(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.) October October October October 2013 2013 2013 2013 Marie-Louise Meyer...13 Jacqueline Moffett... 15 Prabha Nyak Prabhu...11 Comstance A. Trump...12 Susan Nelson Vernon...7 Lucille Morgan Wilson... 2 Charlotte Zuzak...5 Maureen Applegate...10 Doris DiSavino...8 Marilyn Downing...6 Lynn Fetterolf...9 Ann Gasser...14 Nancy Henry Kline...3 Louisa Godissart McQuillen...4 1.
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“Pennessence”– · conversation is an absolute mystery; ... Tribes still tracking bison whisper through prairie grass ... The corn stalks stand in a shock by the steps
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(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.
Correct spelling and cursive have now disappeared,
conversation is an absolute mystery;
future generations will be born
with cellphones glued to their ears.
5.
INDIAN SUMMER
—by Marilyn Downing
Summer flaunts its beauty after frost has warned beware
Powwows flicker campfires, voices whispering in the air
Chiefs and warriors dare
Peacepipes smoking skyward gather clouds into their dreams
Squaw boots trample pathways leading deer down to the streams
Woods where wildlife teems
Paintpots spatter crimsons over autumn's brilliant trees
Children chasing chipmunks rustle through the gaudy leaves
Slanting sun deceives
Tribes still tracking bison whisper through prairie grass
Tepees dot horizons where the thundering herds will pass
Under sky so vast
Tears in raindrops falling, keening wind's most lonesome wail
Tomtoms echo heartbeats through the pounding sleet and hail
When all treaties fail
Arrow bolts of lightning piercing lives bereft
Weaving rainbows into blankets' warp and weft
Only dreams are left
Only dreams are left
6.
from teepees-people.smu.edu
ART WAS IN THE HEART
—by Susan Nelson Vernon
Art was in the heart
hundreds of thousands of years ago
high in the Andes Mountains,
deep in the Lascaux caves of France.
Without precedent to
guide them how to show
patterns of the world,
hands focused in a creative dance.
Geoglyphs, clay pots,
figurines and mosaic tile
predate Mesopotamia.
Out of our ancient birthplaces
circling the globe, all
along the fertile Nile,
given idle time, man
blazoned historic traces.
Were they bored or lonely,
inspired by a Higher Power?
Captivated with beauty,
did the spirit well up inside,
flow out as self-expression
in the transforming hour?
Or was it a joyful pastime,
transcending pleasure or pride?
photo from rodinspoet.wordpress.com
7.
MAWMAW TOL’ A STORY
—by Doris DiSavino
MawMaw tol’ a story
when the night was growin’ old,
‘bout the music in the mountain
and the gal with hair o’ gold,
‘bout the wind a-sobbin’ through the trees
and sighin’ down the trail,
a-moanin’ in the medder
and a-cryin’ in the dale.
MawMaw tol’ a story
‘bout the music that they heard,
how the gal a-follered after it
and never said a word;
how she searched the long years after
for the song the Ghost Man played,
how it echoed every full moon night
through holler and through glade.
So we never play the fiddle
‘til the moon is gettin’ old
‘cause she still looks for the music,
does the gal with hair of gold.
8.
FALL IS A FLIRT
Lynn Fetterolf
Fall is a flirt.
She knows she’s beautiful;
showing her crimson petticoats,
flaunting her golden tresses,
waving her peachy handkerchiefs
before she drops them in your path,
scattering them everywhere.
You’ll be playing pickup for days.
Fall doesn’t warn you
she’ll be leaving soon.
Quivering in the chill winds,
she bares her limbs to winter
leaving you to shiver in her wake.
9.
SUNLIGHT —by Maureen Applegate
When I was a child the air was so clearthat light could do magical things.It could bounce off the leavesof the old apple treesand shimmer on starling wings.
The rays of the sun came completely undoneon the surface of wet placid pools,and sundrops like glassbrightly danced on the grass,while mirage turned macadam to jewels.
From the deep cobalt blue those rays would shine throughmaking playmates of shadow and light.And now, through the haze,I remember those daysof illusory sunshine delight.
10.
DODITSU
—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu
Benevolent autumn sun
foliage playing trompe l’oeil
colorful chrysanthemums
long walks in the park
11.
12.
AUTUMN’S SENSES
—by Constance A. Trump
Tousled, tumbling red and gold
carpeting lane, field and knoll,
crackling in barrels, burning bright
woodsy scent, firelight.
Crisp blue sky, brisk cool air
apple bobbing, brown Bosc pear
jack-o-lantern, marshmallow roast
turtle neck, robe warm as toast.
Smiling eyes from that dear face
To touch or by sweet memory’s
Grace.
In memory of neice Grace McComas
ANOINTED TASK
—Marie-Louise Meyers
It was more than just laundry day decor
when mother shook the last drops of holy water,
wiped clean of mundane tasks,
then stretched the snow white sheets
like an altar cloth till they squeaked
for all the neighbors to see clothes-pinned on the line,
propped up with a ramrod straight pole.
It was a hint of the sublime
to see the sun glint on the plain design,
the wind lift the immaculate sheets heavenward,
snap to attention in winter,
while I contented myself with lesser matters,
lowly socks with pervious toes darned
to righteous stiffness,
the heels still grimed.
I grappled with a make-shift line
using a ladder in the shadow of the sheets
where gleaming little souls were fashioned
from worn out soles of restless feet.
Soon it will become a forgotten task
without the reward that lasted week long
to be renewed like a freshet on a dew-dropped lawn,
not baked through in a dryer, dull and lifeless,
and heaped in a basket, but folded neatly.
Sinless as the day we were born,
tucked securely in our receiving sheets
the fragrance transforming our plain beds
into heaven-scented bowers.13.
ABRACADABRA FOR LIFT-OFF
—by Ann Gasser
I always thought I'd like my poetry
to be EXPLOSIVE !!!!
like a firestorm shooting sparks,
transforming lukewarm days into a celebration,
passive nights into July the Fourth with
pyrotechnic flowers bursting
in each reader's mind
and sizzling to the fartherest star!
But when I try to set the spark,
I feel I'm hampered--
tethered by cold oatmeal genes,
a lifetime full of "thou-shalt-nots,"
a leaden logic weighing down the rockets
which could send my fantasies aloft.
My words sit primly on the launching pad
within my mind, or in some pre-planned space
caged by the boundaries of a page,
and often only laser thoughts
fly off to pierce the stars.
Someday I'll find the magic wand
to turn my words into small clones of Pegasus.
They will unfold their little snow-white wings
and fly off into other minds and other hearts
where, with their tiny wing-beats
they will soon be fanning other sparks
for other dreams.14.
THE HANDS OF TIME
—by Jacqueline Moffett
Studying my hands, I recall the
smooth, chubby fingers of a youngster
fashioned to do little but eat and play
Fast forward to school days when a
pen/pencil was a constant companion
Later, hands were poised over computer keys
or rustling pages of innumerable tomes
to earn that coveted degree
Treasured memory of holding Dad's arm as I walked
down the aisle to a new life as wife and mother
Grandchildren provide the need to stretch your
love with hugs and kisses and books to be read
Now, former busy hands are resting, palms down,
balanced on rocker arms
With each forward motion, pleasant memories prevail