| Summer Muses' Gallery - ODES |
For the 2022 Summer Muses’ Gallery, Highland Park Poetry asked poets to write odes – poems of praise for people, places or things, from the ordinary to the sublime. Forget the tortured analysis of Ode to a Grecian Urn by John Keats from your high school English class. There is something for everyone in this collection - from a coffee mug or clothesline, from the Brooklyn Bridge to a toolshed, from a nun with a party trick to a very good dentist. There are even a few anti-odes sprinkled in the mix.
May these poets’ words inspire you to see their subjects with new light and all your senses engaged.
Many thanks to all of the poets who shared their writing with us.
Enjoy!
Mary Beth Bretzlauf Jennifer Dotson
Co-Editor Co-Editor & Founder
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| Barbara Robinette, Artist |
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Arlene Gay Levine
Forest Hills, New York
Ode to the Rain
Glistening fingers caress the earth
giving birth to what nourishes me, sparrow, tree
Oh, rain! You are much maligned
Unkind people casually curse
the generosity of your silver kiss
Your gifts wrapped in the guise of inconvenience
fall gently on us all
We who insist on sun
and forget when your work is done
we are restored
Clean our sullied spirits,
the refuse of our parched hearts
Play the symphony of your sweet drops
upon the deserts we’ve created of our lives
so the seed of one kind deed can sprout
fragile and full of hope in us all
Previously published in Heal Your Soul, Heal the World (Andrews McMeel Publishing)
| Heather Sager
Mundelein, Illinois
To the Crabapple
They were so good that,
as a kid, I stashed crabapples
from the forest
in my bedroom cabinet.
The small, reddish-green
orbs entranced me
when I opened the drawer.
Reached for pen and paper.
My mouth salivated.
In the thick Minnesota forest
on a warm day,
I would wade a stream in my shoes,
reach to pluck the wild apples
from the arms of a small beckoning tree.
Sweet and fragile amid the green woods.
The firm, yielding crunch of the bite,
the sweet, tangy flavor fire
setting my senses alight,
dilating with the wavering green
of the forest leaves.
I’d put the heavenly orbs in my pockets,
sneak back through lawns of neighbors,
to reach the back screen door of home,
and dash to my room.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Patricia Williams
Iola, Wisconsin
Praise Paper and Red Tape
Your documents or your life – Bill Kirby
Praise birth certificates, deeds to buildings and land,
passport papers that permit travel, laminated paper
that bestows driving rights – praise essential papers.
Praise vaccination papers that say we, and the cat, are
safe to be around – you never need to worry if one of us
bites you – life’s filled with red tape and essential papers.
Praise diplomas, papers that show we read all the books,
passed all the courses – and they don’t tell if we learned
anything elemental, so – praise essential papers.
Praise the papers that seal a marital agreement, a promise
on paper, to stay wedded together until one of the pair is dead
– or has been unfaithful – which generates more essential paper.
If your birth records can’t be found, and there’s no official
certificate, it must mean that you’ve never been born, and so
– will never die. Praise red tape.
| R M Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
Ode to my Mutt
Sorry, my dog sheds
isn’t allergen free
has ears that are too long
loves to chase squirrels
can fetch the paper
rummages in the garbage
digs up gardens
tracks mud on the floor
with frightening growl
suspicious hot breath
gives very wet kisses
has unflinching loyalty
not pedigreed
runt of the litter
never in a dog show
gives unconditional love
I am not alone
patting your head
love in your eyes
we need each other
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Mike Freveletti
Wheaton, Illinois
The Cuttlefish, My Love
You little mollusk you
King of the cephalopoda
How do you secure your prey?
On second thought
That matters very little
On the linoleum floor
In metro Naples
While your aroma
Colors the kitchen
Carried to the window.
Good thing cute & cuddly
Evades you in this life
But in the next one
I wish you a crown
A whole army of squids
At your disposal
Prawns for the taking.
If only though, right?
Now I have your ink on my fingers
And I’m going in for seconds.
| Barbara Robinette
Viola, Arkansas
Feet
The old cat sits and peers in through the glass door.
Nose prints on the glass mark the place where he
has sat many times before. The old cat watches for feet.
He is lame from age with eyes alert for feet. Life is all
about feet that might let him in or give food and drink.
He waits. The man walks past on his way to the kitchen.
The old cat noses the glass again, stares into the floor.
Her feet walk past the glass door. She returns
with food and a saucer of water. The door opens.
As he puts his head down into his bowl,
he purrs.
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Judith Stern Friedman
Highland Park, Illinois
Spring Clean-Up
or An Ode to Stuff
Every year on a Saturday in spring,
Homeowners meet their reckoning.
Cleaning out things in a spectacle,
Leaving life at the curb in all sorts of receptacles.
Bags of clothes that once were in style,
Wallpaper, windows, old bathroom tile.
Boxes of wires, cords, and connections,
Runaway pieces from long-time collections.
Mattresses, mirrors, memories past,
Of setting the trends they all thought would last.
Couches, comforters, rugs, and recliners
Reveal a life that is generally finer.
Fish tanks, framed art, fancy décor,
Yard tools, yoga mats, and still even more.
Jungle gyms, ice skates, building blocks, toys,
No room any more for young girls and boys.
Here at the curb lie countless life stories
Of human existence and bygone glories.
Seeing the stacks of stuff all aligned,
I’m acutely aware of the passage of time.
| Gail Denham
Bend, Oregon
Ode to Black Curly Hair
Julia came to school flipping
her long, dark ringlet-shaped
hair. I wanted hair like that.
Instead, my mousy, flyaway
hair could not be manipulated
into those curls.
Ours were the Eastern European
locks. Had to pin up hair every
night. My skin, pale pinkish,
except in summer.
I dreamt about how the boys
would come round, if I had black
curly hair. Grandparents might fluff
my tresses as they passed.
The boys would ask to carry
my books, bring me a treat from
the small store just off campus…
…where candy lipstick, all day
suckers, bottled pop, wax lips,
and Crackerjacks tempted us.
I’d never have to pin up my hair,
or sleep on those metal curlers,
or secure spit curls with bobby-pins.
My black curls would bounce as I walked,
shine in the sunlight, never look
as if I’d slept on only one side.
It was not to be. And here I sit with
solid white, thinning flyaway stringy
hair, knowing I’ll never have …
… black curly hair.
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Marie Samuel
Carterville, Illinois
Ode to Rain
For some the rain can go or stay
A few would wish the wet away.
Those that water’s worth explain
Let’s all work to save what remains.
A precious resource is our refrain
Nature’s droughts and fires remain
To spark our fight to win the game
Each year here begins the same.
Some are out despite the gains
We could make as one not to break
A promise to All we hope to make
Our future life on Earth at stake.
| Kim Reed
Chicago, Illinois
Ode to Monty and Rose
Two Birds Who Found One Another in 2019
Oh, Great Lakes Piping Plovers!
Montrose Lakeshore rushes bind
A cup of sand for a wedding nest
Defying falls of dogs and balls
In shadows of beach lamp stars
Threats of extinction are not kind
Outfox the fix, lay without fear
Rose accepts her Monty
A skunk ate your eggs in June
At last warming four chicks in July
Tiny stick legged family dance
Monty with his Rose
Public beaches lack privacy
Don’t birds deserve a curtain or blind?
Man constructs a protective cage
With photos and foot tags
Exhausted, Rose returns to Florida
Ancote Key insects in sunrays to find
Monty waits for his chicks to fly
Takes wings for Galveston
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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Barbara Boothe Loyd
Granbury, Texas
Ode to Big Hats
In the shade of a big, shoulder-width chapeau, I
spend hours basking outside without skin damage.
In the shadow of colorful brims, I use summer as a verb,
transported for a little while to the land of leisure,
of gardening, or plein air painting.
To others, these may resemble idleness, but become my art forms.
In the shade of a big hat I feel instantly beautiful,
glamorous and intriguing while hiding
humdrum tresses under its ample circumference.
Yes, veiled by a straw hat, I instantly feel like a vacationer,
even in my own backyard.
Bring on the lazy days of Old Sol’s heat, because
I am sufficiently well adorned with a protective cover.
| Ann Privateer
Davis, California
Iris
Not the girl’s name
But the flower
Some neared
Some not
A kind of Jack in the pulpit
A hiding head
Held by a trinity
Of petals, passionate purples
Or burley blues
To lighter versions
That give our attention
And enjoy their Spring magic.
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Ellen Pickus
Long Island, New York
Smart Design
I just want to thank the maker of my coffee cup.
The heft is just right, the handle elegant.
The bottom bellies out gently
to settle into my palms, a balm of warmth.
I enjoy both flavor and feel,
comfort on a cold morning.
The painted blue flower is stylish,
the porcelain smooth.
No mark from the maker.
It is the last of the set from a shop long gone.
Precious as a rare jewel and far more useful.
| Paul Buchheit
Chicago, Illinois
The Phones
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Phones, phones, phones,
See the people with their phones,
Silver, pink and paisley phones,
On the subways and the buses and the sidewalks, all alone,
Lost in intimate exchanges with their phones, phones, phones.
Hear the murmuring of phones,
In their muffled monotones,
Feel the muted tremulations, like the buzzing of the drones,
Hear the pinging and the dinging of the phones.
Passing time, time, time,
In a strange robotic rhyme,
With the tintinnabulation of the tones, tones, tones,
All the people look the same to me, like clones, clones, clones.
See the driver with the phone,
How it chills you to the bone,
See a world of many billions navigating all alone,
Through the secret sibilations of the phone, phone, phone, phone, phone, phone, phone.
Previously published by YourDailyPoem.com, 4/25/2022
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| Wilda Morris, Photographer |
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Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
Ode to Spring Crocus
I shouldn’t be surprised at your appearing–
after all, you
happen every year. Amid winter’s leftovers:
this crinkly display of leaves, sticks and trash
stashed in your way–
you pop up anyway, arrayed in deep
purple with a golden center, as if to say,
welcome to this new day,
greetings to this new season of life.
As with the reassuring cry of a baby,
crowning and coaxed
from the womb, come life, say yes, to life.
| Gay Guard-Chamberlin
Chicago, Illinois
Ode to Ordinary Things (excerpt)
In Japan, seamstresses and tailors
bring their old needles and pins,
nippers and scissors, to temples and shrines
for Hari-Kuyo, Festival of Broken Needles.
They gently place their tools into soft beds
made of tofu and jelly cake, offering prayers
of gratitude for the years of devotion and hard work.
They wrap all in soft silk cloths and bury them
for a well-deserved rest.
I don’t know the right ceremony.
I don’t have the correct words for the blessings,
so I say thank you Pen. Thank you Spoon.
Thank you Nail, Thumbtack, Knife, Hammer,
Pencil sharpened down to a nub. Thank you all.
Broken Cup, in your memory,
I will sing a lullaby to the next woebegone sock
in the street I see, looking for its mate,
lost, so far from home.
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| Michael Escoubas, Photographer |
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Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
Ode to Chocolate
only the sweet smell of chocolate baking arouses
the house to joyful anticipation of luscious frenzy
whether it be brownies or Bundt cake, the aroma
drives us up a wall waiting for the baking to be done,
the cooling to begin, the sampling to be undertaken.
meanwhile the scent is more alluring than perfume,
the taste more mouthwatering than most, the sight
more dreamlike than remembered. I prefer the
baking to the eating, the aroma to the end result
and wish chocolate could fill the air everywhere.
| Sutter Ahn
Age 9, Grade 3
Ode to Origami
Folds and creases form whimsical structures
Sheets of paper merge together creating new shapes.
Techniques fill the brain as the hands have a mind of their own.
Edges and corners line up touching each other precisely.
New patterns form but the paper continues to maintain its shape
The process repeats as the structure status remains the same.
As new creases form more folds appear.
The hands keep folding as the paper shifting.
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| Barbara Fox Studio, Orgami Crane Watercolor |
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Lori Wall-Holloway
Pasadena, California
Ode to Spring
Spring begins when sun bathes
planted seeds with light
Warmth incites sprouts to emerge
and coaxes old flowers buried
in winter’s womb to rejuvenate
into new creations
It is similar to how we respond
when we are warmed
by the encouragement of love
| Daniel Fitzgerald
Pontiac, Illinois
The floor never complains
beneath my feet,
but it knows how much I weigh,
secretly smiling at me
as I count the calories
of my days.
The boards have endured so much
to land here in this room.
Tree and branch, sawed and hewed,
so much it valued cut away.
It is happy now, to have a place
where it can at last rest.
Patient and supporting,
it sighs with me in my pacing,
my worrying
on when I too can finally
find some peace.
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Phyllis Patterson
Pittman, New Jersey
Phony Fowl
strutting his stuffcocking his head
shifting his gaze in defiance
to any who would challenge his beauty
unaware
he exists in the imagination of his observer
who laughs at his folly.
| Karian Markos
Elmhurst, Illinois
Break Bread
we break bread with intent–
to commune, to nourish
we split the loaf, its tender crumb revealed
we consume tradition and labor
fill our bellies with brotherhood–
it sweetens our blood
the thing broken mending our bonds
the thing broken making us whole again
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| Phyllis Patterson, Photographer |
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Betsy Dolgin Katz
Highland Park, Illinois
Lonely in the early spring
The first to show light green buds
On its curving branches
A willow bends over dark earth
Unhappy being the only green
The only sign of budding life
Do not weep, dear willow, patience pays
Nature changes weeping into dancing
Sadness into songs of spring
Time brings red robins
Who play on your branches
As geese fly northward from the pond
Green crocus leaves pierce the ground
Yellow blossoms emerge
The willow no longer weeps
Its branches are home to blackbirds
Chirping, chattering parents
Protecting their nests, assuring the future
Spring has come and the graceful willows
Sway in the breezes of spring
Grateful for all the warm wind brings
| Donita Ries
Cary, Illinois
An Ode to Scars
Each scar a story,
memory etched in the language
of skin – smooth, visible,
uncompromising,
repairing the weave
of our bone-holding baskets.
Subtle cicatrices, you sing
of kite string wrapped
around young fingers, of whipping wind
digging lines into flesh, of a gash carved
along a lip in a bike fall, reminders all, badges
of honor, small prompts for tall tales.
You, sweet scars, knit cells together
where skilled hands have stapled and stitched,
sketching a timeline, marking clearly
before and after,
You attract probing
eyes, hands, imaginations. At times
you are unseen, known only
by tender heart and body.
Always, lovely scars,
You remind us:
We can be hurt;
We can heal.
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Cynthia Hahn
Libertyville, Illinois
Sprung
The idea of a leaf–
unfurling,
as I open this book,
read the preface
to summer,
breathe in rain,
exhale open-mouthed
simmer, leaf-turned
June green,
sun on the tongue.
| Lynn West
Highland Park, Illinois
Ode to a Wet Noodle
Once standing tall and straight among a tightly packed army
You stood in anticipation of the heat
No retreat from a fate you were created for
Then at close of day forces from beyond
Broke you and your platoon of grainy comrades
Tossed into bubbles of battle testing each strand
Troops stuck together trying to make one last stand
Steel claws pulled limp lines as stragglers
Held onto the sides of a pot…sorry lot
Tossed onto a hard slab covered in red
Stabbed and swirled until you were dead
Your being ingested…never to confess
The germ that festered within
What sin did you commit to be treated so?
Lost your spine in the heat of battle
As the lid on the pot did rattle
Drooping plated before the strudel
Oh what a fate for the poor lonely noodle!
Golden fields of wheat bow to the wind
As whirling forks poke…consider the price
Cheaper than rice…don’t think twice
With the price of gas and all…
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Elizabeth Karn
Age 10, Grade 4
Ode to Imperfection
Oh perfection
You are a sham,
An emotionless show dog,
Prancing along with no joy.
I’ll embrace the real.
Imperfection,
My rodeo,
Where my mind is.
Imperfection is like
A thousand strokes of paint,
Each dash a mix of shapes,
Combining to make art.
Imperfection is like
The homemade cookie dough
You’re not supposed to eat,
That makes your taste buds dance.
Imperfection is like
Crooked teeth when I smile,
Friends just see my happiness,
And I feel their warmth and joy.
| Amber Lucas-Hively
Lake Barrington, Illinois
Ode to Finding One’s Voice
I was quiet, I was meek – never wanting to rock the boat.
Intense observations and thought, trapped in a vortex of silence.
What I was taught to be politeness, quickly turned into a smothering –
of my voice, my thoughts, my identity and more.
As I grew, I attached myself to big personalities who shut me down –
even further than I knew I could go.
Then, one day, the voice trapped inside my head screamed, “no more!”
Sometimes the most unlikely resurrections can occur.
Enough is enough.
It was my turn to speak.
I was done being quiet.
I was done being meek.
Forty-five years of so much to say was unleashed.
The weight lifted from me, like a boulder off my back.
Initially waves were made.
Boats were rocked.
Some even capsized; casualties, lost at sea.
That’s what happens when you no longer allow yourself to be trampled and shut down.
But there’s nothing more beautiful, more liberating,
than a voice that had been lost for forty-five years finally being found.
Finally learning to resound.
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| Richard V. Kaufman, Photographer |
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Richard V. Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
Jasmine
Tiny white flowers
perfume the night.
You get their scent,
but not their sight.
| Laura Atanacio Edington
Fayetteville, Arkansas
Ode to the Horrible, Hot House Tomato
Having observed another hot house tomato in the hydrator, I must conclude:
“Oh, hot house tomato, hiding in my fridge, cowering behind the eggplant and the squash, you are an example of my excesses.
Oh, genetically engineered pretender, you never had a chance.
Picked green in a clear shabby hut and oxidized to prevent goodness,
you immigrated to my homeland leaving all of your beauty behind.
My basil and mozzarella are better off without your cardboard flesh and pithy taste.
You are the symbol of the degradation of the nation’s downhill spiral
into a life absent of flavor and fragrance.
Oh, hot house tomato, you who will never rot or mold,
I have been saved from the temptation of your flesh
and will hold out now for your cousins ripening in the field next door.”
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Paula Garrett
Geneva, Illinois
Ode to The Clothesline
Ah, the smell of sunshine and fresh air
When you step out of the bath
Into a towel dried outside on
The Clothesline.
Wood or metal
Or hanging tree to tree
A line stretched
In a backyard
A farmyard
On a mountain slope
In view of the sea
High above a courtyard somewhere in Italy.
A blank canvas awaiting an array
Bed sheets and panties
Silk shirts and overalls
Throw rugs and camisoles.
Colors and fabrics
Of work and play and day to day
Flapping and wrapping around themselves
When the afternoon wind picks up
Your installation artwork
Coming alive in a dance
A chorus line of terrycloth and denim
Under the sun’s applause.
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| Clothesline in Coffs Harbor, Australia /Alicja Wieszczeczynska, Photographer |
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| Clothesline in Dubrovnik Croatia / Paula Garrett, Photographer |
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Waverly Ahn
Age 9, Grade 3
Ode to Our Mystical Galaxy
Oh, beloved, vast and mysterious galaxy.
Planets form by crashing stars, orbiting around the Sun.
Unknown, celestial beings, deeply buried far away.
Surprising explorations waiting to be made,
new dimensions longing to be discovered.
Our astonishing, deep galaxy,
observed by the young moon goddess Artemis and spectacular sun deity Apollo.
“My Very Excited Mother Just Served Us Nachos” -
This mnemonic device may be useful,
but only for planets we have information about.
More constellations and planets must be sought out,
and there is always more to learn about our galaxy. . . .
| Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
Ode to My Black Hair Elastic
How nobly my black hair elastic
contains my silver locks with a
simple pull/twist/pull/twist/pull
into a pony tail. Steadily keeping
tension on my gray hairs, pulling
them back like reining wild horses
off my forehead
off my face
out of my eyes.
The elastic’s springy cord
expands and contracts,
stretching to gather in the
unruly strands then tightening
with a firm grip to keep them
in their place.
At night, the elastic reclines
on my dresser as I let my hair
gambol freely on the pillow
as I sleep. The elastic rests
until the next day when
once again it takes command
to tame my restless mane.
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| Illustration by Sam Dotson at age 9 |
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Kao Ra Zen
Chicago, Illinois
It was a colorful time.
The most colorful time that I’ve ever known in Chicago.
Concurrently naïve and wise beyond our years, we built a world within a world.
A secret society that was all up in yo’ face.
The streets were stages and the stages were the streets.
The styles, the flavors, the smells, the colors.
The beats. The rhymes. The nights.
So many nights.
The cyphers.
The sistahs.
Everybody was feeling’ the Muse at the same damn time.
Some of us spit rhymes,
some of us tagged walls,
some of us moved to the music,
but all of us added to the color of the time.
The most colorful time.
We built invisible pyramids all over the city.
Holy temples to honor the Muse that inspired the elder builders before us.
We wrote our names on the outside of these pyramids.
Most Chicago city-dwellers walk past them, oblivious to our world within a world.
There are those of us who remember where the invisible pyramids were built.
And we visit those places.
And there are children with the gift to see them.
1 An ode to the 1990’s Chicago Underground Hip-Hop scene and the Nacrobats collective of which the artist has been a member since 1995. Originally included in the book A Love Supreme, independently published by Sterling Price AKA Pugs Atomz in 2019.
| Adrian McRobb
Cramlington, United Kingdom
Thames
Fog clings to water moving with the tide
dim figures to and fro under muted lamps
dark ghosts of boats drag sullenly past
as the meniscus pendulums with movement
weed draped ladders gently sigh in sympathy
pontoons now invisible drum the banks
city spires tower above the river’s shroud
The Tower traitorously lets the water through
as hamlets cling to its condensating base
shadows glide in damp folds of grey cloth
lamenting the turn of their sundial’s hour…
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| Joan Luther, Photographer |
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Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
Ode to Borders Books
Dark autumn through radiant summer,
we gathered for poetry open mics,
far from boisterous Chicago cafes
in Highland Park’s square.
Borders on Central Street, long defunct,
lost in cumulus clouds.
Some remember the sounds that entertained us.
Performers wove lilting images,
perhaps first written as ink-smudged words
on scraps of paper.
Distinct voices recited sonnets on daily chores
and surreal verse on death by sea serpents
and funerals with apparitions.
Chanters of meditations rippled their tongues
with rhythms of foggy ocean shores,
fertile mountains, and the red-tailed hawk’s
circling glide.
Romantics moved us with songs of warm rain,
burgeoning French tulips, and moonlight
through pines.
Spirited satirists, with grand gestures and
sardonic wit, elicited simpers and guffaws
reading ribald limericks.
For poets opening their souls to strangers
and patrons who culled inspiration for
their creative mill, Borders still exists.
We walk by night along the hollow avenue
to the old store. Peering through its windows,
we hear shadows of persistent poets.
Revised in 2020 since its first publication: East on Central: A Journal of Arts and Letters from Highland Park, Illinois, 2011
| Regina M. Elliott
Fletcher, North Carolina
Lawns of Summertide
Do you recall the freedom of summer?
of dewy deep green blades of freshly mowed
grass,
siblings and friends ate cold sweet watermelon,
neighborhood parents sipped iced tea,
while they lounged in Adirondack chairs,
as the dogs chased frisbees,
the Herman’s Hermits new hit song,
“Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter”
played on the radio,
as some of us waded in our sparkling
kiddie pool,
our joyous laughter of a carefree pause
in life.
Later on, in the nightfall,
the teenaged couples,
hand in hand amidst blinking lightning bugs,
sat down in the cool clover in jeans and
saddle shoes,
kissed neath a beauteous July moonrise,
those nostalgic summers left behind,
and I’m in the autumn of my aging,
with misty melodious memories I
can still daydream in,
and smile, as they appear so lovely
in my mind,
of the lawns of summertide.~
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| Ryan Fox, Watercolor, 2021 |
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Julie Sheldon
Derbyshire, United Kingdom
Special Neighbour
At the bottom of my garden….
Cromford Canal resides….
A place so steeped in history….
True wonders it provides
I think about its working life….
The barges towed by horses….
Transporting limestone, coal and iron….
Throughout the water courses
It’s been retired for many years….
Now, Nature’s taken over….
With trees and plant life everywhere….
Reeds, bullrushes, and clover
The water teems with wildlife….
With crayfish and tadpoles….
With newts and toads, and dragonflies
Birds, pike, and water voles
The kingfisher flies swiftly by….
The stalking heron waits….
The busy moorhens, grebes and coots….
The swans with lifelong mates
Where once the working horses trod….
The nature lovers roam
Dog walkers, joggers, bicycles….
Tired ramblers heading home
At the bottom of my garden….
Cromford Canal resides….
An extremely special neighbour….
To have right by my side
Edited version of poem published in the poet’s book Lockdown Lyrics (Oct 2020)
| Joan McNerney
New York, New York
9 Ways of Viewing the Brooklyn Bridge
from far away as if
a child drew two bright
triangles in the sky
empty newspaper truck
rattling over violet bridge
rain sweeps through giant
silver spider web
obscured by N train
its metal doors reflect
freight boats and
painted containers
tipping from side to side
listening to loose tracks
passengers huddled
in tight circles
woolen gloves
around steel pole
one square of sunset
in the sticky window
orange ball bounces beside
bridge…slides into blue water
white waves
black sky black sea
yellow moon climbs
over buildings
3 foghorns
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
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Carl “Papa” Palmer
University Park, Washington
My Ode to Owen Beach
Tacoma Washington rains
a foggy mist I breathe
in cadence
with soft whispers
of Puget Sound surf
heard front row center
sitting on this sand-locked log
all to myself at Owen Beach.
Seeking similes for birds
behaving like birds
as I float a morning prayer toward the Tahlequah ferry
crossing the horizon for Vashon Island
from Point Defiance Park
sailing the horizon between
gray water and gray sky.
| Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
My Sportsman’s Park Backstretch
A place of training and racing horses
An interesting collage of working citizens
Sunrise to sundown, the work was never complete
Penny pinching poverty to BMWs
A rigorous routine for preparation for their next race
All walks of life catalogued by this environment
An encyclopedia of life presented to me
A colossal myriad of emotions freely expressed
From bellyaching to schmoozing
A gambler’s haven, touts on the loose
Delusional grooms dreaming of penthouses
Misunderstood fistfights go awry
Hot tip, fixed races, never a dull moment
A place where poets are born
Fringe moments catapult the aroma
A grounds keeper, I was for fourteen interesting years.
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| Vintage poster of Sportsman's Park in Chicago |
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Curt Vevang
Palatine, Illinois
Ode to the Waterscape
I spend summers next to lakes and rivers,
along the seashore,
beside a lily laden pond,
on a picturesque bay.
My admiration for magnificent waterscapes
is difficult to explain,
perhaps only my heart can tell me why.
I spend hours, days even, watching
rain drops splattering on a still lagoon,
ocean waves crashing on the shore and gurgling in retreat,
streams stumbling through rocky rapids.
What is it about a waterscape that’s so intriguing
when a lake is really nothing but a lake,
a waterfall but a waterfall, an ocean but an ocean.
Whether admiring a waterscape from my kitchen window
or from high on a hill above the waves,
from a sun swept front porch or a grassy knoll,
nothing pleases my senses more
than the serenity of a quiet lake,
the majesty of a boisterous sea,
the babble of a playful brook.
Wherever fish jump.
herons swoop,
ships sail,
children splash,
rapids flow or sit in a quiet calm,
hidden deep in my heart there exists
a lust for waterscape.
| Pauline Kochanski
Skokie, Illinois
Dear PCH
Your ribbon of asphalt
Runs along the coast
Weaving through
Hamlets
Separating ocean from cliff
Blooms edge the ribbon
While
Warm sun heats the face
Warm breezes blow through hair
And the sky
Big blue
Over the
Sea
Over the
Sand
Dear PCH
You bring the feeling of joy
To this mid-westerner’s heart
You bring a respite
From the cold hard snow
Dear PCH
You are the dream that brings us here
You are the beauty that arises from the storm
You are the star that gleams in the darkness
You are…
Dear PCH
When will I see you again?
|
William Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
The Blue Bedroom
The blue bunkbed missed my rumpled butt for 50 years.
I’ve rewound now to age 16 on a weeks-long visit to Mom.
Familiar navy spread and pillows, sky plaid paper, and powder carpet
(the originals?) comforted me, magically fresh and sinless,
Unless youth fantasies and frolics in those walls’ memory vault were grievous.
Current nocturnal toilet adventures are not fault but proof that
This traditional home welcomes change and this beat-up changeling.
Same mom, too – odd that a guy this old still has one to maintain
a perfect standard of instruction and love.
The blue room exists only because she does. Without both,
wife and I couldn’t crash between sold and bought homes.
My childhood bedroom is a time-frozen cave alive only through Aladdin’s genie.
Bigger-than-life typewriter and camera from Anne Laddon splash
psychedelically on those plaid walls. I rub the ancient lamp and spin
through past and present that present an air-brushed reality.
All that springs from the small durable lady who represents
a rare constant in my inconsistent life.
An urge to burst this ordered decorum seizes me as it sometimes did
when a boy but fades just as fast. I never aimed to create the tornado
that would leave her and me marooned.
Love you, Mom, and, deeply, your calm, blue room.
| Joan Luther
Lexington, Illinois
An Ode to Yesterday
The brush of the sun glazed the tips of greening trees.
My hand swept the fragrant flowers from the blankets.
His chocolate kiss scented the coffee on a silver tray.
The book filled with dreams, pages turned, still open.
The maid offered toast, jam, fresh juice, and silk stockings.
A hall boy refreshed the logs on the orange burning embers.
Below my window, the stable man saddled my bay horse,
Trumpets sounded in the distance, an echo of beagles barked.
An alarm rang near my ear. My eyes opened. Wide. Monday.
Dreams of another time and someone else’s life, yesterday.
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| Painting of a lady and her maid circa 1890 by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta |
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Lynne Viti
Westwood, Massachusetts
Ode to a Toolshed in Midsummer
From a distance the structure promises shade, a respite.
Its pull-up garage door opens wide, welcoming me in.
Spades and shovels line up, and a few rakes and pitchforks.
Shelved trowels, oilcans, white plastic bottles, aerosol cans,
a coil of black plastic hose lying like a sleeping snake.
On the wooden shelves, coated with years of dust and dirt,
metal baskets overflow with wrenches and files.
On the floor – seventy-year-old concrete or beaten down earth? –
five-gallon jerrycans of gasoline, cloth tool bag with mouth agape.
It would take twenty workers to deploy all these things
to clear the land, prep the soils, rake in seed,
and it’s all been done – the evidence is right outside this place,
where lettuce, broccoli astride irrigation hoses wait for July.
Inside, this chaos cries out for someone to impose order,
arrange spades in descending order of height or by estimated age,
line up the neem oil, rot-stop, Spinosad alphabetically,
assign a hook or niche for these hundred tools and potions.
But those who wield these things know just where to find them,
Have a scheme known only to custodians of trowels and pitchforks.
Backing out slowly, careful to avoid a wayward rake’s tines,
I breathe in the heady scent of machine oil and earth.
Originally published in Refuge, chapbook anthology, Pen and Anvil Press, 2020
| Isra Jamal Alam
4th Grade
In the Summer Flower Garden
A summer in the flower garden, The most beautiful of all.
Nobody notices the small things but they are the most
important ones of all. In my perfect world, the summer garden
would be home.
I’d be the size of a fairy; so beautiful and small. But like the
heart of a knight; I’d be brave and strong.
I would walk through the tulips, as they gave a kiss on the
cheek. And I’d skip through the melons, trying to check for
seeds.
I’d have a sword fight with a sword flower; it would always
win; but we’d shake hands, and it would keep saying, let’s be
friends.
A summer in the flower garden. The most beautiful of all.
Nobody notices the small things but they are the most
important ones of all. In my perfect world, the summer garden
would be home.
I’d take a ride on a butterfly, if there’s time. And I’d make a
ring, a flower ring, for my pet fly.
I would talk to the bees just because they made me feel glee.
I’d continue to dance my heart out in that world just for me.
Thank you Mother Nature. This garden is full of glee.
A summer in the flower garden. The most beautiful of all.
Nobody notices the small things but they are the most
important ones of all. In my perfect world, the summer garden
would be home.
|
Michael Maul
Glenview, Illinois
Latte Maria
No one began my days
in better ways
every morning for a year
After receiving it
from her cupped hands
I popped the lid to see
her caramel heart
melt apart
then drained into me.
| Lynn White
North Wales, United Kingdom
Sister Millicent
The teapot was full catering size
perfect for the church function
where I first met Sister Millicent.
She was balancing it on her head.
Her eyes were uplifted
so were her lips
It was her party trick.
I didn’t know nuns did such things.
First published in The Drabble 2019
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| Mixed media Tribute to Andy Warhol by Heidi Hooper |
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Mark Heathcote
Manchester, UK
An Elegy for Dot
Knit one, purl one
a drop of whisky or rum,
Dot, she was a good-un
and so much fun.
Dot, she was a rum-one
and loved by everyone
knit one, purl one
a drop of whisky or rum.
Dot, she was a good-un
she wasn’t a cold, unfeeling nun
and now that she was succumbed,
knit one, purl one
Our Dottie’s been-undone
and-we-her friends
and family is like the Aran knots-
she banded together–Dots-
Knit one, purl one
knit one, purl one
has stopped the ticking of clocks
let’s raise a toast and dry our sobs.
Pass the whisky and rum,
Dot, she was a good-un
Dot, you went-too-young
Dot, you are loved by everyone.
Dot, how we wish
Your own knit one, purl one
in our lives
hadn’t come undone.
| Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
Tribute to Andy Warhol
Forget he used a Polaroid,
he doctored photocopies
with crazy psychedelic colors,
he had an attraction
to young, pretty men,
he struggled with
the racial biases
of his generation.
Andy Warhol infiltrated every
facet of the art and media cultures
with his bold artistic
visions/his trailblazing techniques.
He partied with Liz & Liza,
he even appeared on Love Boat,
Who didn’t?
Oh, to be so famous,
yet so lonely, all of
that angst scraping his
psyche, and bleeding its
brilliance on his bold canvases.
Warhol inspired so many
young artists to leave
their dreary lives and to shake
the plaster of the establishment
with the vision of art.
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| Emmanuel Morgan, Photographer |
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Silvia Morgan
San Pedro, California
Dreaming in Rainbows
For Hope Isabella Morgan
At the end of the colorful, beautiful
Rainbow in the sky, I found an innocent,
Sleeping baby wrapped in a soft, pink
Blanket tucked inside a large, shiny pot.
Is this it the untouchable, unreachable dream
That I have been searching for my whole
Life, or am I just dreaming in rainbows as
I often do after an afternoon summer shower?
Afraid of waking the precious baby up from
Her peaceful slumber, I just stood there and
Stared at her unique, glistening face thinking
That she is more radiant than pure gold.
She seemed so content and relaxed despite
The awkward position hanging to one side
Perhaps dreaming of being carried by angels
To God’s bosom or nursing sweet breast milk.
I blew a soft kiss filled with all my love and
Before I departed down the stairwell back to
Earth, impressed her everlasting image in
My heart as I tiptoed and waved goodbye!
| Mark Hudson
Evanston, Illinois
An Ode to a Former Art Teacher
Richard Halstead was ecstatic,
about paintings he found in the attic.
His parents had a hidden gem,
like frankincense from Bethlehem.
It must’ve been under a lot of dust,
but to Halstead’s eyes he knew no disgust.
His first inspiration his young eyes had seen,
Gave him the desire to paint as a teen.
In Indiana, this was where he was from,
to the Chicago land he would come.
In Chicago he hoped to do some art,
the city life was a bold new start.
The Academy of art was once a place he’d study,
he taught till he was an old fuddy-duddy.
He taught enthusiastically, to pass on a gift,
he taught portraiture, in order to uplift.
But as time went on, the pandemic hit,
it wasn’t safe to teach, the place we’d sit.
The virus was everywhere, wouldn’t you know,
art classes became less frequent to go.
So I hope that Mr. Halstead is safe and sound,
and painting at home, and his creations abound.
One of the teachers who inspired me too,
I’ll carry the torch, till my next breakthrough!
|
Steve Henn
Warsaw, Indiana
I’m Pleased that My Boy Dances
I know, that sounds like the title
of a David Bowie song, but it’s not,
it’s a commentary on my five year old son’s
capacity for boogie. When I was 5,
my older siblings used to put Disco Duck
or Steve Miller Band’s Greatest 74-78
on the turntable (turntables weren’t hip then,
they were the only technology available
that wasn’t 8 track tapes) and I’d stand
there like I was holding a guitar
and I’d shake one leg. One leg. Repetitively.
And I’d want to bust a move
but also felt self-conscious, my brothers
and sister wanting a show and me never
even hollering “gimme a beat!” or asking
to be called Mr. Henn Esq. “if you’re nasty.”
But when my boy hears Jungle Love
and it’s driving him mad, making him crazy, crazy,
he contorts, twists, flips, bounces, boogies –
just like the floor exercises in the Olympics!
He puts all of himself into feeling
the groove. He’s not embarrassed. He demands
acknowledgment for kinesthetically losing his mind.
Good for him! Good for my son,
and the undiminished grin on his face.
Good for his whole, new, unbroken,
and very wiggly bones.
First published in Nerve Cowboy, then in Indiana Noble Sad Man of the Year (Wolfson 2017).
| Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
Ode to a Former Dorm Mate
You’re gone, never to be found
Gone with the blue ink of our era
on postcards we exchanged
Gone with the precision of your fingers
twirling your pasta
at this ridiculously expensive place we frequented
Was it fettuccine alfredo?
You’re gone, never to come around
Gone with all the women in cyber-sea
who have the same name as you but are not you
Not your lacquer black hair
large brown eyes like a Japanese anime character
the grace you exuded without saying a word
You’re gone, without a sound
Gone beyond our once cherished girlhood.
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| Image from creative commons |
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Daniel E. Lambert
Inglewood, California
My Ode to Joy*
In these calm, quiet moments
I come to realize
she is all I ever wanted
all I really need
In the quiet comfort of home
I come to realize
home is where she is
In the quiet, still thunder of Ode to Joy
I come to realize
why the Maestro gave the world
for his Immortal Beloved
Before I met her
I dreamed of his choir
in the silhouette of burning buildings
shimmering windows
and Bruce Willis with a machine gun
In the still soft sweetness of her voice
I understand
why Gary Oldman
(the soft-spoken Brit with the Cockney accent)
brought Ludwig to life
as a lanky youth submerges in a shoreline pool
of crystalline water
In the still sweetness of her touch
I take her hand in mine
In the burgeoning promise of our life together
I gaze up at a sea of stars
And (as Ludwig did) I write my first Ode to Joy
Upon the velvet wings of the midnight sky.
*Note: this poem is dedicated to my wife. This poem makes references to two movies and one piece of music. The 1988 film Die Hard with Bruce Willis which featured Beethoven’s classic Ode to Joy on its soundtrack. The 1995 film Immortal Beloved with Gary Oldman as Beethoven also featured that piece. However, it wasn’t until I fell in love that I experienced the joy that inspired Beethoven.
| Nick Sweet
Shepherd, Texas
My Father’s Woodpile
My father cuts his firewood, his chain saw smokes and spits
Though he’s four years past fourscore, a lot of wood is split
Beneath the searing midday sun his energy is waning
Still he stalks the timber, intent and uncomplaining
Sweat pours in rivulets, wood chips pierce his skin
Though covered in shavings, he stacks it to his chin
I wonder why his woodpile never seems diminished
Every time I visit his work is never finished
Then in an epiphany, it’s all precise and clear
Why, when the day is oven-hot, he’ll gamely persevere
Whoever hears my father’s prayers would never take a man
With an abundant woodpile stacked by his own hand
He fights to free his jammed-up saw; soon it’s extricated
Once more he attacks the log, his purpose unabated
I view this self-reliant man who never seems defeated
And wonder: Can I face the day his woodpile is depleted?
Previously published by Lyric Louisiana, 2017
|
Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, Missouri
Rootman
Rootman lifted up the bale as if it were air,
pointed to the other one; Can you get that?
I was in my late forties; he, three decades older.
(I had to divide my bale into three)
We fed his tilapia in the murky pond:
They like it that way. See. There they are,
and small mouths poked out their heads.
In his plot of sugar cane, he cut off two pieces,
started chewing on his and handed me mine.
Never been to a dentist. Never had a toothache.
Sugar cane does the trick. He had perfect teeth.
I was already minus two with three cavities.
Come on, he said. Let’s get something to eat.
We entered his house and then his cave
and he reached up to pull at a few of the roots:
he cut pieces of malanga, taro, and yuca,
swollen and ready for his pot of boiling water.
Here’s one you can chew right now, but don’t swallow.
While we waited, he said, Let me teach you mancala,
and we played the game with seed pods
on a board carved from thick roots,
until morning went to afternoon, and I never beat him.
| Jacqueline Stearns
Bloomfield, New Jersey
Ode to Tulia
Meeting at work. Forging a bond lasting thirty-two years.
Tulia is a magical being, who infuses my world with light.
Tulia and I are social butterflies. Nothing makes us happier
than being at a party hosted by mutual friends.
Tulia is blind and uses a cane.
My friend teaches me how to hold her arm.
I guide us to nearby restaurants.
We sample Chinese, Japanese, and Italian cuisine. During those lunches,
we discuss the new age, world of the metaphysical, both of us
drawn to philosophy that embraces self love and acceptance.
Tulia and I are there for each other when times get tough.
When my friend has disputes with her mother or one of her sisters,
I listen and commiserate.
When depression rears its head, Tulia’s love comforts me.
When I suffer through a bad breakup, Tulia stays on the phone with me
for hours, getting me through tears and heartbreak.
Tulia and I share a love of music.
Tulia plays seventeen instruments including piano and acoustic guitar.
I sing and ring bells in my church choir.
Tulia shares how her father enjoyed hearing her play the piano.
I reminisce about community theater and touring with The Sweet Adelines.
Tulia and I count books as friends and spend countless hours
discussing poetry, fiction, nonfiction, fantasy, science fiction and psychology.
My friend’s vivid descriptions of family events give me a bird’s eye view.
I am there at Tulia’s favorite eatery, toasting her mom’s birthday.
I am at her sister’s house for Sunday supper.
I am equally descriptive, and take Tulia to my niece’s communion,
my nephew’s Christening, and a family Easter Celebration at Charlie Brown’s.
My friend and I have seen each other through youth and middle age. Tulia is seventy, while I am sixty. I hope our friendship is always one for the stages.
All stages of our lives.
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| Marie Samuel, Quilt Artist |
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Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Greenville, South Carolina
To Alice, with Love
Alice, you saved the day.
From the moment I woke with a throbbing head
till I dragged up to your register at dusk,
this day was twelve hours of worthless.
Took the dog out: he ran away.
No bread, no milk: no breakfast.
Checked the mail: bounced a check.
(Highway robbery posing as Customer Service.)
Work brought one cretin after another:
rude people, whiny people, impatient people, stupid people…
in multiples of three.
At lunch, my Coke was flat, my French fries were cold,
my hose got a run, my cell phone died,
and my headache still throbbed away.
Later, my computer froze up, the copier broke down,
And the repairmen didn’t call but Visa did – twice.
Heading home, I am a blob of pathetic morosity,
wending my way through drive-time traffic
in search of pharmaceutical relief.
And there, Alice, there you were – your bright-lipped smile
and big bosomed “Hey, hon’!” an antidote for this dismal day
and its rattlesnake snipes of reality.
With your discordant din of digitized beeps,
your halo of iridescent orange curls,
your aw-buck-up-darlin’, tomorrow’s-another-day reassurance
in your flat-voweled, honey-drenched drawl,
you washed away the sins of the world
with the sweet milk of human kindness.
Bless you, Alice. Bless you.
Keep the change…and bless you.
| Farrah Zabadneh
4th Grade
My Mom
To my mom.
My mother works so hard
and I love her so much. I know she’s
an amazing mom. She even makes my lunch! I notice
all the things she does, she sometimes pushes
herself too much. Even after all of that,
she’s there every night, she’s got my back.
So this’ why I appreciate and love her
very much. She’s bright a morning
sunshine, she always makes my day.
She sparkles like the country skies
In every single way. I’ll always love you
Mom, for all eternity, all the way up until
I die, and even after maybe. So to
my mom, forevermore, I love her very much.
|
Joe Glaser
Chicago, Illinois
My Tooth Fairy
When first I saw him,
Coat shining starchy white,
Hair rising to a white pompadour,
He projected confidence – calmness – caring.
I thought “Could this finally be my perfect dentist?”
And willingly succumbed to the spell of his chair.
Over 30 years,
fillings to root canals to crowns,
bridges built, collapsed and reconstructed,
patched via the alchemy of blue-light tuck-pointing,
I stayed – strayed – got burned – and kept coming back.
Eighty-one now, mostly retired,
he drills only on Tuesdays,
and only 30 miles south – in Flossmoor!
These days I stick with what works,
so I rent a car and dare the Dan Ryan.
Previously published in East on Central, 2019-20 issue
| Morris Dean
Mebane, North Carolina
An Ode to My Muse
I wonder at you, Muse,
at the workings of your mind,
your playings, your surprisings,
your flashings, twistings, turnings.
I don’t even know your name.
Who are you, what are you?
When you whisper me,
I listen to your words,
I welcome your embrace.
I write them down,
I note their shapes.
I hold them, feel them,
glide with them,
thrust to their rhythms.
I practice their phrasings,
finger them, hold them,
feel them, squeeze them,
bring them to my lips, kiss them.
I take them in my mouth,
roll them on my tongue,
taste them, swallow them,
throb to their beat,
poised to speak.
I beseech you, Muse, remove
your veil, show me your face,
tell me your name.
Who are you, what are you?
Are you God? Are you me?
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Lucy Pabst
Zion, Illinois
Ode to My South African Love
Sawubona!
You move right into
your loud monologue
that interrupts my quiet time
every time
all the time
even when we aren’t together
and I miss
your disruption
of unknown words
sounds flicking off your tongue
I fall in love
with your accent
superficially.
Other black girls
just won’t do to me
what your voice does
deeply.
Gold tooth skips a beat
Hamba kahle.
| Julie Isaacson
Highland Park, Illinois
Ode to Rekindled Love
At twenty, we lounged on my folks’ brown couch
Talking about the war, what was in store, what’s behind the next door.
Not knowing what the path would bring
Life sped on with calligraphy on diplomas, and crisp pay stubs
Innocent decisions that diverged our paths
Once so close, followed by decades out of touch
Not knowing what the path would bring
Our lives merged our families with others’,
Becoming a father and a mother in separate spheres
Years rolled faster, priorities shifted, life became more precious
Through achievements and disappointments,
Still wondering what the path would bring
And then…
A random post,
Your fortune cookie, my curiosity
Opening a conversation, a communication
And ever a connection,
Revisited, reimagined, reinvented
Headed on a path together
This is love rescued from the Lost and Found
Ever bound
Solid and Sound
Goes round and round
A story to astound…
Nearly fifty years later
We sit on my folk’s couch, now upholstered white
Our black hair now light
A bond quite tight
Together on a path which once again feels right.
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| Bob McNeil, Artist |
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Bob McNeil
New York, New York
A Review of You
My friend,
you are a tale
I love reading,
a tune
I love hearing,
a photo
I find endearing,
a creation I find appealing.
| Louella Kornfeld
3rd Grade
Eyes as Blue as the Sky
She has eyes as blue as the sky,
Hair that shines so bright.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful Mom.
When she smiles it lights the world.
She’ll love me more than this world.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful Mom.
She’s unreplaceable, and out of this world.
She watches me grow oh so.
And I think for myself what a wonderful Mom.
I love you Mom, Happy Mothers’ Day.
|
Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
Ode to Pollyanna
How I miss you girl!
Your miserable young life on
technicolor display –
a giant movie screen hypnotic
to a young girl like me
a bitter aunt, gloomy home
couldn’t dampen your
innocence or happiness
because you dared to play
“The Glad Game” –
a game for thankfulness
soon I was playing your game
glad the butterflies were flying
thankful I had shoes on my feet
content I could be home while
others went to the dance
Oh, how I miss your bright light!
Your wide eyes exemplified
wonder in the world
you saw every day,
we saw it too, because of you
even the town, your warming aunt
played the game
How I miss my Pollyanna days!
These days when headlines
tamp down the good,
hide things we
should be thankful for,
I remember the game you taught us
I play it every day
and wonder if you
still play it too.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - June
Cheryl Caesar, Gail Denham, JK Durick, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Linda Freudenberger, Janea D. Harris, Steve Henn, Richard V. Kaufman, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Barbara Boothe Loyd, Lennart Lundh, Michael Maul, Adrian McRobb, Margie Hord Mendez, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Drew Pisarra, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, Eli Rollman, Marie Samue, Michael Simon, Curt Vevang, and Lynn West.
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Click to download Archive |
2022 Daily Poem Archive - May
Emma Alexandra, Jennifer Brown Banks, Jan Chronister, Jackie Chou, Jennifer Dotson, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kathleen Gregg, Janea D. Harris, Geoffrey Heptonstall, Irene Hoffman, Maryann Hurtt, Betsy Dolgin Katz, Richard V. Kaufman, Pauline Kochanski, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Karian Markos, Adrian McRobb, Howard Nemeroff, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Marianne Peel, Jenene Ravesloot, Nick Romeo, Alice Marcus Solovy, Lori Wall-Holloway, MichaelP. Wright, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - April
Dan Boyd, Daniel Cleary, J. K. Durick, Michael Escoubas, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kathleen Gregg, John Grey, Gay Guard-Chamberlin, Kate Hutchinson, Julie Isaacson, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Pamela Larson, Arlene Gay Levine, Jayshawn Lott, Lennart Lundh, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Silvia Morgan, Lakshmy Nair, Howard Nemeroff, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, Franky Saez, Christine Kierstead Sheeter, Gwen Van Velsor, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway and Lynn West
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - March
Jennifer Brown Banks, Daniel Cleary, Jane Cooper, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Janz Duncan, J. K. Durick, Regina M. Elliott, Maureen Flannery, Mardelle Fortier, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, George Markoutsas, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Wilda Morris, Susan T. Moss, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Marianne Peel, Marilyn Peretti, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie RIssman, Alice Marcus Solovy, Gwen Van Velsor, and Lynn West.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - February
Michael H. Brownstein, Paul Buchheit, Monica Cardestam, Jan Chronister, Daniel Cleary, Tina Cole, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Regina M. Elliott, Margie Emshoff, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Janice Freytag, Cynthia Gallaher, John Grey, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, and Curt Vevang.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - January
Michael H. Brownstein, Renee Butner, Jan Chronister, Daniel Cleary, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Michael Escboubas, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Kate Hutchinson, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Michael Minassian, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Karen Petersen, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Marie Samuel, Julie Sheldon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Curt Vevang, Lynn West, Rev. Court Williams, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - December
Renee Butner, Vittorio Carli, Yuan Chang Ming, Jackie Chou, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Michael Escboubas, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kate Hutchinson, Paul Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Candace Kubinec, Ann Lamas, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Joan McNerney, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Karen Petersen, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Terry Slaney, Alice Marcus Solovy, Lori Wall-Holloway, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Fall / 2022 Winter Gallery Archive - Poet's & Artist's Choice
Marina Angione * Ellen Blum Barish * Dan Boyd * Michael H. Brownstein * Teresa K. Burleson * Renee Butner * Tim Callahan * Monica Cardestam * Yahn Changming * Hanh Chau * Jackie Chou * Daniel Cleary * Linda M. Crate * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Janz Duncan * J. K. Durick * Olivia Maciel Edelman * Idella Pearl Edwards * Regina M. Elliott * Dan Fitzgerald * Janea D. Harris * Cynthia T. Hahn * William D. Hicks * Mark Hudson * Caroline Johnson * Dr. Richard V. Kaufman * Candace Kubinec * Arlene Gay Levine * Terry Loncaric * Lennart Lundh * Joan Luther * William Marr * Bruce Matteson * Susan McClellan * Joan McNerney * Michael Minassian * Wilda Morris * Lakshmy M. Nair * Howard Nemeroff * Toti O’Brien * Carl “Papa” Palmer * René Parks * Marianne Peel * Ann Privateer * Jenene Ravesloot * Marjorie Rissman * Tom Roby IV * Sue Roupp * Christine Kierstead Sheeter * Alice Marcus Solovy * Pat St. Pierre * Jacqueline Stearns * Suzanne Elia Stephan * Kay Thomas * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Bruce Whitaker * Court Williams * Michael P. Wright * R. M. Yager
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - November
Lois Barr, Nila Bartley, Michael H. Brownstein, Joseph Kuhn Carey, Charlotte Digregorio, Oliva Maciel Edelman, Michael Escboubas, Kate Hutchinson, Richard V. Kaufman, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Joan McNerney, Michael Minassian, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Ann Privateer, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Ellen Savage, Alice Marcus Solovy, Pat St. Pierre, Lori Wall-Holloway, Lynn West, R.M. Yager and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - October
Emma Alexandra, Michael H. Bornwstein, Renee Butner, Danie CLeary, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, J.K. Durick, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Janea D.Harris, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Michal Mendelson, Wilda Morris, Khalid Mukhtar, Lakshmy Nair, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Sue Roupp, Alice Marcus Solovy, Judith Tullis, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway and R.M. Yager.
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2021 Summer Gallery Archive - Shoes
Nila Bartley * Jessica Weyer Bentley * Mary Beth Bretzlauf * Fiona M. Campbell * Monica Cardestam * Joseph Kuhn Carey * William Carey * Chris Chandler * Jackie Chou * Jan Chronister * Hinda Cole * Tina Cole * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Janz Duncan * Idella Pearl Edwards * Michael Escoubas * Indira Esson * Isadora Esson * Daniel J. Fitzgerald * Karen Fried * Judith Stern Friedman * Dominique Galiano * Cynthia Gallaher * Nancy Hepner Goodman * Alwyn Gornall * Janea D. Harris * Teresa Harris * Janis Butler Holm * Mark Hudson * Kate Hutchinson * Linda Imbler * Julie Isaacson * Paul M. Jamar * Caroline Johnson * Judith MK Kaufman * Richard V. Kaufman * Betsy Dolgin Katz * Tricia Knoll * Michael Ethan Landau * Joan Leotta * Terry Loncaric * Cindy Madara * William Marr * Michael Maul * Susan McClellan * Cassandra McGovern * Bob McNeil * Adrian McRobb * Silvia Morgan * Wilda Morris * Lakshmy Nair * Carl “Papa” Palmer * Phyllis Patterson * Ann Privateer * Marjorie Rissman * W. R. Rodriguez * Rie Sheridan Rose * Marie Samuel * Julie Sheldon * Alice Marcus Solovy * Miranda Stewart * Christine Swanberg * Nick Sweet * Kay Thomas * Connie Vitale * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Lynn White * Diane Wlezien * Michael P. Wright * RM Yager * Yvonne Zipter
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - September
Lois Baer Barr, Michael H. Brownstein, Jackie Chou, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Mardelle Fortier, Marne Glaser, Carol L. Gloor, John Grey, Jaqueline Harris, Ariella Kharasch, Candace Kubinec, Ann Lammas, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Nitya Menon, Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Tom Roby, Alice Marcus Solovy, and Court Williams
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - August
Chris Chandler, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, J.K. Durick, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Janea D. Harris, Caroline Johnson, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Jean McDonough,Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, René Parks, Jenene Ravesloot, Donita Ries, Alice Marcus Solovy, Nick Sweet, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway, Lynn West, Court Williams, and Yvonne Zipter.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - July
Gary Beck, Daniel Cleary, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Maureen Flannery, Phil Flott, Mardelle Fortier, Dominique Galiano, John Grey, Paul Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie Manion, William Marr, Jean McDonough, Silvia Morgan, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Marilyn Peretti, Jenene Ravesloot, Alice Marcus Solovy, Kay Thomas, Curt Vevang, and Lori Wall-Holloway.
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2020 Daily Poem Archive - September
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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