AprilAprilAprilApril2020202020202020

1.

Maureen Applegate...12

James Barkley...10

Pom Benson...6

Michael Bourgo...7

Gail Denham...8

Marilyn Downing...11

Ann Gasser...15

Byron Hoot...3

Candace Kubinec...9

Emiliano Martin...16

Marie-Louise Meyers...14

Patricia Thrushart...4

Girard Tournesol...5

Constance A. Trump...2

Loretta Diane Walker...13

(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,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..)

MEMORIES

—by Constance A.Trump

Memories are universal, found deep within each heart,

some are ardent and alive, others frail and fading

to be jarred by happenstance or whim.

They are friend or foe, cherished or chided

but stoical in their impetus.

Some memories are shared, others veiled, yet few are peculiar

to any one heart.

We are each a part of the whole of humankind,

kindred souls, mirrors of the life force.

We hoard our memories deep within our beings

bringing them forth to ponder, or they arise

unannounced, unprovoked, demanding recognition

or recompense.

We cannot hide; memories haunt like

the specters they are, seeking restitution or praise;

they follow us to the grave, commingling with the cosmos.

Memories are your reality, and mine.

2.

3.

UNCONDITIONAL

A REFLECTION

—by Byron Hoot

I always thought the words Dad

used in his sermons

and the songs Mom sang

were their own so full of who

they were filled every word.

I had the grace of love

and laughter mixed

with morning devotions

and few rules, though

the church had many.

The love at home was loose

and firm beyond the realm of rules.

Like all true love is.

The poetry of scripture,

its inherent, hidden truths

quietly shattered oughts

and shoulds when read

just right.

And the paradoxes

of hymns entered

me early never to leave.

Mom and Dad lived what

they believed, needed no rules

and I am their son.

image from YouTube Church Media Worship

4.

THE WATERSHED OF HEMLOCK LAKE

—by Patricia Thrushart

She calls her waters down—

pond and stream and spring—

and they seep as frogs peep

when we slosh by

in deep puddles

spilling forth.

Rain drips among the thorn

of briar rose. Creeks rise;

the rushes sway as water runs

through gas well ruts,

smoothing stone,

carrying mud across the marks of deer in the green grass;

streaming across the sodden pastures,

damming among beaver’s logs but driven still—

restless with her will.

5.

EDGING ETERNITY

—by Girard Tournesol

There casts a lilt of light

out past horizon's reach

Standing ankles wet against eternity.

Feet transfixed in dusky shells,

the souls of this pearl beach.

She calls the faintest whispers

above skin and wave and gull,

beyond a length of swim or tangle of kelp,

beyond a barge a ship

or barnacled tanker's hull.

I cast her back this ribbon of line

and skip to her a stone

that sinks beneath my depths of breath,

the salty wind that moves my will,

my feet, my skin, and my bone.

6.

I HAVE SEEN THE ROBINS

—by Pom Benson

I have seen the robins,

Harbingers of Spring.

I have heard their morning songs,

yhe renaissance they bring.

Heads cocked at an angle,

an ear kept to the ground,

listening for the rumble

of Mother Nature’s fresh rebound.

I have seen the worms they eat

pulled from the soil a-squiggle.

I’ve seen the children dash outside,

leap and twirl and giggle.

I have smelled the flowers

burst forth from fragrant blossoms

and I have heard the rustling leaves

from chipmunks and opossums.

I’ve gazed upon emerging buds

enticed by loving sun.

Oh, I have seen the robins.

Springtime has begun.

7.

EASTER THOUGHTS: APRIL 13, 2017

—by Michael Bourgo

Today I was feeling the old tug,

unseen but irresistible

across the blues of a spring sky,

perhaps a gravity of sorts,

links pulling me closer

to some great beating heart

as all begins to awake;

and tied to earth and heaven,

to the buds emerging on the trees,

the early green of flowers

and their promise of blooms,

even the lowly speedwell

filling edges with tiny blue flowers;

to the new and varied songs--

the mockingbird and his surfeit,

the white-crowned sparrow,

that lonely pensive migrant

still so far from home;

and to this night, scanning stars

where brilliant Jupiter sails

near the paschal moon.

Tonight I have forgotten

how to surrender to daily thoughts,

a captive of my rhyme’s reason,

for what I have seen and heard,

what I think I can know,

is simply so much beauty

that I could say miracle--

and still lose half the story.

SCRAPS FROM BACK THEN

—by Gail Denham

Stray bits, like our junk drawer, warm

paths, once coffee brewed in a can

by a friend’s father, when we went

hunting Christmas trees.

Hurtful times, best forgotten. Mean words

on the playground. Empty home

after school. A view of brother Norm,

still and cold.

Exploration trips. Stopovers at ghost town’s

Shaniko Hotel. Searching for outhouse photos.

A night at Frenchglen on Mom’s 80th birthday.

Researching with a friend in England,

Wales, France. Finding deserted homesteads.

Nests of teen sons and their friends in the beat-up

Chevy van. Following the cycling race circuit,

praying for our son as he rode. Hilarious game

nights, a bundle of teens in a Cannon Beach rental;

memories that warm and sometimes scared. Tales

with deliberate mislaid amens, best forgotten.

Still, there were canyons unexplored, whispered

dreams, days that slid into worry. Bits and pieces

that escape, never to re-surface as a whole.

Ragged scraps that should be pasted in the album,

…but seldom are.

8.

…publ. in my chapbook,

Dancin’ Thru’ Puddles,

2010

photo from Gail Denham

9.

IN THAT MOMENT

—by Candace Kubinec

in the moment before a black-capped chickadee perched on the feeder,

searching with its sharp beak for a tasty sunflower seed….

before a pair of mourning doves landed in the grass chasing around the yard

like love struck teenagers ….

before the grackles came, strutting under the feeder, the sun on their feathers turning them into

iridescent-robed royalty…..

before red-winged blackbirds, in their uniforms with fancy epaulets on the shoulders,

began searching for bounty scattered beneath the feeders ….

before the blue jay, on a branch of the choke cherry tree, started his scolding call,

like a bully on a playground ….

there was peace in my backyard.

photo from Yardenvy

A POET’S CRY --by James Barkley

william, you should be, be living at this hour”

because we are burning, burning on this pyre;

as a fevered youth cries, the daffodils rise,

as untruth belies the birth of gadflies,

as this, as another, john keats dies.

as this, as before yeats, before wordsworth,

for milton, and what his words are worth;

what’s lost, what’s gained? il penseroso?

what cost, if regained? l’allegro?

what unrestrained madness! what agonizing woe!

our conscious drained, we’ve lost light of our writings.

our conscience stained we’ve lost sight of our writings.

10.

photo from the Washington Post

WORDS FROM THE OTHER MARY

—by Marilyn Downing

We followed the cross,

His mother Mary, Mary Magdalene, and I,

to share Jesus’ suffering through our grief ….

We felt so helpless and bereft of strength

or comfort from His disciples, who fearing

for their lives, went into hiding, but we

heard Him, charging His mother’s care to John,

fulfilling prophecy by forgiving mankind and

surrendering Himself to His Father, It is finished ….

With heavy hearts we women trudged home

to wait the Sabbath with friends, as darkness

of the storm drowned out light in our souls.

The third day we went to the tomb, carrying spices,

preparing to anoint and wrap the body of our fallen Lord.

An open tomb struck panic in our hearts ….

Bewildered, Mary Magdalene, dared ask the dazzling

presence where we could find our Jesus and heard Him say

one word, her name Mary, blessed assurance.

The empty cross, the empty tomb …. On the road to Emmaus

He knew and spoke to me, the Other Mary. I was there and

I believe all prophecy of the Triune God is fulfilled for us today.

The Good Shepherd knows and calls us each by name.

11.

12.

IN WHAT DO YOU TRUST?

—by Maureen Applegate

Some trust in the roll of a six-sided die

and some in the luck of the draw.

Attributing good to the fickles of Fate

is to trust a mechanical claw.

Serendipity offers benevolent chance

to an otherwise random event,

suggesting a guidance beyond what occurs

a grace or an awe heaven sent.

A turn taken wrong down a long country road —

and an old covered bridge brings delight.

A glance to the floor for no reason at all —

finds an earring lost in the night.

Or a trip to a school where children once learned —

its rooms turned apartments we see,

and there on the wall, four pictures still hang,

in one old class grouping –- it’s me!

Neither luck nor some cards, not horse shoe or charm

can match serendipity’s gift.

Some things just inspire right out of the blue,

unexpectedly making hearts lift.

13.

AWAKENING —by Loretta Diane Walker

Sunlight pierced through the trees.

Songs sung by seven doves

could be heard in the background.

The flower of morning opened.

A new day made its entrance.

Orion’s belt has long disappeared,

and happy endings of fairytales lie shut

on the night stand.

Scent of sandal wood still covers

half-burnt wax.

Steam of hot tea has dissipated

with night visions I do not remember.

Sleep removed my awareness

of transition— night to dawn,

summer to autumn.

Nonetheless, I am satisfied with

morning sunlight piercing through trees.

14.

LETTER TO MY GRANDCHILDREN

AND TO GRANDCHILDREN EVERYWHERE

—by Marie Louise Meyers (condensed to fit PENNESSENCE guidelines)

The world you and your parents knew is gone—

it disappeared in the blink of an eye

because of a mysterious unfathomable virus out there.

We’re not talking Freedom from Want, but more like wanting freedom.

Every store you want to explore is closed. School is closed too,

and even though it might have been dreaded, going to school was far better

than staring at four walls, the frustration when parents don’t snap to attention,

and trying to adjust to School Online.

All your parents ask is your patience till we get a better handle on this virus.

They have more to deal with than ever before, loss of job,

stockpiling goods in case the shelves are bare,

and all the while trying to do social distancing.

They don’t have the answers to soothe your fears the way they always did.

There are no answers yet.

Your primary job is rather simplistic since it involves not staying in bed

unless you are really feeling sick, and then you need to tell them right away.

Most important is washing your hands often, don’t get close, and keep your spirits up,

no hugging and kissing except your pet or stuffed animal as long as they are not shared.

Scientists and Medical Experts are working on a vaccine for Covid-19,

and before you know it, you won’t have to play Let’s Pretend,

you’ll have your playmates back again.

In time your generation will inherit the earth.

You will pass it on to your children, and they will pass it on to theirs.

This time of fear and isolation will be only a memory

but there will be lessons learned,

and the most important thing to remember is

what President Roosevelt said in my generation,

“There is nothing to fear but fear itself.!”

EASTERS—THEN AND NOW

—by Ann Gasser

These days I often find myself looking back

at the years which slid so quickly into the Sea of Time.

Back then, Easter was a time to pray for the Lord to help me:

1. write little rhymes for the children in my Sunday School Class to

memorize and recite for their parents to beam with pride.

2. help my Bluebird Group make peanut-butter eggs to sell

to earn money for trips they planned.

3. see that each member of my family had a brand new set of clothes to

wear to church—including underwear, outerwear, shoes and a hat!

4. make colored eggs—assemble Easter baskets for family and friends

5.help my mother set the table and serve her big family dinner.

I freely admit my life did not reach out very far.

Easter, today. is different. In my self-isolation there is a lot of time

for me to thank the Lord and pray:

1. that therapeutic medicine and a vaccine are quickly developed

2. that those who are sick with covid-19 recover—or

3. if that is impossible, are welcomed into Heaven,

4.and that those who remain can adjust to the changes in their lives.

I am not the only one thinking back.

Perhaps that is because we know from experience

that sometimes the light we see ahead in the tunnel

is another train on the same track. rumbling toward us.

15.

16.

A COMMON WISH

—by Emiliano Martin

I wish I were able to fly

like an eagle

up in the sky

cruising the heights.

Like an eagle

I wish I were able to feel free

to move around

and yet while touching the ground

to be part of nature as it is meant to be.

And at my command

only at my command

to be able to spread the wings

to take of and soar higher

higher and much higher... like an eagle.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

April2020202020202020

Marilyn Downing...22

Ann Gasser...26

Candace Kubinec...25

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...20

Lucille Morgan Wilson..18.

17.

Maueen Applegate...27

James Barkley...24

Pom Benson...19

Michael Bourgo...21

Gail Denham...23

18.

ROMANCE JUST SLIPPED AWAY!

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

He was tall, lean and handsome

and standing alone.

My heart skipped a beat

when his eyes caught my own.

Then, wonder of wonders,

he sauntered my way.

My jumbled mind searched

for some bright thing to say.

My knees turned to water,

my pulse began racing.

The distance between us

decreased with his pacing.

Then, close by my side,

he bent low to my ear.

My blood running hot,

my breath held to hear,

I await the soft drawl,

assured, gentle and knowing:

"Ah, Lady. . . " a pause,

"your slip's a-showin'."

19.

KINDLY MET

—by Pom Benson

I was buzzed by a bee in the Springtime,

Up high, where no bud had shown.

Just me and this hovering insect,

‘Cept wind, both quite alone.

I could not decipher his buzzing,

Nor he, my panting for breath.

So we parted ways from our meeting,

Tipping cap and wing, kindly met.

image from schiespain.com

20.

SPLIT SECOND

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

In every case of fight or flight

No matter if one’s dumb or bright

It’s hard to know what’s black or white

The gut decides what’s wrong or right

21.

*Hart Crane 1899-1932

James Wright 1927-1980

:POETS AND ACTUARIES

—by Michael Bourgo

—“The life expectancy of poets, as a group, trails

playwrights, novelists, and non-fiction writers by

a considerable margin.”

--Malcom Gladwell,

Talking to Strangers

It’s said that poets die when young,

far from the rung

that’s near the peak.

If proof you seek,

Malcom will show you all the math

that conquered Plath,

and laid the sheets

upon John Keats.

Aspiring poets, please take care,

or you may share

the awful plight

of Crane and Wright.*

22.

PLAYING THE HIGH CARD

—by Marilyn Downing

I had not thought how aging

brings a bonus with each regret.

But whenever I screw up,

I just say, “Oops, I forget…”

It’s okay to be 90-plus and say

I guess I missed the turn.

Or what’s the difference if

I let the grilled cheese burn.

Most things are fixable so I

am not a hopeless retard.

If I find myself tied in knots,

I play the 90’s card.

It’s an adventure every day

to find which card I need to play

as challenges come, what may

journeying along life’s way.

23.

NEVER LEAN OVER A MIRROR

—by Gail Denham

Image appears upon mirror.

A stranger gazes back at me.

The image could be a bit clearer—

Who can that weathered old gal be?

24.

POETS ACTEA

—by James Barkley

for what a word’s worth

in these morning hours

in the vibrant light of spring’s birth

of greened stems, white bell’d flowers,

i even i in this social solitude

find great joy in the company of my joyous brood.

photo from etsy.com

25.

A FRIENDLY ISOLATION

—by Candace Kubinec

An old woman who followed the trend

Social distancing rules she’d not bend

With some yarn and a hook

And an old pattern book

She crocheted herself a new friend

26.

A LUCKY ISOLATION

—by Ann Gasser

A couple who’d planned to be wed,

joined to social-distance instead.

He said, “She nags, I’m bored,

we both thank the Good Lord

we found out before vows were said.”

27.

IN HONOR OF THE WEBSTER’S”

—by Maureen Applegate

My written propaedeutic was a lengthy, wordy tome

describing in much great detail a quodrat long unknown.

I stretched a long straight petersham to mark the rolling land

and found a haha hid away within that verdant band.

The structure of an ancient town could barely be discerned—

perhaps some hagiocracy once ruled this terra ferm.

Some mortified jequirity was found within one tomb.

I think a parlous task occurred that led them to their doom.

Imagined archaeology may not require a spade–-

But such a rich vocabulary I have newly made!

*This poem was written in response to a challenge which required

thw writer to find and use 5 words from a Websters dictionary that

he or she had never heard before.