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HomeMy WebLinkAboutPIPAdults2014After Rumi Christopher Merrill My heart’s a pen in the Beloved’s fingers: Tonight he writes a Z, tomorrow, B. He cuts the nib to write in riqa’ and naskh. The pen says, “I obey, Lord, you know best.” He blackens its face, wipes it with his hair. He holds it upside down—and then he writes. Age Marvin Bell You wake up, what was it? A Short Poem Arthur Small Jr. He dashed off a poem Then asked what I thought. What could I say? At least it was short. WHY US Claudine Harris Our blue marble spins unaware of us, minds and nano cells among black holes and dark matter -- why us -- there. Awake Charles A. Watson Tambourines and tangerines, the changing sky I spy. A streaking sun, another star – its distant rays unknown. Bowing to this present joy – what distant notes I play! Spin citrus, eternal myst’ry, we celebrate today. A Chance Encounter Rebecca Carver There, along a country road one moving with purposeful strides the other driving-- For a moment, human and turkey acknowledge each other, then quickly pass on by. JoAnn’s Hats Dan Campion She brings her present absence off with style. Ideas wear her things from head to toe, Fit absent presences whose moods beguile. Ensembles for every season, shade to snow, Her closet, crowned by caps, berets, chapeaus Broad sun hats to fedoras, gently glows, Threads sighing deep reflections on repose. Untitled Tim Happel at sunrise floating in a water pail last night's cricket Rescued Julie Claus Wild, abandoned, broken, I wanted you anyway. Out of loneliness I rescued us. Together we changed our definition of wild abandon. A ONE-WEEK ANNIVERSARY November 7, 1991 Vic Camillo I walked down from the Quadrangle on ice, Away from a memorial service For the murdered and the hurt. The gun killed one week ago: Faculty, students, and a few thousand in the arena tonight Came to be with their own deaths for the dead, With some flowers and God, as if he needed them. Newborn Emily Schoerning My daughter is distressed. Clenched fists, crossed eyes, Fuss back, fuss sides; Suddenly, she rests. Milk drips from fish lips, Hands relax; silent kiss. We find another crest. Thawing Richard K. Wallarab When snow blows sideways and ice thickens and cracks like thunder life’s stories show black and white on a screen seldom changing until color interrupts and melts our crust. Winter Driving Brian Berentsen Is there ice? One could calculate the odds, considering The angle of the sun, slope of the road Recent precipitation, air temperature, And sunlight lost through dormant trees Or I could slow down, breathe and avoid that ditch Barn Liz Lynn Miller Pigeons in and out and in again the light-striped cupola cooing and flapping and strutting over my nest in summer-scented hay where I wait unmoving to spy on the cat to find her secret kittens. Love in the Sun Dave Morice The day the sun goes nova, dear, Neither of us will still be here; But if we were, I’d wave a fan To keep you cool while you got a tan. County Highway W62 to Sharon Center Paul Diehl The roaring sun shadow-rips fields & their ditches; rows of bronze pipes emerge from white soil; tires speaking in tongues—of dry/wet blacktop, ice-corduroy, snow. Everything insists I keep my head low, silos, cribs, barns wiped from the near-sighted view. Everywhere the vagaries of wind— where it blasted through, where obstructions gave it time to drop its load. Everywhere paper rushes news to the other side. Bus Driving Heroes David W. Gebhard I heard a boy tell his friend: “My father’s a bus driver.” “Well,” said the other, “My father’s a physicist…but some day he’s gonna be a bus driver.” And I remembered that, in childhood, my friend’s father drove a bus— and oh how we marveled when he rolled the lever that unfolded the doors; turned the crank that sent our coins jingling into the city’s cache; shoved the clutch, grasped the wheel and lurched in his seat beneath the signs: “No Talking to the Driver” and “Expectorating is Prohibited.” In Name Only In her obituary, a granddaughter In her heart, a daughter Both correct yet only one true. -karen corbin Untitled Martha Schut woman in non la pedals five pink rose bushes to sell in Ha Noi teenage funeral Russell Jaffe The body is the size of a loaf of bread with a glass of milk sheet spilt over it “Too soon” says everyone The mother of the deceased does not own a dress And wears her mother’s church clothes It is as if for a moment the flowers belong And we belong with them Nascent Allison Heady sometimes things inside are tender, unfurling like spring, & I long to be sturdier, steadier in form, firmer in green; sheltered from within, from time – I long to long less, to know already (it’s coming, I know) (it’s coming) After Dónal Kevin Gordon It comes to this, doesn’t it? Clothes in the closet. Shoes on the floor. The scent of who was, so devastatingly close, in this, that weekend shirt. The one you loved. Spring Tim Terry Sunlight breaking clouds white petals unprotected a crocus revealed Bugged Maxine Bulechek Flying mosquitoes hum past my ear, then onward. Unbitten, I feel lucky, yet left out Off Target David Hamilton A full, pale moon rises over Best Buy, in the late afternoon, against sky-blue sky, awash even in its craters. What were we looking for? Black Chinese Shoes Patricia Covey Her I think I see clearly. I know how she chooses her clothes— the importance of black Chinese shoes and short white socks. She walks with a yellow umbrella, past the light at Washington Street, past the green-painted bench. She confesses that it’s a game— a way to remain free in the park, even in rain. Reprieve Joyce Janca-Aji I wake to find a small foot Burrowing insistently for a place Between my ribs, an elbow or a knee Crooked under my collarbone, And somewhere to the left, a wild nest Of hands and hair roaming a dream That will be as lost as the dark before morning. Seeing Its Need Nancy Lael Braun I take patience out like a spare paperback salted away in the glove compartment in case of a train. Vacation Alina Borger At the park, monkey bars span a stegosaurus-shaped bridge. On one side, practically Iowa: ash trees hug an elementary school. But over there, mountains swell up from Earth, lording it over us. Out west, they act like sky is not its own event. But it is. To a Wooden Fence at Amana Kelly Scott Franklin Blaze, you desiccated bones, bleached and windswept in the splintering sun. Speak out your plain and rough-hewn symphony to the cunning hands of men. And I will listen.