(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.)

June

2015201520152015

1.

Maureen Applegate...21

Michael Bourgo...9

Gail Denham...15

Doris DiSavino...10

Marilyn Downing...11

Lynn Fetterolf...3

George Friend...12

Ann Gasser...14

Mark Hudson ...7

Katie Samples Khan...16

Richard Lake...2

Emilliano Martin...5

Louisa Godissart McQuillen...6

Carol Dee Meeks...19

Jacqueline Moffett...4

Doris Swearingen...8

Jean Syed...20

Loretta Diane Walker...18

VickyFake-Weldon

Lucille Morgan Wilson...13

DRAGON BOAT AT THE BEACH

—by Richard Lake

This metaphor for living life to its fullest

is written for and dictated to Coach Beans Kelly—

This was played out on the race course at Charlotte

with a final race time of 54.38! To quote Coach Beans,

"The effort, enthusiasm

and attitude was awesome!!

We literally

LEFT IT ON THE WATER…."

There can be no greater praise than that!

She watches us, just like a hawk,

from the moment that we leave the dock

to when we get back weak and wet.

The lessons learned, we won't forget.

We're getting stronger, yes indeed!

We see it in our time and speed.

So, if a gator comes around

we'll chase it till it runs aground.

We have survived the dreaded "C"

and stretch for stars we didn't see!

We're “Dragon Boat At The Beach”

with Beans exhorting... "Reach...Reach...Reach!"

Note: (DBATB) is a dragon

boat racing team manned by

cancer survivors of Murrells

Inlet, S.C.

photo courtesy of

Toni Carey

2.

JOSEPH (on Fathers’ Day)

—by Lynn Fetterolf

And what of Joseph

ignored by theologians,

unimportant to historians

seen only in Christmas pageants

along with the donkeys, camels, lambs

and hay in manger scenes.

A minor player in the story of Christ’s birth,

to Joseph fell the task

of raising this young boy he couldn’t claim,

of teaching him the crafts

of turning wood to useful objects,

of discipline and nurturing.

Joseph, I sing your song,

the song of fathers everywhere

standing behind the lauded mothers of this earth

in a most important supporting role.

You too are part of the Christmas story,

your love and devotion worthy

of our mention in the telling of this tale.

We all need Josephs in our daily lives

to honor, love, support our needs

and be the unsung heroes of our history.

3.

image freom pixgfood.com

4.

SAND IN AN HOUR GLASS

---by Jacqueline Moffett

One night last year, my lover flew

like a hawk through clouds and

cold, stormy weather to find me,

his passive, gentle, girlfriend

waiting at the airport to greet him.

His sparkling smile definitely caused

effervescent feelings of being alive in a dream

Pale, golden hair covered his shirt collar

He held me tight against his chest

I smiled and looked up at him.

Never will I forget the words he whispered

on a special moonlight night

Promises that will last a lifetime

Promises never to break

Love spins like sand in an hour-glass.

What circuitous paths are in our future?

Hopefully, smooth roads, not too rocky

From contented early marriage to old age,

we have pledged togetherness and perpetual love

With our Creator's help, may it ever be so...

5.

STEPS OF MYSTERY

—by Emilliano Martin

A transparency of the devil

or simply a masterpiece of mankind.

They proudly bear dignified centuries

of rain,

miles of wind and

tons of dust.

Concubines of history,

they are

and yet faithfully facing time

without one single remark,

but the enigma of

an image polished by erosion.

Majestic and exotic,

they are ancient geometrical forms

tanning daily under the sun.

They pose nude, as native daughters of

the desert,

speaking in an universal tongue

of greatness,

arrogance and mystery

in defiance of the sands of the Nile.

6.

YESTERDAY

—by Louisa Godissart McQuillen

I watched you,

prayed and cheered for you,

knowing you could do anything

you put your mind to.

Yet you would not and I wept

and prayed.

Helpless, I could only stand by

and watch the days slip away,

knowing your opportunity

might never come again.

Still, I prayed on.

Your future is up to you.

So burn on, little weak soul,

burn on.

Even in your confusion,

God is there to help you . . .

if you change your mind.

All it takes is everything,

and the turning loose

of yesterday.

Louisa Godissart McQuillen©

7.

THIS IS MY SPOT

—by Mark Hudson

There is a man who sits at Starbucks at the same spot every time.

I was there, and someone had taken his space.

So he sat down next to a man and started chatting away.

The man seemed really disinterested in what he had to say.

He started complaining about the bus service around here,

and the other man was like, "Yeah, I know!"

And then he started talking about how

his mother was in the hospital, which was really depressing to me

because the one-year anniversary of my mother's death is coming up.

He was saying, "Oh, when you are at a funeral,

people say they feel the presence of the departed,

but I'm sorry, they are gone."

I don't necessarilly agree with that.

Then he was talking about watching a PBS special,

which he only got through by drinking a glass of wine.

He was talking about how they explained that everything

is related to mathematics in the world,

but he couldn't really seem to explain it. (Perhaps it was the wine.)

Then he said, "Oh, my spot has opened up!"

So he raced to get to his spot, but he still had to finish

his train of thought, bombard the guy's ears with his ramblings.

The guy was like, "No! Go to your spot!"

My sentiments exactly.

8.

EMILY DICKINSON’S

LIBERATING YARD SALE

—by Doris Swearingen

For sale

dresses of placid white

the old, stuffed chair

where she would write.

Troublesome shoes she has let go

she's dancing now in meadows

watching for daffodils yellows

blue jays and that rebel cardinal

swooping low to say hello.

For sale

velvet drapes, she's dressed

her windows in frothy lace.

Confining hats covering dull, brown hair

her loosened locks twist in May's warm air.

Cumbersome quilt that draped her lap

she's traded now for persian cat.

Wooly socks, dozens of them

were fine for that little brown wren

they're not for liberated Em.

Her muse has cast a magic spell

she waves farewell

to Miss Emily meek and pale.

photo from amherst.com

GIFTS

—by Michael Bourgo

“Wort noun PLANT: esp: an herbaceous plant--

usu. used in combination <toothwort>

[ME, fr. OE wyrt root, herb, plant]”

-- Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary

Consider all the worts,

by origin not flowers, only plants:

no roses or tulips among these,

no prize winners here,

nothing you’d find in a catalog.

They’re prefixed in prose, not poetry:

motherwort, spiderwort, pennywort,

and descending even further,

sandwort, stitchwort, and lousewort--

not one a stem that you’d cultivate--

but something that must be found,

and yet bold enough to bloom,

content to be the gift

of some summer morning

along a road or near the woods.

9.

10.

—by Doris DiSavino

BIRTHING A POEM

is like birthing a child.

Some come easy,

some come hard;

some breathe by themselves,

some have to be smacked into life.

Given my "druthers,"

I prefer the come-easy kind.

BILLY COLLINS

moved into my head two days ago - lock, stock

and barrel full of three blind mice

and haiku trucks.

Now

I cannot get him out,

and I keep writing things like

“Billy Collins moved into

my head two days ago .....”

11.

HOW ABOUT IT, HOWARD HUGHES?

—by Marilyn Downing

Questions Instead of a Eulogy

Where did your money get you, anyway?

Did you figure out a way to stay

in more than one pent-house at once?

Did you enjoy the feel of a meal

served by a waiter surgically scrubbed?

Did you take pleasure full measure

in reconstructing your will--until you died?

Would you care to comment on

your dollars' value?

Did you buy peace of mind,any kind,

to take with you on the trip

you took alone --

all alone?

from TIME magazine cover

12.

THE MONARCH ELM

—by George Friend

Down, down the long field, beyond

the curve of the hedgerow

every spring I found the broken limbs

of the giant elm that had shriveled

its leaves one summer,

Suddenly parched, then dying, then dead,

a giant tree that now was lowering itself to the earth.

My spring walks in early years

yielded small branches and small limbs from the elm,

no more than a fraction of an inch across.

Later years found ten-foot sections of the branching

architecture of the elm itself,

scattered in jack-straw jumbles

beneath the ever shrinking trunk.

Today this monarch tree, this climax forest glory,

this dominating castle in the western hedgerow,

has tumbled down, toppled over, vanished

into the brush and wild roses that now embrace it, its place

marked by slender saplings that rise hopefully to replace it.

Where once I plowed long, long furrows,

passing under the elm’s drooping, leafy tendrils,

their branches supple with a willow’s grace

passing through my hair and past my face,

there now remains no trace of tree.

Only the gap in the hedgerow marks its passing.

and this memory of life and loss, death and sure regeneration.

13.

THE SIMPLE TASK

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

Flute notes captured by a passing breeze,

footfalls on a dew-damped path,

a feathered cloud’s escaping curl,

these tempt the poet’s lyric grasp.

A daisy’s petals nipped by frost,

a not-quite-perfect maple leaf,

the gurgle of a mud-banked creek,

these wait beyond his eager clasp.

Sun-made mosaics during drought,

the hail that shatters roofs and dreams,

a heartbreak as purple as the night,

these sting the poet like an asp.

A witch’s brew, he takes them all

and blends them into life entire,

then lights a flame to set them free

as soaring birds or funeral pyre.

published in PPS ‘PRIZE POEMS”

2006

14.

THE RACE

—by Ann Gasser

I feel the call of life's 500 track,

the roar of motors thrills my fevered brain,

soon speed becomes an aphrodisiac

exciting to a peak of joy or pain.

I’m in the driver’s seat and I can see

clear track ahead, I wave all cares goodbye.

My Muse rides with me, sharing energy,

and every mile’s a fine poetic high.

We send our messages across time's sky

to feel their strength and love come streaming back.

So pleasantly the hours and minutes fly,

in fond rapport, each minute zooming by.

I shield myself against the certain flak,

a natural part of life's 500 track.

We pause for pit stops when momentum fails,

a moment's rest, perhaps a bite to eat

with poems wagging their collective tails,

then off again, new challenges to meet.

Adventure, conflict--sorrowful or sweet,

are all along the track as we zoom by.

This journey into madness is complete,

there’s no escape, we know, so do not try.

There is no "off" switch and no turning back

for those who heed this fascinating call

and steer their lives along this thrilling track

which casts a spell that never seems to pall.

Flags wave, tires squeal, each curve exacts its toll,

but we shall persevere and reach the goal!

photo by automopedia.org

15.

ALONENESS

—by Gail Denham

Solid white emptiness, lost in a frosting

world, a black speck that glides

like a stray hockey puck outside

in the free zone.

Lone as a yellow daisy peeps from

a burning sidewalk where eggs could fry

and small boys hop on one foot, then

the other, toward ice cream bars.

Silence and aloneness wilt the spirit, hold a soul

immobile. To bloom—carry on in this immense,

uncaring landscape—takes every ounce

of courage, charged from the boots up.

Start deep in the soul and radiate.

photo by Gail Denham

16.

JOY UNSPEAKABLE

—by Katie Samples Khan

Among the trees,

hear the whispering of God.

Sense the wonder.

In the snow swept mounntains,

breathe in the rhythm of the wind.

Listen!

Your heart’s song

will amaze you.

Through pain and suffering,

longing and joy...

We journey to all there is...

In stillness we know things,

things so powerful,

there are no words...

They envelop us like grace.

17.

THE RUSTY WATERING CAN

—by VickyFake-Weldon ( parody of The Red Wheelbarrow

by William Carlos Williams)

Everything

depends upon

a rusty watering

can

brimming with rain

drops

beside the muddy

clucks.

BARE

—by Loretta Diane Walker

This morning my poem went skinny dipping.

Ripped those garments of alliteration, assonance,

metaphors

and left them in a pile along the window ledge.

I thought its desire to be an exhibitionist,

show off the skin of its form

was a taunt, a ruse to insight me to redress it.

But it was sweating boredom

after continuously repeating:

For eight months the sky has worn

the same itchy blue boa of dehydration.

The sun clawed into the flesh of day

until the air was raw with heat.

There was no guile in the poem,

too many layers of expectations.

Before leaping from the page,

it shouted, “ Listen. It’s dry and hot.

Just let me jump bare into a cold pond of simplicity.”

18.

19.

© Carol Dee Meeks

FRIENDS

(a Vivienne Sonnet)

—by Carol Dee Meeks

Come to the desert floor and mingle. Mix

with lords and guides in beauty’s wild. These beasts

survive when winter wraps its cold upon

the land. The natives search for food with them.

The braves of clans and winter warriors nix

all fables’ myths, where creatures crave and feast

then scare the tribal teams until they’re gone.

The bison roars as Regale’s diadem.

These animals of mass - in awe, transfix

all nature. Tribes unite and swell like yeast

above the canyon’s rim in gorge and dawn

then paints a draft as both stand firm like stem.

The buffalos are lords of the frontiers

and guides the ancestors when near with spears

The spirits save their secrets others fear.

20.

A SCRAP OF BLISS

—by Jean Syed

Their marriage had its convalescences,

good days belie a fatal malady.

Frames of film on my mind’s attic floor

display a hill, our breezy rock settees

an outdoor home amid the bending tussocks.

My father docks his cigarette and fills

his lungs, extols the air to mother, who,

smiling, holds aside her wayward locks

and passes another salmon spread to me,

the Baby Bear between them both, content,

wrapped up in the warm wind’s coddling blanket,

thinking us remiss not having discovered

this healing place before. A harebell blue

as essence of heaven is nodding its delicate head.

To hold this interlude, take home this peace!

O bird, you were not pleading, “Do it; do it,”

although your piping urged so hauntingly,

but I plucked the bloom, as if I knew no better,

tucked a scrap of bliss in my buttonhole,

the chance might be, that scentless, withering flower

would pervade our house like a leaven of yeast,

a happiness rising quietly, hour through hour.

Published in Tread Well with Sweet

Love. A Poetry Anthology by the

Cincinnati Poetry Workshop 2006

21.

WOODLAND WAKE-UP

—by Maureen Applegate

Beyond my bedroom window green is lush

and grows on every tree and climbing plant

with yellow accents of the butterfly

and gold leafed song the morning robins chant.

The tangled vines belie a symmetry

to life beyond the confines of my sill.

A catbird knows its place beneath the brush,

the squirrel to disregard all rules at will.

My second story vantage point reveals

the silver sided flutter of the trees.

As whirly-gigs descend to loamy ground,

the balm of woodland rises with the bees.

A draught of morning through my window screen

imbues my day with vibrant living green.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

June

2015201520152015

22.

Maureen Applegate...33

Micahel Bourgo...30

Gail Denham...28

Doris DiSavino...29

Marilyn Downing...27

Ann Gasser...25

Mark Hudson...26

Emiliano Martin...23

Prabha Nyak Prabhu...31

Jean Syed... 32

Constance Trump...24

23.

RHYMING WORDS

—by Emiliano Martin

The music is playing

The dancing goes on.

No one is complaining

While I sing a song

With some rhyming words

I wrote on my own.

from “Dance In The Country” by Renoir

24.

MAY MORNING

—by Constance Trump

I hear the rhythm of the rain’s

light tap, tap, tapping on my panes

with windows open just a crack

while I lie flat upon my back.

Soft covers tucked beneath my chin

I deeply drink the sweet air in

as birds begin to chirp and twitter

watchful of the sun’s first glitter.

I’m thankful for this quiet place

so well imbued with nature’s grace

and trouble not as minutes pass

that now I’ll have to mow the grass!

25.

TODAY’S BACHELORS

—by Ann Gasser

Some shave their heads (perhaps they’re bald)

but who loves a pate that’s nude?

And why does facial hair equate

to masculine pulchritude?

“Five o’clock shadow” was once deplored,

but it’s “Ten o’clock shadows” THEY wear.

They look like “tramps” from a vintage cartoon,

Who wants a kiss to mean mouthful of hair?

Why would they think that this unkempt look

would make any female more willin’?

I personally am reminded of

an old time movie villain.

I don’t donate to a frivilous cause,

but I’d cheer if my efforts succeeded

in starting a fund for facial shaves

and natural toupees when they’re needed.

There is nothing more sexy, I firmly believe,

and masculine beauty I find

in a man whose face is free of hair—

as smooth as a baby’s behind.

26.

CHICKEN

—by Mark Hudson

A friend was complaining about a local chicken place,

and that week my friend wanted to take me to that space.

At the last minute we decided to go to KFC,

not knowing how our experience was going to be.

We really wanted chicken, that's what our taste buds craved,

the worker sold us on two specials, as if money was saved.

We got two pieces of chicken, and potatoes on the side,

it was a tiny scoop that couldn't fill my stomach wide.

A biscuit too came with it, a cookie rather droll,

the chicken was our true desire, not a lousy roll.

My friend was kind, he treated, which made me less upset,

My pieces were gigantic, his were quite a small set.

He had ordered original, and I had ordered crispy,

He felt it wasn't cooked enough, he felt just like a gypsy.

He filled out a survey, he thought he'd get more chicken,

but he would have to buy a new drink, his anger now would quicken.

I understood the anger my friend felt in his heart,

he complained about his problems, as we went to depart.

He said the work he does, gives him migraine headaches,

at least he could have chicken, without the stomach aches.

I guess the good old colonel would've rolled over in his grave,

we really got a cheapo deal for the money which we saved.

27.

PRIVATE AUDIENCE

—by Marilyn Downing

There once was a man in Paducah

who talked quite a lot with his Pooka.

He’d savor his quaff,

and start with a laugh

to play music on his bazooka.

Some thought he might smoke a hookah,

this funny old man in Paducah.

But they were all wrong.

He just played a song

for the Pooka on his small bazooka.

FAMILIES MATTER

—by Gail Denham

The matter with anti-matter’s not clear

With hope of all we hold dear

We espouse to forget anti-matter-ial chatter

And decide that what matters is matter

28.

VERMILINGUA(from A Rather Peculiar Menagerie)

—by Doris DiSavino

“My mommy just told me

at korter to nine,

there’s a thing

called Aunt

Eater-

I wish he’d eat

mine!”

29.

30.

LEO FINDS THE CAT (Who Was Missing!)

—by Michael Bourgo

Let me announce the best news around:

Xerxes the cat has been found!

He escaped from the house this morning,

taking off with nary a warning.

This fellow lives only inside--

so out there he was ready to hide,

and ended up underneath the shed.

It was cold, not as nice as his bed.

This morning we searched through the house,

but no cat-- not even a mouse.

After school we looked once again--

would this ever come to an end?

The we heard Leo’s happy shout:

he had seen that cat peeking out.

A bowl of food got his attention,

and our cat was soon in detention.

At last we could feel satisfied,

for our cat was now safely inside!

TIME RAVAGES

—by Prabha Nyak Prabhu

There was a young lady named Ruth

who was known as a “dish” in her youth,

but the years made her sag,

turned her into a hag

who drowns her dismay in vermouth.

31.

32.

THE COOK WHO WAITS

—by Jean Syed

There was a cook whose pies were tasty,

And tasty was each croissant,

But braised steak was what she did best

Served in her restaurant.

A widower came in to eat,

“Oh come and be my bride,

My kitchen has two ovens but

My steaks are like cowhide.”

She looked him up, she looked him down,

“Say, what can you do for me.”

“I have stocks and shares, I’ve ready cash,

I am a mortgagee,

And all my riches will come to you

When I am in my grave.”

“But what will you do for me now,

Perhaps, a microwave?”

“If that is all that is required

I’ll buy it straight away!”

But pans were on sale and they were cheap,

He’d get it some other day.

Nor did he buy an engagement ring

(And she made the wedding cake),

Angered she was, but the two were wed.

That was his third mistake,

For she served steaks, croissants and pies,

But soon they built up plaque.

“Don’t fool with me!” she laughed and watched

His fatal heart attack.

33.

CONSTRUCTION DELAY

—by Maureen Applegate

I thought that I was alone in my car

as we sat in construction delay.

I pulled out my brush and touched up my hair

and found a good station to play.

My coffee was tepid, I wished I had tea,

but I took a slow drink anyway.

With nothing to do I looked out around

at the others waiting like me.

The woman ahead had eye liner out.

The man just behind checked his nose.

One on his cell phone argued at length,

another adjusted her clothes.

As I sat there alone just biding my time

considering all I could see

I realized that I really wasn’t alone -

one driver was looking at me!