(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 otherwisePPS members are invited to submit.

Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order receivedTarget 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.)

September2019201920192019

1.

Jim Barkley,,,12

Michael Bourgo...13

Gail Denham...5

Marilyn Downing...7

Ann Gasser...11

Byron Hoot...4

Mark Hudson...6

Emiliano Martin...3

Marie-Louise Meyers...10

Patricia Thrushart...8

Girard Tournisol...9

Lucille Morgan Wilson...2

THE BLACKBIRDS BUILT NESTS WITH MY NOTES

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

Plum branches spill their lacy froth over the rusty fence.

Their fragrance makes the quarter-mile walk to the mailbox

a fantasy of bridal veils and lacy trains, the weedy path

a carpeted aisle in my twelve-year-old mind. I sweep

gracefully toward a handsome, smiling gentleman

who looks like both the tenth grade boy who has just moved

next door and our paper boy’s older brother.

In mid-summer hard green knots hide between ovoid leaves

and sturdy thorns. I chase white and yellow cabbage butterflies,

tuck wish notes in a splintered fencepost and wait while the fruit swells.

As the leaves began a slow seasonal change, plums hang plump

and pink, their succulence attracts the bees, tests my patience.

Finally satisfied their peak has come, I gather a capful, sit down

on the roadside with my mouth watering. I bite through the thick skin

of a large beauty. The sour juice bursts into my mouth.

Tears spring to my eyes. I spit out the bite, throw the plums into the weeds.

The dry tartness puckers my mouth, its bitterness bites my tongue

and I run for cold water from the pump to dilute the sting.

Years later I am wary of springtime’s froth, test wild fruits

fearfully and seldom, while I tiptoe over the cinder paths of reality.

2.

3.

A PIECE OF WRITING

—by Emiliano Martín

for Jim Marinell, teacher, poet, editor and a dear long time friend mine

Opened minded

he is in favored of all forms,

rhyme and prose.

His blades of intellect

are propelled

by the centrifugal force

that escapes from self-experienced

and old fashioned common sense;

with a humble attitude rarely found

in the heart of poets.

His critiques are often keen

and sharp,

yet, his ability to touch

the poet’s thought,

make us see the

inside crossed section of

a piece of writing.

With his critique

it is not hard to understand

and reconstruct

deficiencies hidden in the

vanity of our verse

or thinking.

Thank you Jim. (*)

-------------------------------

( Poem published in achapbook

by Emiliano Martin“IN THE COMPANY

OF TIME”-1999page #32 )

photo from thewritelife.com

THE GUEST

—by Byron Hoot

I do not believe, know

by temperament I have

come under the influence

of the praying mantis

but rather through necessity

of which I had no need of until

the mantis was there beside me

prayerfully, silently saying Om

or Amen or Gloria over and over

again in that Gregorian chant

chamber of air that seemed

to have enclosed me unaware.

I was in silent meditation listening

to the mantis, being allowed

to overhear what patience

and deliberation probing the

universe for the right choice

in the moment felt like.

I didn't like it much

but I was drawn to it,

the way it promised

something, someone was this way,

my way coming.

I felt a rhythm

not of a heartbeat but something older,

so old it felt new

and the only thing

I could think was, "This is what The Divine

dances to."

4.

5.

KIND WORDS OR…LITTLE LIES

—by Gail Denham

Met up with poor old Frank on the way

here. He sure hits the bottle a lot,

but bless his heart, he’s real good

with those young’uns.

Bessie’s got her a new hat. You see that?

Kinda’ looks like a big bowl of overripe

fruit, but bless her heart, she does like

bright colors.

We done taken’ to shoppin’ over to Grant’s Market.

Albert’s Store is ok, sure ‘nuf; however, bless

his heart, Albert adds two, three cents to most

canned goods, didja’ know?

Anyways, real good to see you. Been such

a long time. Bless your heart, I know you got

that head-strong daughter of your’n to deal

with each and every day.

Take care now. I got to get dinner on the table,

or Ralph will be a tad cranky,

bless his ‘onery heart.

6.

THE GEORGIA GOLD RUSH

—by Mark Hudson

The second gold rush in the United States,

was the first in Georgia.

It started in 1829 in Lumpkin County where gold

was found in the North Georgia mountains.

Different stories have been told about this

gold rush, and none can be proven. Supposedly in 1540

Hernando De Soto went on an expedition in North Carolina, and a

Cherokee chief named Ozley Bird Saunosk showed him how to

mine for gold.

In Georgia, there is a story that a man named

Thomas Bowen found gold in the roots of a storm-blown tree.

Another story says a man named Benjamin Parks

found gold on his birthday in 1828 while walking

along a deer path.

The Georgia gold rush led to conflicts with the

Cherokee people, which led President Andrew Jackson

to create the Indian Removal act of 1830, which led

to the famous “Trail of Tears” story where many

Cherokee people perished.

The Georgia gold rush was a precursor

to the California gold rush, about which much more is known.

7.

BACHELOR STATUS

—by Marilyn Downing

Now, some would measure success

as a Masters Degree

in cyber security technology,

or landing a level two job

with a world class company,

or finding and furnishing the just-

right bachelor’s apartment,

or budgeting a real paycheck

for living, savings, investment ….

But for one young man I know well,

with these conditions all met,

framed diploma hanging on a wall,

tangible evidence of success is ….

A Mustang two-door sedan

torch-red in great condition,

affordable and licensed in

his own name.

8.

photo from the convers ation.com

SEPTEMBER’S SUN

—-by Patricia Thrushart

September’s sun wanes,

slanted,

weakened,

leaving morning dew longer,

lingering to reveal the spider

deep in her lacy funnel,

lined by luminous prismed drops

as countless as her eyes.

I walk to pick the morning’s herbs

and see the shining threads

woven among the sorrel,

the bent bladed grass.

I step carefully, wondering

how many times have I wrecked

something beautiful

without knowing?

Editor’s note: In case you missed seeing it in the NFSPS contest results, Patricia was the lucky First Place winner inCategory 2 of the 2019 contest which awarded her $500, and the honor of having her poem “CHURCHGOER” appear onthe back cover of the 2019 ENCORE where we can read it next June. Congratulations, Patricia!

9.

THE WIND

—by Girard Tournisol

She can always let you go hang yourself

She's always known you just won't listen

She knows you only learn by your skin

Hanging by a thread three sheets to the wind

She's told you and scolded you until the cows come home

You just don't listen like you listen to your friends

Empty vessels of brown and green glass

Hollow cheers to ghost clinks

Their quiet cabaret

10..

photo fro pinterest

*THE LEFTOVER BOMB

—by Marie-Louise-Meyers

Lulled by the fabled Lorelei, the siren song,

along the romantische Rhein.

Lured by the Weihnachten Markt, Leitmotiv,gingerbread houses and marzipan,

not the Brothers Grimm of the dark side

or Wagner's Übermensch, the Master Race.

Swastika-shaped trees

touched by the Blitzkrieg.The Viking Cruise Ship came to a sudden halt.

Rising out of the black depths like a Zeitgeist,hangers-on encrusted in the steel-jacketed bomb.

Earmarked for the city of Koblentz, evacuated.

Sunset red sky, Götterdämmerung, Twilight of the Gods.

So many secrets the river contained,

so many voices resonate, unnamed.

Like a thief from the deep,

what Nazi Geld buried beneath their feet?

But none could puncture the mood

or intrude on the calm

until the steel-jacketed bomb

stood up like a Biblical Psalm.

Molded and shaped into a Poem:

lest we forget, lest we forget!Out of the muck and mire,

bombs never retire.

*(This actuallyhappened when the riverwas low, and the cruisehad to stop and changeplans.

Naturally the peoplereceived a free cruisefor the future,)

11.

ALL ABOARD FOR “CYBORGIA”

—by Ann Gasser

Everyone seems to wonder where civilization is headed.

Will humans gradually be replaced by robots—

one part at a time?

Will the robot parts last forever,

or will that be a whole new industry—replaceable parts?

We wouldn’t need schools to learn,

—our brains could surf the Internet.

—we could re-learn how to be civil to each other.

Eventually we wouldn’t need food or clothing,

no restaurants, no bars, no boutiques.

We would no longer need lights or air-conditioning,

could cut our electric bills!

If we won’t need to eat, will we need to sleep? What will we do 24/7?

Maybe we could build houses for homeless humans still alive,

Maybe we could channel rivers from wet areas to bone dry ones.

What about good and evil?

Will our Cyborg brains know the difference?

Will they care?

Who is going to decide what is Right and what is Wrong?

What is going to stop us from blowing each other to bits?

And before this all happens, will God intervene?

12.

7 BELLS

—by Jim Barkley

in a moment of contemplation

i took a sudden walk.

franz would have understood.

a walk toward the steeple

and its moon from the west,

a walk toward the steeple

and its corals bright from the east,

at 7 bells,

at 7 bells,

“my friend, how are you,

in this fading light as aspirations begin to

sink

and spires, turn to ink?”

NEXT STEPS

—by Michael Bourgo

About death, I no longer worry much—

at least not the event itself,

which is not a distance away

though the means, often cruel,

should make me pause.

Mostly, I think I am curious

about the forever, about what

that state might contain:

will I see my parents,

fall in love again,

still listen to Beethoven,

soar among the planets,

learn to think like a tree

or feel like a flower

as a bud becomes a bloom?

Much as this seems lovely,

it seems unlikely in equal measure,

for how do we separate the soul

from its breathing flesh?

What do we say it might be

without the blood that bonds it

to our eyes and voice?

In the end I confess—

knowing would mean nothing

to the rest of my days,

but those were dear thoughts—

and I think I should enjoy them

from time to time.

13.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

September2019201920192019

Ann Gasser...16

Mark Hudson...19

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...17

Michael Bourgo...20

Gail Denham...18

Marilyn Downing...15

14.

15.

VERSATILE MUSCIAN

—by Marilyn Downing

A musician from far off Qatar

Broke his favorite acoustic guitar.

In anguished dismay

He went to Bombay

Where he learned to strum a sitar.

Since travel had caused him such strife,

He settled down with a new wife,

Raised a family to play

Indian tunes their way,

For a musical rest of his life.

15.

THE WAY IT WAS

—by Ann Gasser

Like steps in some staid mating dance,

the “hes” and “shes” looked for romance

to lead to families, see them thrive,

to insure our human race would survive.

The ‘hes” thought women should be sweet

and cook good things for them to eat.

The “shes” liked “hes”well-built and strong

and prefer-ably lean and long.

Alas, today, how things have changed—

not only roles are re-arranged,

we must be po-lit-i-ca-lly correct,

and who in the world would ever expect

more than two—a whole bunch of genders—

some genuine, and some just pretenders?

I feel lots of stress and considerable strain

as I ponder it all in my antique brain.

MISCONSTRUED

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

She thought she’d mitigate his plight

Because he was a sorry sight

But when he took it as a slight

And seemed to bait her for a fight

She thought it prudent to take flight

Before the evening turned to night.

16.

caetoon from pingtree.com

17.

ANYWHERE, ANY TIME, ANY PLACE

—by Gail Denham

Can you write it on a bed?

Can you see scenes in your head?

Would you jot while at a diner?

Make notes while sailing on a liner?

At a desk, or in a crate,

Scribble phrases on a date?

If words are there – and if you care,

You can write poems anywhere.

On a table – in a gable,

Through the storm – that’s the norm.

Rule out doubt – try it out.

Take out your pen – with God, begin.

published in the Wyoming Poetry Newsletter, 2013

19.

SPILLING AT THE FILLING STATION

—by Mark Hudson

I was driving with a friend. He stopped for gas.

I wanted to get a Big Gulp to quench my thirst.

I went up to the counter—my drink was served fast.

Good turned to bad and then worse became worst.

The Big Gulp spilled, spreading like a mass,

I stood there, and watched and admit I cursed.

The attendant grabbed rags and wiped the glass.

I apologized profusely, as Windex was dispersed.

I bought another Big Gulp, the attendant wasn’t crass,

and I thanked him for the kind tone in which he conversed.

The area was a place that serves the upper class,

and this humble attendant put people first.

He was a kind and even-tempered gent—

didn’t yell at me for my Big Gulp accident.

19.

LOST SUMMER

—by Michael Bourgo

The rain is falling everywhere,

and it’s not fair—

that damp and wet

is all we get.

This ought to be the time for sun,

when we could run

with heartfelt praise

through golden days;

instead, we see a gloom of clouds,

too many shrouds:

this isn’t summer,

but a bummer!