Loading...
HomeMy WebLinkAboutPIPAdults2013Echo Julie Claus Out of the blue, the blue stray kept coming back. back to my doorstep every evening at twilight. Why? Did some star shoot across her black map of instinct? Or was it my voice, thin, quavering, indistinct, questioning above the kitchen sink? Who am I to repeat why? When she echoed my hymn, I took her in. Peonies Ginny Paulson The peonies hang their heavy heads, drunk with intensity of color, ant pearls, and morning water. Peonies have a love affair with gravity. They lower their bosoms graciously. Fe Ashton Duncan We were magnetic. Spinning, reinforcing. Our transitions were almost Austenite (like the Brit) At three million Kelvin we burned like stars. And then burnt out. What is Poetry? Marvin Bell A shovel with which to move skeleton bones. Fingerprints on a sickle. The Bay Leaf Dan Campion You, faithful chef who never leaves The bay leaf in the dish, but weaves A suite of flavors delicate Without a threat of mortal cut, What spared you being careless cook? Belief? Apprenticeship? A book? Or sharp-tongued sweet bay leaf itself? Above Me David Duer The now naked branches of the maple dissect the sky In the garden nestled in my two hands the last ten ripening tomatoes small, perfect, tangy jewels of summer and a few faded pink roses for my love The Well Christopher Merrill For warmth in the dank pit the garter snake Coiled round the purring motor of the pump And was emblazoned to the switch by lighting— A black ring scraped and lifted from the metal And then deposited in the arroyo By the thin man who dreamed of centipedes And Punji sticks. He never left the tunnel. “Untitled (Autumn 2012)” Kelly Scott Franklin Where do the unwanted pumpkins go? Those green ones, gnarled and trampled, with broken stems? When the leaves fall, and the last apple withers, And the world closes up shop for winter, Where do the last unwanted pumpkins go? Do we leave them to seed? Will they slowly cave in under the weight of the earliest frost? Coffee Shop Magician Lily Allen-Duenas I watched him cast a spell on his computer he waved his hands over the shallow screen as a conductor would fling a symphony -- his coat was heavy fur that haunted his slouched trousers he watched black and white boxes on his screen as he chewed his cheek I saw his face in every square. “Drift” Paul Shumake I remember January like the collapse in your stare the gasp behind each settled toss of your hair as you moved to ease the tension compacting as particles soon to avalanche the slighted air Monday Morning Gift Carol Tyx Someone is singing in the copy room across from my office, a joyful noise rising above the hum of the dehumidifier that keeps the notes from sticking together. In Sink Mario Duarte One sleep-hazy sunrise, I found Baby Boy, the cat, curled in the dry sink bowl: nose and toes unified, tail wrapped around his back, until the faucet dripped, and he leaped in my arms. Fidelis Barbara Kalm Fifty cedar waxwings crown the maple tree nearby, all facing east into the sun to greet the morning sky. In quiet and serenity they face the day as one, the sun has never failed them yet… and so the sun comes! September Claudine Harris Rain on the river, Geese and ducks fly overhead. Summer’s not forever. Captivated in Iowa City James Schoenfelder Fall semester of sixty-five I and my fifty-six Chevy arrived, Where protesters gathered with handwritten signs, And students and educators were far from benign. Today I sit with my Java House brew, Watching the citizens in orderly queue, Discussing not the bombing of city hall, but merits of the chicken stew. Winter Blend Maxine Bulechek Snow on the ground Sun through bare trees Sadness for some Solace for me. Rejuvenation Usha R. Balakrishnan My worn clothes Rinsed cold, spun warm Dewed layers of homey bonds In laundered youthfulness Life’s attires Shed in timed cycles Dawn the hues of another day Still #2 Jennifer MacBain-Stephens Sitting here, roots establish. Will there be peace or war time this evening? Quiet time gives over to starburst explosions. Fires started by a mirror on the baking sidewalk of redemption. See how quietly you can sit on this chair or that bench or no one’s lap Sit here and see what eats you up on the inside while roots grow. That is silly. We don't grow roots. We grow tongues if we are lucky. Poem Without Symbols Paul Diehl I slide my grandfather’s slate from his leather school bag. The slate is dusty but unbroken, a dark almost purple sky from the depths of Wales. The frame is oak, rich gold, straight grain, the pieces joined invisibly. The chalk is blinding white, each piece unused. This is no longer slate to shape letters or calculate the angle of the sun. With my hand I clear the surface one last time, wipe seashell dust from the harder seashell plane. It’s all literal now. The realm of words has passed away. Lucas Shepherd Soon my wife is coming home. Will she be disappointed? I tried to sweep behind the fridge, but I’m not double-jointed. Much time was spent (alas, in vain) searching for the duster; Determination rivaled only by the final stand of Custer. I tried to have the dishes washed; the lamps and tables glistening, But truth be told I’m lazier than Alaskan air-conditioning. “Excuses of the Well-meaning But Indolent Househusband” 4 PM Your Time 5 PM Mine Ruth Manna Anthony's voice is clear: "Look at my new grammar book, Grandma!" Lucas, three, shares a tortilla chip through the screen. Our Sunday skype proceeds. One-Year Diary Kathryn Hall "At 3 p.m. Mama left us. Fed the blower. Sold eggs 3 ½ doz. .41 c. Pulled beans at eve." Those endless but nameless Neighbors (W, L, R, etc.) bringing pies, A pint of cucumbers, elliptical. "Beets put up. Carried flowers to the cemetery. Paid Liberty Tax." All verb, 1943. Iowa City Ditty Daniel Daly Polly eyes hamburg hatter Weber, while through the haunted dark Fireflies light prairie, brook, field, college, green, and hickory park Defunct gas lights a black angel, buoyed tower looms, gold dome glistens Healers take to footlights, fiddlers to tavern lights, through the night, a poet listens Our penchant for tolerance, sharing, and grace rejoices When we, settler's heirs, hear and illuminate, new immigrant voices The Shock of Prairie Grass outside Coralville Public Library after Three Months of Not Writing Lisa K. Roberts Green fire. Potted star. Dirt in translation. One shape. Tail feather of an arrow shot toward earth. This is the spot. Dig. Here. David Danced Scott Lindgren His hand guided the wheelchair into a smooth arc until the room became a blur – spinning, dancing, melting into streams of color and light. He hovered, weightless, suspended in air, touching heaven without touching ground. And he danced until the world disappeared and joy filled the empty spaces. Dinosaurs David Hamilton The boy brings another book. This time I adlib Pooh while paging through his Big Book of Dinosaurs. ―No,‖ he starts, suppresses that, then giggles, ―Read Pooh again, Grandad.‖ pirouette Mary Jedlicka Humston sailing in crisp air on smooth glaciating pond a leaf twirls alone Passing Rachael Carlson Pressed together between bar doors, One in, one out. And when in the passage your sleeve whispers against mine, Crows in the trees rise from their roost. For All Becky Soglin A bus needs a poem As much as lovers, grievers, sinners, believers, As much as children, thinkers, teachers, tinkers, As much as players, leaders, loners, seekers, As much as the fighters and the peacemakers, As much as us, them, me, you And more than anyone can know. Hope Springs Eternal Patrick Nefzger We walked and walked and talked and talked and then we walked some more. I suggested, but she deflected and then we walked some more. I asked out rightly, she shied politely and then we walked some more. I kissed her bright head, she was delighted and then we walked no more! Lincoln Lisa Roberts When he told a story, laughter "whistled off sadness," and his smile warmed the crowd. Happiness reformed the creases of his face, and Melancholy relinquished her hold on him for a moment Winter Troika Jeff Nesheim From two days weighted with fog came the snow And the crows. They revel in the mood when Other birds go quiet. Three claim the yard As theirs, cracking the peaceful gray quiet With slow conversation from a streetlight Perch. Smug in cleverness they spend the day Waiting for snow plows to stir up some action. Snow Serpents Janet Skiff At 8 am at a stoplight I watch dozens of dusty white serpents shift weight, switch lanes, swiftly glide with the cars along the Coralville Strip- Soon to blow away altogether with the wind or vanish meltingly when the sun appears with more resolve.