Glenn Lyvers...15

Emiliano Martin...18

Marie-Louise Meyers...13

Jacqueline Moffett...11

Marilyn S. Marsh Noll...16

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...8

Henry Spottswood...12

Loretta Diane Walker...17

Lucille Morgan Wilson...2

Elizabeth Bodien...19

Michael Bourgo...4

Von S. Bourland...7 & 9

Selma Calnan...14

Gail Denham...10

Marilyn Downing...3

Lynn Fetterolf...5

Ann Gasser...20

Mark Hudson...6

(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.)

June

2018201820182018

1.

GRANNY’S KNOTS

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

With a calm rhythm, Grandma pulled

her slim, straight needle through the taut fabric.

Bright-hued thread trailed, steadily sketching

the pattern. Scarlet roses, yellow daisies

bloom like magic behind her nimble fingers.

I take the pillowcases from the linen chest.

My fingers linger over the design stitched

years ago, remembering the hours I sat beside her,

a child trying to emulate her handiwork on my own

scrap of muslin. Again and again she would untangle

the snarls, help me guide the thread back through the tiny slit

in the uncooperative needle. My wails of frustration

drowned in her patience. “You must make a firm knot

to hold the thread fast as you pull the needle through the cloth.”

Granny’s faith had been her knot, the anchor

that held when life pulled hard: a husband

lost in the influenza epidemic, a son killed in the war,

the struggle to survive the Depression years.

On the under side of the red petals I see them – small,

hard knots, still holding her stitches in place. I smooth

the yellowed cloth, grateful that she taught me

the importance of a good knot.

2.

photo from Textile Ranger.com

3.

TROPICAL NIGHTS

—by Marilyn Downing

In the far back corner of my closet

hangs a gauzy keepsake of sorts,

a reminder of days long past.

Like a nebulous dream, it floats

into memories of romantic journeys …

to Hawaii, Guatemala, the Caribbean Isles.

Impractical, fluffy, the peach-parfait nylon

gown and robe, knee-length, provocative,

packed easily into flight luggage

along with summer togs for tropical stays.

I have not donned this nightwear

for quite a few decades.

Yet I keep the filmy gown and robe

in a closet and divorce papers in the file.

4.

GRIEF

—by Michael Bourgo

If we have lived a number of years,

then grief is ever with us—

not a feeling without purpose,

but an act of love:

a longing for some afternoon,

or some morning at breakfast.

Love may not have been expressed,

or perhaps, spelled imperfectly

though it was palpably there,

as real as the air in our lungs,

a center for our being,

the polar star which steered us

in ways we scarcely could grasp

(such incomplete beings we are),

and it carried us to this moment,

to whatever wholeness we possess;

and even today, it is no less real

even if known only in memories,

and though understanding

may be too faint to grasp,

gratitude must abound.

from, an image in a Toni Carey Lake Email

5.

SPIKE

—by Lynn Fetterolf

He loved her till they laid him in his grave.

He swore to be her slave.

But she grew up while he grew

less appealing. The rebel boy,

bravado turned to self-indulgence,

lost his adolescent charm.

The bluster, hollow as most boasting,

became a threat to peace

of mind and came to blows

upon her frail and innocent physique.

Some sanctuary she would seek

within another’s arms.

She wanted what she thought he was

and not what he became.

She left this shallow hulk of boy

to find a gentle man.

He spent his days in search of one

who would replace the love

that only she had brought to life.

He never took another wife.

He never knew what caused her love to fade.

He loved her till they laid him in his grave.

He swore he would have been her slave.

6.

A MOTHER’S DAY STORY FOR JUNE

—by Mark Hudson

There was a woman who shared a touching story

about mother’s day. She apparently was not a mother,

and perhaps her own mother has passed away.

She discussed how she lived alone, and she

was talking to one of the few relatives she has

on the phone, and she kind of got into some

sort of argument. She hung up, and she

felt sort of resentful towards her relative.

She sat for a little bit, and felt a little sorry

for herself. She thought about how most of her family

was gone, and she thought of all these missed

opportunities in life, and how her life could’ve

turned out. And then she had to go to work.

When she left her house or apartment to

go to work, her neighbors had placed a big bouquet

of flowers by her door, with a note attached saying

what a good neighbor she’d been to them all these

years. It made her day, and she immediately went

inside and put the bouquet of flowers in water to

make it last as long as possible.

The lesson is we all can reach out to others

when we too, are feeling sorry for ourselves.

Other people are sad too, and we can cheer them up!

7.

KEEPSAKE

—byVon S. Bourland

Sweet one, without thee,

what then were the dance?

“Reciprocal Invitation to the Dance”

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

In your turquoise and shocking pink ensemble

you smile, caught in the frame

left arm extended up and out

right arm level, curved inward

right toe demi pointe.

First recital, age six,

your long, narrow feet

almost caused disaster

as a ballet slipper

the left one

scooted over the stage

during the dance movement.

All smiles, you never missed a beat.

The audience clapped and cheered –

the entire troupe reaping your accolades.

Somehow, no one tripped

over that vagrant shoe

as it performed its pirouette

across the boards

and you, our self-controlled ballerina,

made us proud.

This poem was printed in the

May issue of

PENNESSENCE,

but its last four lines

were missing from the

Emailed submission. It has

also been published in

NFSPS Encore 2012; LOMPS

The Moccasin, Vol. LXXV II,

2014, and

Harp Strings Poetry Journal,

Vol. 26,

#22, Winter, 2015

photo from www.sandhams.co.uk

PRIDE OF PLACE

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

I’ve often wondered how a rose

has learned to somehow strike a pose

and always stand out from the rest.

It’s self assurance at its best.

8.

9.

Iambic Monometer

Published: PFM 2014

Vol. 26, No.2

JUNE’S TUNE

—by Von S. Bourland

Reclined

my mind

seemed blind.

“But, soft*…”

I coughed.

Aloft

I heard

a bird –

absurd –

caw names

a claim

to fame.

Well-trained

it’s plain

he reigned

above

the doves

I love

who mourn

each morn

forlorn

for time

to chime

in rhyme.

*”from Romeo and Juliet,”

by William Shakespeare

10.

CAN I HELP?

—by Gail Denham

Comfort words. They come at such a price.

It’s giving up your favorite fear, holding

out a flagon of courage to a friend when

their world breaks its seams and nasty flows

out of the cracks.

No opinions, certainly nothing that sounds like

a platitude. What soft words could help? A listening

ear, a murmur, prayers, hugs, and a solid shoulder

for crying purposes.

Leave off the story of your latest grief. Give full

attention to the moan that bellows up from

the toenails of your friend. Cry with her. Let your

tears hit the floor in rhythm with hers.

Words of comfort? Simply no words work as well.

No words, only the presence, you and the Holy Spirit

there by her side, your faces turned toward the light.

11.

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE

—by Jacqueline Moffett

Reflections on life

came late at night

when sleep eludes me

I tend to reminisce…

skip those teenage years

of emotional highs and lows

fast forward to more sensible times

no need to apologize for harsh words

said to special friends

no need to pray on bent knees

for our Creator’s forgiveness.

Of course youth and experience

do not a marriage make,

best set your course early,

keep close to your heart two words—

humility and compassion.

Your life will then be blessed with

love and tranquility

WHERE IS THE TV REMOTE?

—by Henry Spottswood

We know those ancient sayings and truths—

“water seeks its own level,” “rust never sleeps,”

“you can’t fight City Hall”—and Doris Day’s

rueful chart-topper, “Que Sera Sera.”

In our house cat toys—(we call them kitty toys)—

properly find their place in this comfortable

order of things. Under the furniture, remote

and inaccessible, with our aging dust bunnies.

12.

WHERE DO THEY GO?

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

Those showy peach and cherry blossoms

which seem to set the world alight

when the dreariness of winter is out of sight?

Where do the offspring go,

who hang on silken parachutes,

who leave little but everything to be desired,

and remain aloof and out of reach

as though to teach Mankind about fulfillment.

The maples send messages of urgent transparency

in seedlings that spread their vision overhead.

The lionized dandelion,

how it succumbs to Spring fever,

leaving us all numb with a golden application

to the green lawns.

How easily broken out of their mood,

when the sun sedates and inundates,

and their white wisps are blown away

with a whip of the wind into feathery locks.

The tree heaves, leaves the earth with a sigh,

spring infiltrating its lungs, and punctures the sky.

Arteries flow, no artifice below

all its highlights and strife, plainly written

where all its Fate is entombed,

and all its wounds come to life,

those in plain sight and all the circular divisions,

unknown until you make an incision devoid of Life.

There’s a cyclical reason to each season.

13.

A ROVER’S ROUNDEL

—by Selma Calnan

One Hollyhock has inspired this brief ode—

quite at home in a setting for thistle or dock

by my newly-placed mailbox and alien abode

One Hollyhock

Three columns of blossoms that seem to explode

from a vagabond seed wedged in bleak, barren rock

where a misguided squirrel had his winter cache stowed

One Hollyhock

It’s a mystery nature may never unlock

but a lift to my spirits, a bright episode.

One Hollyhock

14.

from her book “Poems Worth a Second Look”

ROCKY BALBOAS

—by Glenn Lyvers

In southern Indiana

where the flat land

ironed by glaciers

begins to wrinkle into

stony foothills, there are

groves of walnut trees.

They stand together

in solidarity for miles—

their age dwarfing all

who behold the endless

sea of woody trunks

defiantly clinging to

the stony hillsides.

In October,

they drop their globes

like a hail-storm of baseballs

which bounce into piles, forming

a green carpet that extends

farther than anyone can see.

When the tempest is over,

the trees fall silent.

They stand nakedly reaching

their arms into the sky,

like thousands of Rocky Balboas

celebrating the triumph

which lies beneath.

15.

HOPE IN SUMMER WOODS

—by Marilyn S. Marsh Noll

Last year a doe with fractured leg

limped through our yard all winter.

Unable to keep up with her herd,

she often came to us: joined squirrels

to eat the fallen seeds we’d fed to birds.

Ate our evergreens.

One early summer day

from out the window, I watched

a fawn chew grasses by our driveway.

Soon I glimpsed another. Behind them

stood the injured deer—their mother.

16.

from her book “Ordinary Tasks,”

published in 2016

by Madbooks in Pittsburgh, PA

THE COLD ARM OF JUNE

—by Loretta Diane Walker

In West Texas, the June sun spits out temperatures

of one hundred degrees or more.

Night is soaked with spicy air.

Rain is elusive and yellow, a metaphor for grass.

On the Big Mountain, June’s arms are cold.

A wall of snow fifteen feet high surrounds Paradise Inn.

As darkness descends, precipitation drools on leaves,

the street, my vacation.

Immersed in silence, I sip hot apple cider,

listen to floors creak in the lodge,

long for warmer clothes.

I stare beyond the sun setting on icy slopes,

pine trees, the night’s white armor,

stare until I see a girl sitting at my fourth grade desk,

listening to whispered insults, teasing as paralyzing

as the cold, her tears frozen—invisible.

I leave her there, return to my tearless silence,

wonder if Rainier’s puffy white eye watched

St. Helen spit flameless orange fire from her guts?

She spewed fury, leaving miles of earth barren

before the winds swallowed her rage.

Orange wet rage brews internally,

before maturity spills through my eyes.

Had the little girl known St. Helen’s power

and Rainier’s beauty, she wouldn’t have cried

when other kids teased,

You’re as tall as a mountain.

17.

From

“Word Ghetto”

18.

ALWAYS LOOKING

—by Emiliano Martin

Between shades of aging and thick clouds of gray,

I sort out ideals and ways to rename;

many streets I've walked down,

the games I have played,

the chances I've taken,

and things I have said;

oblivious to everything else

around me.

Between shades of aging and thick clouds of gray,

I do truly hope it is not too late

to look for new methods

in how to behave,

to share with others whatever I make

out of the rest...

of my life.

from VectorStock

19.

HARMATTAN

—by Elizabeth Bodien

In the days of the harmattan, red dust blew down

and covered the houses all over the town.

Townspeople stopped cleaning. What was the use?

(Of course, some never cleaned. Now they had an excuse.)

As breathing was hard, many waited indoors

for the desert to blow through before mopping floors.

Workers stopped working, schoolchildren left school.

All sat home telling stories and tried to keep cool,

for Sahara winds swirled hot and they spared no soul.

It felt like they lived in a red, dusty bowl.

But when the winds ceased blowing in from the north,

people opened their doors and with caution went forth.

In great numbers they walked to the sea to get clean,

to wash off the dust. That was one happy scene.

They danced and they sang. Families splashed in the ocean.

Such relief after waiting caused quite a commotion.

All knew the red dust would come next year again,

but knew better, of course, than to mention that then.

photo from informationng.com

20.

FATHER AND MONET

—by Ann Gasser

My father may have seen Monet's garden paintings

in Paris where he was on leave in WWI. I don't know.

I DO know his obsession for gardening, found him

spending every spare moment each summer

in his gardens of zinnias, gladioli, dahlias, larkspur,

Canna lilies, marigolds, ageratum, nastursiums,

coral bells, ragged Bergamot, and so many more.

His tea roses were suberb—in the days before

extensive hybridization—his “Dr.Van Fleet,”

which today we would call "Sweetheart Roses,"

shared an arbor with a pale yellow climber

always in bloom on my birthday.

Mother would make a wreath of them

around the plate holding my birhday cake.

For the ten years of the Great Depression, we lived

on a farm where his gardens had unlimited space,

and when we moved back to the suburbs,

the house HAD to have gardens—they were more

important to him than a garage, or even a bathroom!

And when the realtor showed him a place with

lilac bushes, rose beds, and cherry trees,

he was quick to say, "SOLD!"

Father's gardens were his refuge from a job

he disliked, but worked at to earn our daily bread,

and I pray in the dimension where he now resides,

he is sharing an occasional cup of nectar with Monet,

and joyfully tending the beautiful gardens

of our Lord.

Claude Monet’s painting

“Garden at Giverny”

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

June

2017201720172017

Ann Gasser...22

Lucille Morgan Wilson...28

Colleen Yarusavage...24

12.

Michael Bourgo...26

Gail Denham...23

Marilyn Downing...27

Lynn Fetterolf...25

21.

22.

MIXED-UP MILLENNIAL

—by Ann Gasser

He’s not what you might call

a super-fitness buff—

he thinks jumping to conclusions

is exercise enough.

And I would never say that he’s

a true procrastinator,

but whatever he decides to do

is never done sooner, but later.

One never could say he doesn’t

make attempts to please,

but his conversations center around

an abundance of “I’s” and “Me’s.”

He isn’t bad, but he’s not truly good,

his excuse is that he is misunderstood.

His head is not a mixed-up mess

of overripe blue cheese—

he’s just a student of that Greek—

MEDIOCRATES!

23.

THICK GLASSES

—by Gail Denham

A girl with thick glasses did ply

all her feminine wiles on one guy.

She cooed and she smiled,

She thought him beguiled.

But he said, “No more kissing. Goodbye!”

24.

TRAFFIC

—by Colleen Yarusavage

I hop in my car to get on the road

and instantly join the wild throng.

I want to get to my destination,

but traffic makes traveling wrong.

Where are they going, these humans in cars?

It cannot be just to a store.

The different state plates show many miles trekked.

My journey becomes quite a chore.

I can’t make a turn. The light’s always red.

And each intersection fills me with dread.

My stress levels rise, as I sit and wait.

This does not match any car ad.

Those images show long open highways.

Could we move along just a tad?

When I was young, flying cars were in view.

I think that promise is long overdue!

25.

SUPERMARKET ABC’S

—by Lynn Fetterolf

A is for apples, so juicy and red.

B is for sweet scent of baking bread.

C is for carrots, crunchy and crisp.

D for the donuts I cannot resist.

E is for eggrolls at the Chinese food court.

F for the great fruits displayed, every sort.

G is for Grapes. I prefer pale green, please.

H is for honey, food from the bees.

I is for icing to decorate cakes.

J for the jellies that I used to make.

K is for krackers. Wrong spelling, I know.

L for the lotions that make my skin glow.

M is for meats arrayed in their case.

N for soft napkins for cleansing my face.

O is for olives, both Spanish and Greek

P for the pizzas. I forgot them last week.

Q is for quince jam and milk by the Quart

R is for rye bread and rolls of each sort.

S is for seafood, shrimp, crab and cod.

T is for turkey, the breast or full bod.

U for umbrella I didn’t obtain.

V for my vehicle out in the rain.

W washing powder and dishwasher soap.

X the toy xylophone for Grandson to grope.

Y is for yesterdays baked goods on sale.

Z marks the end of this tired shopper’s tale.

photo from Every Investor

26.

PARIS, FRANCE

—by Michael Bourgo

A visit to Les Invalides

will teach us all about great deeds:

it is the tomb of Bonaparte,

where seven vaults surround his heart!

Let’s take a walk along the Champs

(in French it does not rhyme with tramps...),

or watch the Seine from Quai d’Orsay,

then stare at someone’s grand palais,

and when we seek a pious game,

there’s Sacré Coeur and Notre Dame!

If Mona Lisa makes you smile,

then the Louvre will fit your style,

and if old terrors should appeal,

there always is la Place Bastille,

but to see all that’s in play

just find a small sidewalk café,

and sit there with your demi-tasse

while the world goes walking past!

photo from Paris Travel Service

27.

LIFE WITHOUT A 20-FOOT TRAIN

—by Marilyn Downing

When Prince Harry decided to marry,

he chose a sweetheart from County Perry.

The world watched in awe,

as on TV we saw

a wedding that was very very!

Now every little girl may hope to find

a dream prince she holds in her mind,

but when push comes to shove,

she’ll find someone to love

who comes from an ordinary kind.

HE'S A JEWEL, BUT . . . .

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

He scans for flaws in perfect gems,

mounts minute stones in diadems,

assays a diamond’s carat weight,

can to the second calibrate

a Swiss watch, with intricacy

repair a chain’s fine filigree.

How come, with keen eyes, mind astute,

this man can’t find our laundry chute?

28.