November 2001 Edition
 

SANDRA MORGAN:
 

whitecaps rushing wild and free laugh at danger on their way
they conquer rapids, pound the rocks, soar so high they meet the stars
near journey's end waves recede- a quiet pool this thing called love
 
 

streaks of pink intermingle with the loveliness of mauve
south-bound geese a silhouette this late October evening
with arms outstretched my mind soars high and tears of longing flow
 
 

Winter nights pull heavy shades on sunshine so much sooner now
the wiser birds have long since flown; those remaining beg for food
sadness and depression settle deep behind your midnight eyes
 
 

KIRSTY KARKOW:
 

high above a mousy bank feathers ruffle in the wind
unblinking in a winter oak keen eyes watch for little rodents
the eagle swoops with fanned white tail--close behind trail jealous crows
 
 

my birch tree curves in slender grace a silhouette on pale skies
its ancestors were made timeless in paintings by Old Masters
now all that lingers of my birch are these faded photographs
 
 

Look, aged Chinese gentlemen
with kimonos and pigtails.
The tall one reads an ornate scroll;
his friend is most attentive.
Together in an antique shop
two ivory figurines.
 
 

GIOVANNI MALITO:
 

I’ve stayed in my room all my life
   all sorts of people there with me.
We’ve discussed whatever I’ve liked
   all subject have suited me.
But now, the problems have begun
   My room has outgrown my head!
 
 

Feeling clever, I branched out
     and look up writing poetry.

I started with moon spoon rhymes
    progressing  through to one-word lines.

And this is to where I’ve arrived
    counting syllables of sheep.
 
 

DEBRA WOOLARD BENDER:
 

why is it they never meet –
could stars be lonely as I?

alone in crowds millions wander
from one season to the next

even my worn out sandal
finds its mate on the other foot
 
 

as if the noonday summer heat could lightly be fanned away
hibiscus flowers bend toward the yellow wings of butterflies
how long between this moment -- your last letter, again opened?
 
 

day and night, our little house drifts in and out a silver zoo
if I had a magic needle I’d draw gold threads from star to star
what pretty pictures I’d embroider for your bedtime stories
 
 

ROBERT HENRY POULIN:
 

SAILING THROUGH ETERNITY

We as one helper launch the boat
       under a star dust Milky Way.
Look, Beloved – how drip the jewels
       as each oar slurps up lake.
The moon I love beautifully shines
      where chemo took your hair.
 

THE TAO OF DEW

The way dew collects into a drop,
       and hangs on the tip of a leaf
       reminds me of human affairs
       and how I hang to life.
For seven years, in a fight to death,
      we hung till you fell.
 
 

ELAINE (LANA) HOLMES:
 

BUTTERFLY-BLUE-WING
 

alight softly  my blue angel
light the hollow of my palm

trust that i would never capture
         ever keep you for my own

burden me your weight  in sunshine
          for a time before i fly

(written for the little boy whose wish to see a rare blue butterfly
from the rain forest of  S. America was granted by the Children’s
Wish Foundation)
 
 

the world cries out for sanity
                      to halt the madness of one man
lost to reason      lost in hate

the world unites to slay the beast*

for each soul lost a nation weeps
our proud flags fly for freedom

* taliban ideology
 
 

MARJORIE A. BUETTNER:
 

deep fog this early morning
not a whisper from songbirds

under my feet I can feel it
for the briefest of moments

this old earth churning spring
magical alchemy again
 
 

filtered through the window shades
sun shadows fill up the room

I close my eyes to see you better
how our boundaries merge

this afternoon has no end
I empty myself into you
 
 

how slowly this silvered moonlight travels
crossing the snow-spent lawn

such mysteries rising in the depth
this vast night sky

I lock the door and switch off the light
heavy with distance and time
 
 

LARRY GROSS:
 

I’ll admit it isn’t your fault,
        I made you up from mind mist;
Before you could be you
        I made you what I thought I wanted.
That wasn’t it – who could have known?
        Wait – Maybe you could try this …
 
 

Bark on the oak in the backyard
             has scars over my scars;
ladder steps lead nowhere now,
            swing rope has furrowed the old branch
How strong it makes us for a while –
            the world we make – before it goes.
 
 

I bring him water in the field,
            stand to watch him plant the corn,
remembering all he learned from me,
            how to till, when to harvest;
Beyond that, to treasure land and God,
            knowing all things die.
 
 

ELIZABETH ST JACQUES:
 

slow piano piece drifting soft on humid summer air
high above a smooth ballet unfolds between white fluffy clouds
restless now I will myself to soar with notes and gulls
 
 

late summer days are soft with light and rich with floral scent
gentle breezes lift birdsong that serenade warm moments green
be still oh northern spirit – long frosty veils fall soon enough
 
 

Oh to know the languages
  of all the peoples of the world
Harmonies await the ear
  to solve all mysteries of tongues
Yet warm eyes open each closed door
  smiles unfold blithe messages
 
 

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