(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..)

1.

December

2012012012018888

Janes Barkley...13

Michael Bourgo...3

Gail Denham...15

Marilyn Downing...2

Lynn Fetterolf...5

Ann Gasser...7

Byron Hoot...16

Mark Hudson...6

Annunciata Marino...4

Emiliano Martin...9

Louisa Godissart McQuillen...17

Marie-Louise Meyers...8

Marilyn S. Marsh Noll...10

Prabha Mayak Prabhu...11

Fereshteh Sholevar...12

Henry Spottswood...18

Lucille Morgan Wilson...14

2.

THE BIRTHRIGHT

—by Marilyn Downing

Did Mary kneeling in the stable hay

perceive the role her firstborn Son must play?

Did singing angels add to her delight

while frightening shepherds in the fields that night?

And were the cattle at the birthplace site

transformed by wonder at the birth,

or did the gentle beasts ignore the worth

of one small Holy Infant sent to earth?

I wonder, did the sleeping Jesus dream

of one day wading in the Jordan stream

to mark His mother's sacrificial loss

and gain His Father's grand salvation scheme:

to purify our souls from human dross

through glory on the crucifixion cross.

3.

PURPOSES

—by Michael Bourgo

There is a grand tree,

the tallest in its grove,

not far from my back door,

most likely a walnut,

and just clinging to life,

sending out only a few leaves

in this dry summer,

and at once I am curious:

what does a tree know?

There is no answer

to this perhaps silly question--

but it could be like me,

who knows that the end

is not a forever away,

but close enough to loom,

and like that tree

I am still struggling

to put out new growth,

aiming to be of some use,

though maybe not so well

as my neighbor, the tree,

which has not forgotten

how to welcome the birds.From More Memories

© 2017 Michael Bourgo

4.

A CHRISTMAS SONG (2018)

—by Annunciate Marino

Let’s sing a Christmas Song

So far you can’t go wrong.

And we don’t care for chilly air

So bring a coat along.

We’ll stop at Sleepy Row,

There lives a merry widow.

She’ll be at home and all alone,

Let’s share a warm Hello.

A smile for passersby,

A wink for kids nearby,

Sing soft and low and slowly stroll,

And never say Good-bye.

Dancing round in starlight

to the beat of moonlight.

Its time again to sing Amen

On joyful Christmas night!

5.

SNOW SCENE IN BLACK AND WHITE

—by Lynn Fetterolf

The stark contrast nearly sears my eyes

as I gaze at pristine meadows

sparkling whiter than white

against the dark of winter.

The radio is telling of disaster

as icy roads harvest their prey.

How could anything so beautiful

cause such calamity?

Perhaps man wasn’t meant to travel

on this chilly gift from God.

Perhaps we were to settle in our nooks

and contemplate the beauty of it all.

Take time to stare at snowy scenes,

bright diamonds glinting on the hills.

Take time to watch the snowbirds

searching, and the little rivers fill.

Take time to say a prayer of thanks

for such incomparable radiance.

6.

FIRE

—by Mark Hudson

Paradise, California, went up in a blaze,

the fire that is smoking out of control.

No more grass for cows to graze,

houses fell, like they were not whole.

In art class, a painting is on the wall,

that Sarah did of a burning house.

Did anything inspire this at all?

She said she was angry at her spouse.

The whole world is burning down,

fire one of the five elements.

Paradise, California, no longer a town,

destroying houses so elegant.

Forest fires may seem away, so far,

but it all it takes is a discarded cigar.

7.

VIEW FROM A FROSTY WINDOW

ON AN ALMOST-WINTER NIGHT

—by Ann Gasser

The breathless hush of silence fills the air—

sound drowned by drifts of softly fallen snow.

Tall trees, which yesterday were black and bare,

are now pearl-white in moonlight’s gentle glow.

Far stars are diamonds of sparkling light

against the arched black dome of velvet sky

The hills are virgins cloaked in purest white

that swirls and whispers with the wind’s soft sigh.

Each window glows—a candle on each sill,

each roof-top is a fresh whipped-cream delight.

and now the steepled church up on the hill

reverberates with chords of “Silent Night.”

My mind floats in a silver sea with you,

in some reality where dreams come true.

8.

“HURT NOT THE TREES” (from Revelation)

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

You feel a numbness from the stark and naked house,

without the frills of the holiday,

cards piled up like bills;

but in the Cathedral of Pines,

Nature doesn’t conceal but reveals.

I succumb to the Natural design,

not to be covered and shine

like a festive tree on Christmas morning,

instead of its Life form;

but discovered waiting for me,

wild and free from the margins of error

with wrap-around vines that cling and define

after fifty-four years of cutting down trees.

Dark Mantle touching me,

bulbs of ice brightening in the morning light,

hidden between branches,

a nest of iridescent balls;

a spider has woven an intricate web

like tinsel we used to spread

on the Blue Spruce we planted on our grounds.

How we used to hide in the cave of trees

while we played the child’s game of Hide and Seek.

Your body is a composition of Naturalness now,

everything You once desired,

while the snow sparkles and filters

in the brilliance of the day,

caressing your anointed brow

and cheeks like the softened fur of trees.

MUSIC... DANCE... & FIRE

—by Emiliano Martin

The dance

is between us

bringing a new chance

to wrap in each other

ways to understand

the verse we dream of

the kisses

the rhyme

the smoke from a fire

burning in front of our eyes.

The music goes on with rhythm and beat

the lyrics are faithful and easy to read.

Warming our thoughts

they leave behind feelings

intrigue and desire for more

knowing that tomorrow we will realize

that the poems we chisel in each other’s heart

remain within walls inside our minds.

The dance is between us. What is wrong with that?

9.

SCARVES, TIES, AND BOXES OF CANDY: 1942

—by Marilyn S. Marsh Noll

It was a lean Christmas. Uncle Bob

had gone to serve in World War II.

Dad’s business was slow. Brad and I

were past believing in Santa Claus,

but still hopeful. Mom wrapped up gifts

as usual, but packages we sent that year

were all the same—bought at discount—

like the candy left when Dad’s friend

had to close his candy store.

Dad had a worried look about him.

Mom was cheerful and busy as always

doling out those gifts: a box of candy

for each family; ties for Grandfathers

and red scarves for Grandmothers;

the same for aunts and uncles.The tree

was smaller than before. Not all its lights

were working, but still we had enough

to eat. We sent few cards that year.

So why is it that I recall that Christmas

as the best of all? Well, there was peace

in our home. Everyone worked together

to make do; neighbors all shared worries

of the hour—the news of fearsome battles

and bombings overseas. We all believed

in prayer. When Christmas finally came,

quieter than usual, we were together—

in our family, in our town, as a nation.

10.

by Marilyn S. Marsh Noll

in Ordinary Tasks,

Madbooks, Pittsburgh, PA

15221

ISBN: 978-0-9827639-5-7

MISCOMMUNICATION

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

He thought it was a plot to blight

his fledgling plan, so sought to fight

the wicked foes with all his might.

But then he found to his delight

that what he’d taken as a slight

was confirmation he was right.

11.

ACCIDENTAL SIGNIFICATIONS?

—by Fereshteh Sholevar

As I lie on the couch lazing like a dog,

all my limbs and senses become questions:

What lies there, after a long interrupted sleep,

is it the same sleep, only continuous?

Is it where the mountains shrink,

the green eyes of meadows are closed,

where one’s eyes can drink water—

maybe it’s very close, on my blind side

or is it under the gypsy’s sun—

perhaps some place where birds practice

their religion in the trees?

I wonder if it lies in Buddha’s arms,

Einstein’s resolution of relativity

Darwin’s theory of descent with modification

or Freud’s renunciation of instinct?

Is it inclined through the words of the Man

who walked on the waters,

the Man who heard messages in the mountains

or maybe the Man who read

commandments written with fire ?

Is it where no one has ever returned from,

or somewhere that only logic reigns,

or is it on the hill where Sisyphus rolled the heavy rock

up and down the hill through eternity?

There are so many elements

harmonious yet contradictory.

Are all these meanings coincidental?

12.

13.

NIGHT

—by James Barkley

the light’s drift of white’s cold

fragile fragments,

chill

the delight’s gift of sprite’s cold

fertile fragments,

still,

the sleights shrift, of blight’s cold

servile fragments.

fill

the nights thrift of night’s cold

erstwhile fragments,

stilled.

14.

THE NON-CONFORMISTS

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

A vee of geese

wedge into a huddled gray

autumn sky, high above

a noisy assembly of blackbirds

on leafless treetops.

Neighbors smile and wave

as their southbound trailer

heads down the street.

A brisk northwest wind

ruffles the feathers

of a lone robin, perched

on the solid rim

of a dry birdbath.

Perhaps I only imagine

that robin winked at me,

but I raise the window

and toss him half a slice

of my morning toast.

The honking call of the geese

is swallowed in the clouds.

A snowflake melts on my cheek.

15.

DANCIN’ IN THE KITCHEN

—by Gail Denham

Water from the sink sprayer didn’t reach to soak

my pesky brother who lobbed peanut butter

blobs from behind the island. I opened the fridge

and dug into a bowl of cold spaghetti. Strings

stuck to the wall behind the little pest.

Then I slipped on spray. Buster sprang into action

with a tuna can that wasn’t quite empty. I fired

radish bombs and handfuls of peas. Orange slices

flew my way. “Hey, let’s put an egg in the microwave,”

I suggested. I’d distract him and find a new weapon.

By this time we were all kind of colors and smells.

Just as the egg exploded, the back door opened.

I tried to see the mess with Mom’s eyes. Failing,

I grabbed Buster, began to hum, dragged him

in quick steps across the slimy floor. “Teaching him

a new dance, Mom,” I said, scooting away from

her red face. Buster broke and ran for the closet.

“Wanna’ try it, Mom,” I asked. “It’s new – called

Kitchen Dance.”

Published in Grist,

Missouri State Poetry Society

2013;also my chapbook

“On The Way to Everything”

16.

STEPPING OUT

—by Byron Hoot

Some ambiguity of time lingers

the way a deer cautiously steps

into a clearing.

Often a word or two,

a slight gesture almost unseen,

pauses time and lets some

remembered dream recall

a meaning forgotten but waiting

for this moment to appear

and I put one step slowly ahead of another

crossing a threshold

I've held, now know, and can't

refuse to cross,

my step liminal

referencing every resurrection ever

always occurring

and the call of that voice,

"Come to me. . . "

Ed. note:

inspirational picture is from my files—

not sure of source

17.

SNOW: POETRY IN MOTION

—by Louisa Godissart McQuillen

The snows gathered on our jackets and hair,

and you frowned and said,

“It’s cold out here tonight!”

I laughed.

“Yes, but isn’t it beautiful?

Just look at those evergreen trees!”

You pretended to frown even harder then,

and told me my “beautiful snow” was getting wetter

and colder by the minute.

“O, but it’s light as a feather . . . lighter than air!”

I rambled on:

“Snow is poetry in motion—God-sent for

our pleasure and to clean up the world!”

I think that one wore you down. You whacked me

with a snowball and said you guessed it was a

nice enough snow after all.

I smiled and said,

“Yes . . . and isn’t it beautiful?”

Louisa Godissart McQuillen ©1990

18.

GIFTS OF THE SEASON

—by Henry Spottswood

I spied a dollar on the sidewalk,

as did a gent approaching smartly.

Neither of us reached to retrieve it,

amused with our awkward situation.

He declined to take it, nor would I,

and luck found us a handy compromise.

In a bell-ringer’s kettle we deposited

a fiver each, with our sidewalk dollar.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

19.

Lynn Fetterolf...23

Ann Gasser...25

Lucille Morgan Wilson...19

December

2012012012018888Michael Bourgo...24

Von S. Bourland...21

Gail Denham...22

Marilyn Downing...20

20.

CALENDAR ALERTS

—Marilyn Downing

Hustley, bustley, now it’s December …

but I’m thinking I clearly remember

new catalogues came as early as June

and magazine renewals followed soon.

Plenty of time to draw up a list …

so none of my giftees would end up missed,

But summer flowers were still in bloom,

and this year’s calendar had plenty of room.

Then “Black Friday” ads aired November First …

I realized gift-choosing plans were cursed.

Thanksgiving slid in before the leaves fell,

and shopping season was here, I could tell.

I’m flummoxed it seems without rhyme or reason

why half of the year is now gift-giving “season.”

21.

HOLIDAY FUN

…a Monotetra

by Gail Denham

The children gathered all around

On chairs and tables they did pound.

We trembled at the constant sound.

Their parents frowned. Their parents frowned.

22.

THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

(Created in 1790)

—by Michael Bourgo

Below the Mason-Dixon line,

we chose to build our country’s shrine:

once a stretch of useless swamp,

it’s now a place for lots of pomp,

a spot we go to celebrate

events and actors blessed by fate,

and as it is where Congress dallies—

it draws a lot of protest rallies!

Here walking tours are very cool,

seeing things we learned in school:

The monuments both short and tall,

grand buildings and the National Mall;

the Capitol with its grand dome,

the house our Chief will call his own;

museums which inspire and teach,

and site of Dr. King’s great speech.

So it would be an awful pity—

not to see our capital city!

(From Towards a More Perfect

Union © 2018 Michael Bourgo)

23.

CHECKS AND BALANCES

—by Lynn Fetterolf

If you desire a life review

Before the Grim Reaper gets his hands on you,

Just pull out the book that records all your checks

And male or female, doesn’t matter which sex.

There recorded for all of creation to see

Are the movements, behavior and actions that be

Your diary of life – might not be what you think—

It might even record all the booze that you drink.

You’ll know just how much does charity count

As you note how your contributions mount.

Or do movies get more of the money you spend?

Just think how that looks when you reach the end

Of life when you have to explain to St. Peter

The x-rated pleasures that seemed so much sweeter

Than singing a hymn or saying a prayer.

Your pew seemed so empty when you weren’t there.

The restaurant tabs, the grocers and such,

The finery bought for occasions, and much

more of the money than you would have guessed

Went for government spending through the dear IRS.

Not to worry, that’s only the tab for one year.

Now you’ve got a new book to fill with good cheer.

Remember when kinfolk plant you in the ground

Don’t leave your checkbook lying around!

24.

FAKE NEWS

a Rondeau

—by Ann Gasser

While faking news each day they try

to sway the public, make it buy

whatever narrative they sell—

they do their best, they do it well

while faking news.

A lot of dealing on the sly,

no search for truth, no wond’ring why

they have too many lies to tell

while faking news.

They’ve severed each remaining tie

with what is right—their battle cry

is “Step on honor where it fell!”

They laugh and say,”Oh, what the hell,

the rules are for the other guy.”

while faking news.