

image from teachingcursive.com

ABOLISHING CURSIVE IN

THE COMMON CORE CURRICULUM

—by Lynn Fetterolf

How shall they know,

the future generations?

There will be no documents,

no letters, no signed agreements,

nothing to cherish as history

they will be able to comprehend.

Future citizens

will be unable to read

the glorious writings

of the founders of this nation,

no love letters or alliances

of kings and queens,

no statesmen avowing their loyalty

their allegiances, their reasoning.

True history will be abandoned

as incomprehensible.

Then tyrants will put their stamp

on everything and the murky past

will become whatever they wish

us to believe.

Citizens, this is the time to revolt.

This is unacceptable.

It is an abomination, a deliberate

attempt to wash away all that

we, as patriots, have fought and died for.

Restore the majesty of the written language

to our institutions of learning now,

before it is too late!

7.

BEYOND SUN DIALS,

HOUR GLASSES,

AND CLOCKS

—by Marilyn Downing

True time exists

beyond

journeys of the sun,

sifting sands within a glass,

or the circle of a clock face,

defying measured tick-tocks

or time zones girdling

our tiny globe.

Aeons upon aeons extend

into light years of space,

a fourth dimension

scientists hypothesize,

but no mortal mind conceives.

Impossible to count

within a hundred lifetimes

our galaxy's one hundred billion stars,

we thirst for galaxies beyond.

What fools we are

to ache for vast eternity

before

we master moments at our finger tips.

Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock . . . .

8.

DECEMBER VACATION ENDS IN MOSCOW

a Triolet —by Carol Dee Meeks

As the rain turned to sleet then snow,

the month was young in December;

and her life ended in Moscow.

As the rain turned to sleet then snow,

her peaceful face I remember,

and friends promised, pain I’d outgrow.

As the rain turned to sleet then snow,

the month was young in December.

MONOTONY FOR SURE

—by Gail Denham

Monotony can get you into trouble.

What if you’re washing dishes? Your

thoughts are so far away, the mounties

can’t find them. You wash and dry each

dish in the cupboards, then do it again.

What if you’re putting clean sheets on a bed?

You think about how deep the Indian Ocean,

Pacific, Atlantic oceans are. You end up

changing every bed in the house at least

twice. You’ve almost run the well dry.

What if you’re cleaning the bathroom?

You wonder what it would be like to slide

down a drain and end up in a river the size

of the Mississippi. You scrub so hard, toilet

pops a small hole. Water spews. Your well

gurgles and spits.

Your husband tries to fix the toilet. Water

deepens. You cut a hole in the floor and wonder

how far it is to China after all. You ask husband

to build an outhouse. Easy to clean those – just turn

on the water hose. Well runs dry. You consider

living in the desert, but you’re afraid of snakes.

Yes, monotony is hard

on a person. One can lose

their reason and train of thought.

You wonder what station

that thought train stops in. Your

brain needs a hose down.

9.

photo bvy Gail Denham

ENTERING THE NEW YEAR

—by Dr. M. P. A. Sheaffer

Into the house of history

Filed

The procession

of dead days,

Carrying their ledgers

Of done-deeds,

Asking for no reflection,

Just a counting off

For the sake of the inventory,

Settling later into rooms

Shrouded by dust covers

Not caring at all whether anyone

Would seek them out--

No need to prove a thing,

Owing nothing to humanity

Already holders of the deed

In perpetuity of finite time

10.

DUSK,

GOD’S PASTRY CHEF

—by Ann Gasser

Dusk opens up the chocolate canister of night

and spreads it contents over waiting earth.

Then, with his shaker full of sugar stars,

he shakes out just enough

to sparkle with a crystal glow

against the luscious chocolate dark.

I drink the mocha moments with my eyes,

devour the crust of silence with my ears,

and savor every morsel of that time

to store within my cookie jar of mind

Tomorrow, when I wake in oatmeal dawn,

Day's blender will start whirling me around

until I start to feel like scrambled eggs.

It's then I'll open up my cookie jar,

to relish bits of night's sweet quietness

and know its luscious crumbs will nourish me

till Dusk, the pastry chef, returns once more.

11.

12.

LITTLE MIGRANT GIRL

—by Maureen Applegate

Oh child in want, so cold,

what brought you there with lips turned blue

and fingers gloved in mud?

All were moved by one small boy

lying quietly in heaven’s arms

upon a beach.

But you, in shivering wind—

you touched my soul.

I long to wrap the warmest fleece

and feed you soup that’s rich with broth.

My arms aren’t long enough to reach.

But how I pray that kindness

joins your journey before

all opportunity is gone.

13.

AT COVENTRY CHAPEL

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

A facade the pale rose of blushing innocence

carries the panoply of saints to tower beside the ruins.

The newer structure, grander than the first had been,

flanks a blackened shell where old bricks

cry the agonies of bombs six decades

after their terror split the Coventry night.

In token reparation, an altar

fashioned by youth of the erstwhile enemy

lays a hushed blanket over the site of death and destruction

in profound statement amid the recollections

that batter at the mind.

I kneel to trace the simple words, wonder

whether without the circumstance of conflict

we would build monuments to valor.

Without the Gettysburgs, the Berlin Walls, the Towers,

would we have heroes to acclaim,

martyrs to adore? Must spires rise

always against a backdrop of humanity’s rubble?

An incessant succession passes before my closed eyes:

Vietnam...Korea...the Saudi Desert...Iraq...

as I try to engrave on my heart the single word,

indelible as the figures etched into the glass panels:

...forgive...forgive...

I rise and brush old ashes from my knees,

refuse to believe glory is born

only where hate and violence have been conceived.

When will we pull down the Tower of Babel and build

a monument to peace upon the plains of planet Earth?

I search for cornerstones.

photo of the Chapel of Unity

www.onpilgrimage.com

published in

NFSPS “ENCORE”

2004

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

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January

2016201620162016

Marilyn Downing...17

Ann Gasser...18

14.

Maureen Applegate...15

Gail Denham...16

`15.

IS IT WINTER YET?

—by Maureen Applegate

With Christmas ads at Halloween

we've ruined Nature's well-tuned scheme.

Cherry trees in Washington

have blossomed while winter yet is young.

The night owl calling for his mate

must surely think his courtship late.

He usually makes his nest in snow

but not one flake has made a show.

Daffodils four inches tall

shouldn't be emerged at all.

They should be sleeping 'neath a bed

of joyous glittering snow instead!

Our calendars are on the blink

'cause everything is out of sync!

16.

LILY’S “FRO”

—by Gail Denham

Lily’s hairdo was so wide

piled high, she could not hide

who knows what secret hid inside?

She stood real close to six feet tall,

her hair scraped doorsills and the wall

but Lily’s quick steps ne’er did stall.

While in the sun one day I swear,

movement happened in that hair,

the sun brought “live-ins” out for air

JANUARY WEATHER SUMMARY

—by Marilyn Downing

When Mother Nature plays a trick,

She doesn’t check the date.

Our snows went down to Texas

and northern leaves fell late.

We mowed the lawn a final time,

and rains filled up the streams.

Goodbye in Pennsylvania

to our white Christmas dreams.

The cherry trees in Washington

bloomed forth two weeks ago.

Did they misplace the calendar

or didn’t get the memo?

The daffodils are out of whack,

all showing ten-inch spears

as they huddle near the front porch.

We’ll remember this for years!

17.

photo from neverstoptraveling.com

18.

HOW TO HIDE AN ELEPHANT

—by Ann Gasser

How would I hide an elephant?

Oh Gee, Oh Gosh, Oh Golly!

I think it could be lots of fun,

Oh yes, it would be jolly!

I could find some birthday wrappings

and tie him up with a bow,

then give him for a present to

a magician friend I know.

Or maybe I'd liposuction him

till his fat was all gone, and he'd shrunk.

Then he'd finally be so slender I

could hide him away in his trunk.

Or I'd feed him a ton of cabbage and beans

till he'd be like a gas-filled balloon,

and he'd float up high by a string that I

would hold so he won't bump the moon.

If that didn't work, I could paint him black

and stuff him down in the cellar.

No one would notice him there at all

(unless he would holler and beller.)

But the best way to hide an elephant,

is something that I'd never do.

The best way to hide an elephant

would be to make elephant stew.