Prabha Nyak Prabhu 7

Emiliano Martin 14

Carol Dee Meeks 13

Marie-Louise Meyers 8

Jacqueline Moffett 4

Constance A. Trump 5

Loretta Diane Walker 10

Lucille Morgan Wilson 3

Maureen Applegate 12

Doris DiSavino 6

Marilyn Downing 11

Lynn Fetterolf 2

Ann Gasser 17

Imogene Hunt 16

Nancy Henry Kline 9

Meg Eden Kuyatt 15

(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.)

July2014201420142014

1.

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

—by Lynn Fetterolf

Some of the most beautiful things

known to man never make a sound:

A child’s smile,

the rising moon,

stars appearing,

a deer crossing the road,

snowflakes falling,

silent prayer,

kisses,

love!

2.

THE VINDICATION OF VINCENT VAN GOGH

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

The whirling has stopped now, the mad

twisting of the trees, the agonized writhing

of the universe as it flings stars,

glowing coals, into the black hole of night.

I left my brushes with Gauguin.

Even he, my closest friend, does not know.

Those who never knew me will never understand

that the bland pastels that lave the common life,

the sickly pinks that deceive the vision,

nauseate my soul. In London I knew the sting

of rejection, the violent crimson of pain,

the ugly purple of rage. In Belgium I descended

into the mines, felt the cold sweat of the workers,

breathed the black dust of reality.

Not for me the bland world of love and beauty.

Before the nineteenth century closed

I vowed to make them feel passion

through the intensity of blues and greens,

the flame of oranges and yellows, stark and staring

from the canvas, but they could not, would not.

They scorned my work, called me insane.

Ah, theirs the insanity, the blindness that ignores

the thorns but worships the rose; their ears hear harps

and miss the clanging cymbals of disharmony.

Here it is cool and calm.

Yet with my good ear I still hear the thunder of war,

the screams of hunger. More than a century later,

the earth above me heaves with the lashes of oppression

and I know I was right to paint with sharp wild strokes

from my palette of pain and despair.

3.

THE BLUE HYDRANGEA

--by Jacqueline Moffett

A love from afar was sparked when

I first noticed the exquisite blue flora

among the colorful collage of neighboring lawns

Today, its beauty was displayed before me,

wrapped in a gift on Mother's Day

Next spring, the plant emerged from the thawed

earth and sprouted sturdy green leaves

In a few weeks, a burst of rounded cornflower

blue mophead flowers appeared

One or two showed their faces each day,

until twenty greeted me one morning

Blossoms continued June until September

and changed to a softened blue/purple hue

Our Lord generously sprinkled flower

seeds throughout the Universe for His

people to experience color and fragrance

Thoughts of planting a pink hydrangea,

not far from this blue treasure, fill my dreams.

4.

MORNING MUSINGS

—by Constance A. Trump

Every morning I greet the sea

and like to think she comes to me

tumbling, swirling, full of brine,

I pretend the sea’s all mine;

her mighty spirit, wild and free

harnessed as she bows to me,

lapping gently at my feet

as I survey the majesty

out where blue horizons meet.

Kindly is the verdant sea

to trifle with a fool like me!

5.

6.

TAP ROOTS

-Doris DiSavino

Two trees

embracing on a hill,

roots, trunks, branches

intertwined.

When one tree falls, how

shall the other stand alone?

Published in ON THE QUIET SIDE

New Jersey Poetry Society 2008

REMINDERS

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

The constant drip of water in the tub

The ticking of the old clock on the wall

Are like the members of a Doomsday Club

Reminding me that soon I’ll take a fall.

7

8.

IMPRESSIBLE (FIREWORKS AT LONGWOOD)

—by Marie Louise Meyers

Scratching its way through the surface of things

to the hidden meaning beneath, my pen went dry.

What’s it like to run out of ammunition

when you try to target the prize, fireworks split between Earth and Sky,

my sensibilities arising, a feast for the eyes-----M A G N E T I Z E D.

Mapped out before me, a tracery of thought waves bursting into view,

tinted lights playing on Longwood’s bleeding fountains,

a panoramic display that encompasses the blackboard of night.

And for the listening ears, a musical blend of Broadway at its best,

Glenn Miller digging up memories that

break through the generational barrier

when “String of Pearls” sets your feet to dancing

with its persistent choreographed beat.

Everything must have meaning and staying power

as the spectacular gems M A T E R I A L I Z E

into star burst, crystal chandeliers

falling through space, psychedelic mushrooms,

reigning down on us like colored confetti

until we are ejected into outer space with thunderbolts for emphasis.

By sheer force of will power remain in our seats,

only the smallest ones among us wrenched to their feet.

As we try to recall their shapes, ashes disintegrate into nothingness,

leaving a smoky residue that takes their place,

Beauty in whatever form is a reason for being

weaving the timeless myth that intrinsic value is everything.

9.

THIS IS THE WAY YOU GET A SHOCK TREATMENT - 1960

—by Nancy Henry Kline

You sit in a circle and wait and wait in the lounge of the psycho ward and

your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're scared out of your wits

and you know you'll be number ten because nine other loonies got shots

before you did and you play stupid games while you wait and wait and you

can't concentrate and your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're

scared out of your wits and your mouth is dry as dust parched from that

damn shot Oh God! some water while you wait and wait and the nurse takes

your hand and you WANT to wait and wait and your heart is beating like a

tom tom because you're scared out of your wits and she leads you into THE

ROOM and that monstrous machine with its malicious electrodes is waiting

to convulse you and three strapping orderlies wait and wait to hold you

down and keep you from hurting yourself and one doctor helps you onto the

gurney and the other holds a padded tongue depressor in one hand and your

hand in the other and your heart is beating like a tom tom because you're

scared out of your wits and you get another shot sodium pentothal this time

and you count 100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, and you wait and wait for oblivion.

10

EARLY MORNING SYMPHONY

—by Loretta Diane Walker

Those cardinals started their recital early this morning.

Light was barely a thought when I opened my eyes

to their performance.

The wind moved like a body with clumsy knees.

It bumped shrubs and the silk plants on my patio

as it moved up, down the sidewalk.

I didn’t know the wind’s destination,

but a medley of sounds trailed it—

dogs barking, doors slamming,

water rushing like Niagara

from the shower upstairs.

I gradually tuned out their recitations

as my mind straddled those moments

between wake and sleep.

I curled my body into the womb of a warm blanket,

drifted back to the place of dreams.

11.

photo from Image Gallery /Douglass Wardwell

I n

t h e

e x a c t

center of

Cheop's pyramid

lie that pharaoh's

burial chambers, two

rooms: one to preserve

his treasures and exploits

in hieroglyphs and one for the

embalmed shell, that had carried

around his super EGO in a mortal life.

Treasure and mummy were stolen long ago,

so what remains is an enormous structure of stones,

mute testimony not to one long-dead pharaoh, rather to

a thousand thousand little lives, who labored to construct

this monument which could not lock in death, nor lock out life.

MESSAGES FROM A PYRAMID AT GIZA

—by Marilyn Downing

COLOR CONTRAST

—by Maureen Applegate

On the north side of town’s twin railroad tracks

prisms explode letting bright colors splatter

a hot yellow grocery abuts orange delis

flags are new constructs in white, red, and blue

skin tones are dark black, or white, tan, or brown

variegated people grace neighborhood porches

music is colorful, booming, reflecting off

car windows, ear drums, in scarlet crescendos

silver steel drumming from wide open doorways

all facets of life in prismatic proportions.

Then…

night lets the sleepers breathe cool, blue breezes

both sides of the town now bathed in one shadow

and darkness draws unity back from the colors

moonlight and street light dulling the contrast.

The color of night is the slumbering children

soft snores of dreamers or lovers entwined

both sides of the tracks reach harmonious union

that prisms will shatter when dawn re-awakens.

12.

13.

POETIC PACIFIER DURING CELEBRATIONS

—Carol Dee Meeks

At the conclusion of Ma and Pa Kettle

under heaven’s rug, celebrations

in pyrotechnic displays, mushroomed

into sparkles of brilliant glitter,

fireballs invaded the sky. They burst, they thrust,

like coral reefs in the sea and as green

spokes stretching from a wagon wheel’s

hub, at America’s July party. My dad held me

during those festivities. I remember blue fireworks

descended like bombs but beauty overshadowed

their combustion and pandemonium.

Between each flare, he soothed my fears

in utterances of love, rhyme and verse.

Big-gun firepower, like gems spewed

of topaz prismatic crystals and a spider-web

of white diamonds perfectly refined.

Their elegance danced across the vault

of heaven like superior Shakespearean stanzas

penned by the Master. I recall those galas, and my

dad’s ability to calm my storms in sonnet lines.

14.

CAPTURED

—by Emiliano Martin

When the wind

surrounds the trees

the leaves need a place to go.

Such it happens with my thoughts

whenever I feel I am captured

by the vibrations of love,

and sometimes I am so helpless

trying to figure out new words

I let things get out of control.

15.

OWNER

—by Meg Eden Kuyatt

A man on television with a room

full of shoes is not given a name,

only the title “Shoe Owner.”

My father says, I aspire to be a shoe

owner, only after becoming a food eater

and an air breather.

My mother says, He has no wife.

But what is my title? What

is my legacy?

Am I a poem scriber or just

a dish washer—my father is a

job worker, my mother an ex-doll

buyer, but what will they say

when they write my biography?

Will they write a biography?

16.

STIGMATA

—by Imogene Hunt

Decrying their angry swiftly tilting planet, mortals pray

for intervention, while above earth’s fire, immortals weep.

God, infinitely saddened, visited earth, vacating Heaven for us,

holding out hope for our powerful fallen star, and to silence

uncomprehended narrow thought that shadows day into night.

Can’t Mankind keep deeper darkness from entering dawn’s light?

Eden is now lost...parent tree and vacant garden still mourn.

Other echoes inhabit God’s Grief, recalling those evicted,

their hushed footfall now forgotten over time past, time spent

on war. God quietly ponders...battle scars become stigmata.

17.

BLUE REFUGE

ON A HOT SUMMER NIGHT

—by Ann Gasser

Like whipped cream satin

or clear teardrops flowing;

with strobe light pulsing,

black rainbows glowing;

warm breath steamed

over tongue-vibrated reed;

strings of steel plucked

till their blue notes bleed;

syncopated thump of

brush on drum;

melody smooth

as buttered rum;

a mellow voice

scatting Jello tones,

fantastic fingers--

piano bones;

melodic benediction

soothing the soul;

golden notes healing,

making me whole;

no inhibitions,

no razz-a-ma-tazz;

just a cool celebration

of mind-numbing jazz.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

July2014201420142014

Nancy Henry Kline 23

Richard Lake 19

Marie-Louise Meyers 25

18.

Marilyn Downing 22

Lynn Fetterolf 20

Ann Gasser 21

Mark Hudson 24

WATER HAZARDS

—by Richard Lake

Bad-luck boating, barely floating,

we do not have a paddle or an oar.

We can't affect direction,

crucial imperfection

since strainers dead ahead don't have a door!

19.

20.

RUTABAGA QUIZ

—by Lynn Fetterolf

What do you do with rutabagas?

Do you bet with them like in Las Vegas?

Do you hit them with a bat?

Or anything like that?

Do you put them in your wash?

Are they like a Macintosh?

Apple, that is. Well, this is a quiz.

What do you do with rutabagas?

Are they like bacon you eat with eggs?

A thing you cook and eat?

Yes! Though rutabagas aren’t sweet.

They’re definitely good to eat.

Best when you put them in a stew.

Taste a bit like turnips. Now you too

Know what to do with a rutabaga.

Hooray for you!

21.

SUMMER FASHION THOUGHTS

—by Ann Gasser

I won't say I'd like to go back

to petticoats and slips,

or corsets pinching waists to push

the flesh down to one's hips.

Nor do I yearn for summer clothes

that cover neck to toe,

but fashion's gone way way beyond

those days of long ago

The pendulum has swung so wide--

we wonder what comes next.

From prudery to nudity

is what the mind suspects.

And if that state--complete undress,

becomes the new decree

I won't be fashionable, and hope

mature minds follow me.

I see some who have shapely buns

and “WOW" extremities,

wear pants or skirts voluminous

that hide both thighs and knees,

while others who own derrieres

whose weight could sink a ship,

are brazen in their summer gear--

whose length is barely hip.

We really need a "BOTTOM" line,

for King and Queen-Plus size

whose wobbling flesh is an ASSAULT

on unsuspecting eyes.

22.

COUNTING DOWN ACROSTICALLY

—by Marilyn Downing

Consider what is wise and good

Around the sumptuous buffet spread

Loaded with much yummy food ….

Oh, how I try to use my head ….

Restricting portions, choosing right ….

Ignoring sauces, starch, and cream….

Each dish still tempts my appetite.

Slimming down? Nightmare or dream!

I SEE THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

(a villanelle)

—by Nancy Henry Kline

Stop flipping with that dental floss.

I want to scream and rant and rave!

Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.

This stuff is gross, obscures the gloss.

I cannot see to comb or shave.

Stop flipping with that dental floss.

Three times a day you must emboss

that glass with gook. You are a knave!

Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.

I hate this mess. It makes me cross.

YOU clean it. I am not your slave!

Stop flipping with that dental floss.

I wonder why—I'm at a loss.

This situation's getting grave.

Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.

I wish that I could make you toss

that waxed thread in some deep dark cave.

Stop flipping with that dental floss.

Our bathroom mirror's growing moss.

23.

THE PENNESSENCE RENNAISENCE

—by Mark Hudson

A good editor cannot be stopped,

even when hailstones are dropped.

To Pennesence, I was a contributor,

until the death of Ann's computer.

I had submitted a poem the first day of school,

I waited patiently, with the patience of a mule.

Ann had thought the poem showed potential,

but her computer needed insurance,maybe Prudential?

Her computer died within the blink of an eye,

I patiently waited, but there was no reply.

I recalled some great odes published in this format,

I began to wonder what ever happened to that.

Finally, I could wait no longer to ask,

why Ann had not published and been up for the task.

Her reply came to me when I had a bad day,

and in comparison, it made me feel okay.

So, let's not let life's problems prevent us from writing,

Turn your tragedies into poetry exciting!

24.

25.

GRANDPA'S CHEATING

--by Marie-Louise Meyers

He is winking his eye,

his expression is sly,

as he walks to the box with a shuffle.

He thinks no one can see,

he does not notice me

as he pulls out a chocolate truffle.

Gramp's a true "handy-man,"

the pill box holds more than

most boxes--it's my own creation.

And he's hoarded some sweets,

some favorite treats

to give him a cause for elation.

I just hope he's O.K.

no one takes away

my handmade pillbox gift.

His sweet secret will be

just between Gramp and me--

spirits all need a now-and-then lift.