(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, Inc. The Essence of PPS, Inc. The Essence of PPS, Inc. The Essence of PPS, Inc.

Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc.

OctoberOctoberOctoberOctober2012012012017

Ann Gasser...12Mark Greathouse...11Mark Hudson...6Emiliano Martin...10Marie-Louise Meyers...14Henry Spottswood...8Loretta Diane Walker...13Lucille Morgan Wilson...2

1.

Maureen Applegate...7Elizabeth Bodien...16Michael Bourgo...4Gail Denham...15Marilyn Downing...5Madelyn Eastlund...9Vicky Fake-Weldon...17Lynn Fetterolf...3

2.

EMILY'S REPLACEMENT —by Lucille Morgan Wilson

Before my brother Jim was born and there was only me

I named the flowers and sat for hours playing with Emily.

Then after I had tired of her - for she was just pretend -

I'd wander through the garden gate looking for a friend

among the calves and lambs who grazed the pasture near the wood.

I'd offer grass and stand as still as a six-year-old child could.

In time a half-grown lamb called Franz became my special pet.

He'd take the grass and nuzzle me with nose all soft and wet.

If I'd been scolded he would stand quite still and let me ply

his woolly coat for comfort so I wouldn't have to cry.

Together we watched bumblebees taste a fencerow aster;

I timed the cabbage butterflies, if white or yellow were faster.

Before we knew each day had gone, and summer ended, too.

Franz understood that I'd be there weekends and after school.

He'd leave the flock at my first call and run to me in haste

as though the grass I offered him was sweeter to his taste.

I wore a sweater for the chill; Franz' coat was thicker growing.

Though father talked of markets, how little was I knowing

one awful day a truck would come to haul the sheep away.

My Franz was last to climb the ramp; he turned and looked my way,

a question in his ovine eyes. That question hurt me so

but because Franz and I were friends, I think he'll surely know

why I just turned my back and ran to hide that dreadful day.

For such a long time after, jealous Emily wouldn't play.

3.

FALLEN STARS ORWHY ALL INTELLIGENT VIEWERS HAVE STOPPED WATCHING THE AWARD SHOWS ON TV —by Lynn Fetterolf

I see them on the news today;

those vapid faces, Botoxed to blankness,

scalpel marks hidden behind the ears, trying to

impress me with their ridiculous views.

As if their fame imparts credibility to their

insincere messages and political partiality.

Who on earth cares for their opinions,

paid for by the publicity they engender

for financiers of their fanciful business

whom they thank with feigned sincerity?

They should be thanking the nannies who raise

their children, the writers who toil to give them

the words to say, even the pool boys and servants

who clean up after them.

Why are they revered, and who, with

an ounce of wisdom, would grant

credibility to their scripted utterings?

They are the most politically correct creatures

on this earth, never daring to speak outside

the party line for fear they shall instantly

become the falling star, never to be offered

lucrative roles again.

4.

ELEGY FOR A FRIEND, DYING TOO SOON(In Memoriam: Sharon W., 1941-2012) —by Michael Bourgo

Sooner or later, you had to know,

so why not know? Deferral

would be no kindness to you,

only a gift to others,

afraid to say the word,

and consumed by impotence;

while brave soul that you are,

you have no quarrel

except with the indignities of dying;

and if you must depart,

why not now, in mid-autumn,

in the company of all nature,

following the leaves and the flowers

into some waiting winter,

peopled by yourself alone,

leaving us and our good intentions

waving from the banks

as you drift from view.

leaves from unny-pictures photo.net

5.

BASIC HOME DÉCOR —by Marilyn Downing

It wasn’t much to show for fifty-some years

of marriage weathering the Great Depression

and World War II, and raising two children

on a factory worker’s wages with a small

kitchen garden, canning, home-made clothes.

It was an ordinary living room with an

overstuffed sofa, rocker, and recliner,

end tables with crocheted doilies and lamps.

No touch of a designer’s expertise or attempt

to modernize, except for the console TV.

But my widowed aunt looked wistfully around

and summed it up, “It’d just be perfect if I could

look across and see Dutch sitting in his chair.”

photo from vaguelyrelevant.wordpress.com

6.

PLACES IN MY MIND —by Mark Hudson

It was the third week of my adult level art class.

I had been present for all three classes.

One student missed because he was in Scandinavia.

Another had been in Scotland.

When they first came into class,

they were comparing vacation stories,

and I felt jealous.

After discussing their trips for ten or twenty minutes,

suddenly, every adult in the art class became silent—

each student concentrating on their art projects,

working hard, even the teacher.

I realized that even though I can't afford to go to Scotland

or Scandinavia, I felt deep serenity and peace of mind, happy—

working on my drawing, which took three hours to finish,

and came out well.

I was content and enjoyed working in this class

with other adults. It was then I realized

the freedom to do that is a great gift,

and while others must travel,

I can create a "World" on a blank piece of paper.

Not everyone can do that,

and I thank God for blessing me.

7.

GEMS — by Maureen Applegate

Humming birds

confuse me

flying by.

I fear some

biting bugs

come to feast.

Then, emeralds

hover near,

flying jewels.

PEN PALS Katherine Hamilton March 9, 1897

—by Henry Spottswood

She wrote her name in sky-blue ink

into history and into her copy of The POEMS

OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, an 1896 edition.

I think of her when I turn these fragile pages.

What was she like? What were favorite lines?

I try to picture her, stylus in hand, her ink supply,

reading by day or by lamplight. What were feelings

prompting these marginal notes – in sky-blue ink-

to his poem “Calm is the Fragrant Air?” The book:

was it a gift, or perhaps her own purchase?

I had a thought but soon dismissed it

as indulging an unseemly modernist liberty.

Might we discover, in this brittle paper,

resting there the DNA traces of herself

and her loved ones on the family tree?

Did she read George Eliot? Mrs. Gaskell?

If I believed that she could receive it,

I would frame a message to her website,

that I too hold feelings of a deep power,

the still, sad music of humanity.

8.

illustration from commons.mia.org

FALSEHOOD VERSUS TRUTH —by Madelyn Eastlund

too cumbersome to float,

too solid a mass to dissolve,

falsehood

crawls along the ground,

dull gray,

an unclean slimy module,

trampled upon

spat upon

forever vilified.

bouyant enough to float

and dissolve into fluffy clouds,

truth

sails through the blue sky,

pure white,

warmed by the golden sun,

revered,

applauded,

forever exalted.

9.

from her book

BEYOND MY GARDEN WALL

PRACTICING—by Emiliano Martin

If a physician makes a living

practicing medicine,

a poet may certainly dream

practicing poetry.

10.

11.

I REMEMBER YESTERDAY —by Mark Greathouse

I remember as a child, long hikes in the forest primeval;

Camping under the stars, where trees were my cathedral.

I’d wake in the morning to the brisk mountain air,

I would romp in the forest with nary a care.

Playing cowboys and Indians was ever such fun;

I lived and died shooting bow and arrow and gun.

I’d whoop and holler for few could hear,

I’d chase squirrels, and birds, and occasional deer.

Oh, those were the days, of hearts wild and free.

No cares, no worries, I could just be me.

The stream was a torrent in my mind’s eye,

Yes, I could dream by earth and sky.

Now I remember yesterday, just as clear as day,

It’s in my children’s hearts; it’s there to stay.

Blessed is our childhood, when we indeed were free,

I remember yesterday, it’s what my children see.

12.

A TOAST TO TWILIGHT TIME, MOTHER NATURE’S TRANQUILIZER —by Ann Gasser

Twilight opens up the gentle jar of night

and spreads its quiet over waiting earth.

Then, with her shaker full of sugar stars,

she shakes out just enough

to sparkle the sky with a crystal glow

above the dark chocolate hills.

I drink in the mocha moments with my eyes,

devour the solace of silence with my ears,

and savor every minute of twilight time,

storing memories in my cookie jar mind.

Tomorrow, when I wake in cold oatmeal dawn,

Day's busy blender will start whirling me around

until I start to feel like scrambled eggs.

and thoughts of all that must be done this busy day

sometimes overwhelm me.

It is then I open up my cookie jar of mind,

and savor bits of night's sweet quietness,

knowing these crumbs will sustain me

till Twilight, Mother Nature’s Tranquilizer,

returns to bring serenity to my world once more.

13.

FALLING INTO MORNING —by Loretta Diane Walker

“The autumn wind is a villain big and bold.”

—Steve Sabol

It’s evident the wind’s descending into madness;

scalped maples and oaks manifest in psychosis.

A lone leaf of white paper in a field

overgrown with tumbleweeds flies towards shelter.

An empty green bean can rolls until it finds refuge

underneath a parked car.

Glassy teeth of wind-chimes chatter fearful melodies.

The trees are too traumatized to stop shaking.

Their trembling limbs incessantly thrash against air,

leaves fall into morning.

Is it mad to say there is beauty in the wind’s insanity?

The way it forces the day to press its shivering hands

against window screens?

Or the way it drags fallen leaves to a far corner

of the yard, sandwiches them between concrete and sky,

their scarlet-orange bodies heaped into a chilly flame?

photo from Business Insider

MANDATE FROM THE WHITE MOUNTAINS —by Marie-Louise Meyers

What if I had stayed too long

where the Mountains hide the light, clouds drawn in,

ready to disclose frozen particles of snow;

where the aurora borealis heightens the night sky?

Can I fully integrate my Mindset

where only the trees shoot the breeze, leaning forward

with outstretched branches, rattling birches with song?

How white of them in their eagerness for Human Contact,

to ride them till they exhaust their robust intercourse

ala Robert Frost.*

Once you leave the containment of leaves,

conserving sunlight in the water wells

of the pulsating falls, casting a spell

winding up through the steep incline

of dark scented forests of pines

standing like sentinels,

their receptive needles decorated

with inoffensive flakes of uncharted stars.

Only the stark nakedness of Rocks survive

where each step traces a frozen precipice.

Still I confide in the lake I take by surprise

lapping along on the shoreline,

and fantasize that the face mirrored there

is not mine, but one of my kind

with thoughts both of us are inclined to own

for a peaceful Mindset.

(reference to Frost’s poem “Birches”)

14.

photo from

https://www.visitwhitemountains.com/

15.

EVEN SO, DANCE —by Gail Denham

Dance because leaves have turned orange

and your aspens clap and sing in the wind.

Dance because even if rain spoils your picnic,

you can splash a jig in the puddles.

Dance when someone in line ahead

of you, with two baskets full, can't find

her credit card, and you have ice cream

in your cart.

Dance when Junior kicks the Fed-X person

and Frisky dog runs to your 90-year-old

neighbor, Ida, every time you scold him.

Dance even when your best friend tells you

she's moving to Alaska and do you want

her grandmother's buffet ‘cuz she's not

coming back to the lower states ever again.

Dance because you believe that all things work

for good to those who trust God—even when

everyone else heaps scorn on that idea.

Dance when you remember the gold and red

leaves and the music your aspens create.

photo from Gail Denham

16.

THE AIR ITSELF —by Elizabeth Bodien

Tether the donkeys, load up the camels,

cart yourselves and your cargo across the terrain.

A yellow-eyed turtle zigzags your path.

Move where you wish, subdue the land.

Electric cities make white the night sky.

The squinting turtle hides under the bridge.

Build yurts and castles of small and large measure,

hauling marble from elsewhere on earth.

The turtle must look for a new place to stay.

Cut down the woods to keep yourselves warm,

drill deep into earth to plunder her oils.

The turtle is nervous, feels the ground tremble.

Roast sugar cane, burn whole countries to cook.

A few waists grow vast, equating the Earth’s.

The turtle must scramble to find its own nibble.

Oceans rise up, spill out their doomed creatures.

The air itself is cooking, is cooking.

Where is the turtle?

photo

by

Gail Denham

TO AUTUMN AND CONTESTS OF POETRY —by Vicky Fake-Weldon

Season of poems and many fall contests

(close-bosom friends of poetry :)

closely I'll read and follow directions

so the fruits of my labors will be seen

(by the poetry contest judges).

Preparing my poems, I'll not send sonnets

to any free verse categories.

Nor will I send my poem about the tree

to any categories with the subject: BEE.

If required, I vow to name my sonnet pattern;

following requirements precisely.

I promise to count punctuation —lines —

spaces—I PROMISE TO COUNT EVERYTHING —

counting up and down and across each page.

Also, I vow to count manually—

in case my counting program has gone awry.

I promise to include a signed statement,

"This is my original, unpublished work"

Then, before signing my check and sealing the envelope—

I promise to read the rules and count again.

17.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

October

2012012012017

Lynn Fetterolf...25Prabha Nayak Prabhu...23Constance Trump...20Lucille Morgan Wilson...26

18.

Elizabeth Bodien...19Michael Bourgo...24Ann Gasser...22Marilyn Downing...21

BAD NEWS BREAKUP LUNCHEON MENU —by Elizabeth Bodien

Bruschetta brushed off with tidbits of tears

Tureen of peelings, revealings, confessing

Truffles slow-shuffled with tomorrows and orneries

Salad with eavesdrops of flagrant undressing

Creeps stuffed with baloney and cheesy excuses

Fishy ragout now deep-stewing in brine

Side dish of dates with bitters and juices

Forbidden fruit with a tall glass of whine

19.

photo from Toni Carey Lake

YEAR OF THE ROOSTER—by Constance Trump

Rob Rooster had plenty of pluck

As each hen would avow with a cluck

He preened in the sun

And strutted for fun

Right out in the path of a truck!

20.

photo from Toni Carey Lake

21.

FROG’S LAMENT AT THE PUMP —by Marilyn Downing

Here I am high and dry

but I can’t figure out why

I’m stuck in this small space.

I feel quite out of place!

Washed up by the hurricane,

I can’t get back out again.

Ah, a hand lifts the place I hide …

wet and slimy out I slide!

My help has come at last

before I felt totally gassed!

HIATUS FOR VICTORIA’S SECRET —by Ann Gasser

When you come to the end of a love affair,

you say, “C’est la Vie—and I don’t care!”

And you really don’t mind,

‘cause you now can unwind

in your comfy old well-worn underwear!.

22.

23.

WISHFUL THINKING —by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

I wish that someone would create

a tablet that could satiate

my craving for unhealthy stuff

which always makes me bloat and puff

up looking like a gas balloon

about to burst anytime soon.

24.

THE WALRUS —by Michael Bourgo

This is not a dainty fellow—

he’s big, round and likes to bellow.

He has are no arms, only flippers,

and no feet for wearing slippers.

Add to this a ton of blubber:

he cannot be a good landlubber

.

So water is his usual spot—

he likes it cold and never hot,

does not mind the ice and snow,

and takes his naps upon a floe.

To diets he will not conform—

he needs his fat to keep toes warm,

and if this guy could eat some fishes,

he might say they were delicious,

but it seems that for this beast,

clams and oysters are his feast:

for he is slow in locomotion

and likes his prey to have no motion!

25.

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER* —by Lynn Fetterolf

Japan’s Keiko Sato proudly made

a work of art which he displayed

in a gallery in Holland, Amsterdam.

Folks consider some modern art flimflam.

A maid not comprehending Sato’s “art”

while efficiently playing her tidy part;

on seeing his pile of “Cigarette Butts and Ash”

swept it up and threw it in the trash. Alas!

*True story from the European magazine

November 1996

26.

GABRIEL, MICHAEL, AND—WHO? —by Lucille Morgan Wilson

Two of them are perfect, heads inclined

at just the proper angle to suggest

humility and reverence, while a kind

of pious aura wraps them, caresses

the plaster curls that lie in symmetry.

Each pair of finely crafted wings are poised

as though the wearer recently flew free

above earth's commonplace till a soft-voiced

command bade them alight. Last of the three,

with wind-ruffed tresses, a disheveled wing

and halo tipped askew, stands breathlessly

beside his fellow angels. While they sing

in sweet, clear voices a celestial melody,

he—my impish guardian angel—winks at me.