(to an old friend)
By Tricia LeBlanc
In an old familiar room
Where we made plans for the future
Still in the corner -- rusted bedsprings
Tattered lace framing white and green
News from '43 stained with age on the floor . . .
Sweet, musty
Summer breeze where I grew up
Where your heart belongs
Family photos in black and white
Ladies in the snow
Letters giving clues -- not many
Other pieces remain:
The old chair, not wobbly
One pair of black shoes
Mason jars without lids
Perhaps a bit of ourselves -- mostly just a feeling
Child's dreams
All remembered
And promises not forgot
To return is not the same as then
But still a sense of calm
Through broken locks
Smile and climb the stairs
Look down at missing shingles
Perched above the orchard
Hard to describe . . . all this . . .
Kind of a loss, yet
The laughter is alive
Poetry and song
In the eyes of a dreamer
Is understood
"Across the lake where I grew up in the U.P., there was an old abandoned farmhouse (and also a barn and other outbuildings). The property was beautiful; in the front of the house was an apple orchard. The trees were mature and had great gnarled limbs. As kids (teenagers), we loved to explore the property, and especially had a fascination with all of the relics that had been left behind by the last inhabitants. Inside the house, there were remnants of lace curtains left in some of the rooms upstairs, and one could look out over the field on beautiful summer days. There was one special person who used to go there with me when he visited from Chicago - a grandson of one of our neighbors. He was a very creative and artistic person; we used to write poems to each other. I thought that someday we would 'end up together,' but that was not the case. The old farmhouse still stands, and I 'visited' a few times since. It still makes me smile to read the poem."
* * * * * * * * * *
"I Danno?"
By Samuel R. Cacas, Jr.
I got time 2 cry,
but its hard 2 shed,
a tear.
My babys' watch-n,
& shes' were I wonna b,
not here.
I been locked side,
i'm n,
eternally.
Theres' not a lot u can offer 1,
who has trouble find-n himself,
& its burn n me.
2 see no reflection,
has my soul turn cold?
if not: why don't u turn n talk 2 me,
don't just fold.
More than enough days, have pass.
like stars burn-n,
out there.
Some dings r better off,
not 2 b said,
so should I tell u?
Will dat save us,
a lot of lonely nights?
by me,
never tell-n- u?
Where does love go, when it's lost, disappear-n wit despair?
will love,
wonder off?
How often do u observe da 1 u say u love?
go ahead n tell another lie, & cry like dem dove.
U said u looked me, n my eyes, n search fa my soul,
don't bray me, n da concrete; let me love blossom,
like a rose.
I don't know, where we r headed,
but I know 1 ding.
My love 4 u, is genwine, so writing poetry, is my thing?
i danno?
* * * * * * * * * *
"A Love Story"
By Justine Specht
I hung by a thread
That was ready to snap
Wondering what lead
To this mishap
With a melody
Of a sweet bitter end
I plea
I need a friend
Help disarms
But there stands you
With open arms
To fall into
And that's where I want to be
With your arms intertwined with my body
Hand in hand
We stand
That's where I want to be
With looks that kill
Best poison to taste
Contains an arctic chill
When you hold my waist
With words so sweet
Heart so true
No deceit
Could come from you
With love that has intensity
Kisses like a drug
I know you are my destiny
Forever in your hug
With someone to confide to
Tell each painful memory
With you
That's where I want to be
"I wrote this poem to a boy when I was in high school. I thought that the poem was meaningful and I enjoyed the rhythm of the poem."
* * * * * * * * * *
"Green Eyes"
Anonymous
Green eyes follow my every move
they notice each freckle
each delicate hair
every twitch of my lip
Rough hands caress me from head to toe
they appreciate each curve
each supple bump
they warm my body and
goosebumps appear
Smooth pink lips work my body over
equally Loving my ear
my neck, my shoulders,
my back and every
sensitive spot
without a word being said
Strong arms protect me
and hug me
embrace me
He inches inside me
Loving me
in every crevice
hurting me
and pleasuring me
Green eyes watch my every move
as my pupils dilate
and begin to fall under my lids
they appreciate every wrinkle
every freckle
and every twitch of my lip.
"I am a second-semester student."
* * * * * * * * * *
"Little Girl"
By Katye Ziolkowski
Little girl writes a "K" for her name,
Her smile bright and her voice joyful;
Tiny glasses on a tiny face.
Little girl writes a "M" for her sister's name,
Her voice still happy, her smile true;
Yet this is not so joyful.
Little girl's baby sister is gone,
Three weeks ago the day before;
Seven-month-old baby missed so much.
Little girl doesn't understand it all,
One day baby's here - the next day gone;
Only when she's older will she know.
Little girl grown up will know the story,
How baby girl lived and died,
and went to heaven and will wait for her there.
"I enjoy writing poetry, especially about things that trouble me, or are close to my heart. I am attending Nicolet part-time and hope to transfer this fall and eventually go into social work, counseling, or something of that nature."
* * * * * * * * * *
"sidewalk café"
By Janice Kanyusik
should I die in Paris in the rain
I will be seated at a sidewalk café
near the Tuileries Gardens reading
poetry writing about ice going out
on the Minnesota River 1975 thunder
crashing under the Tenth Street Bridge
one hour north of Minneapolis
I will swallow the last drop of dark
coffee and my heartbeat will cease
for an instant the silence will sound
like thunder and I will rise confused
from the spindly chair and fall turning
onto my back under the orange canopy
Café Keber Marque last breath elation
last thought sunset the rain will stop
I will see the old woman’s body woven
through wrought iron filigreed with white
hair soaking red ‘round her cracked skull
I will see through flesh to boney cage
once cathedra bishop’s official throne
at last a sudden breeze will sweep away
the loose pages of my little journal
left on the café table they will drift across
the wet cobblestone patio tumble down
the crowded avenue torn and faded
carried to the flowing waters of the Seine
my words will return to their source
"This poem was to honor a friend’s birthday. Then the poem wrote itself I guess. I gave my friend chocolates instead."
* * * * * * * * * *
"Yes, I Love Big, Boring Books"
By Shane Teter
I'm a contrarian
by nature and by heart:
authoritarian
of the dumb and the smart.
So, you say that "Moby-Dick
goes dully on and on."
And Dickens' *yawn* Pickwick
Papers a marathon
of tedium and woe?
Such dullard cries for me
bestows a golden glow
of heavy levity
upon those boring books
of noted gravity.
Of Kindels, texts or Nooks --
I am drawn to pages
of "needless description"
like scholars to sages
and pain to prescription.
"It’s true: Walden, Democracy in America, The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms – I love them all. In fact there’s no such thing as too boring for me. Unless you include accounting books – I mean, a guy has to draw the line somewhere! Unrelated aside: Did I also mention that I love a six-count rhythm with a jingle-jangle rhyme?"
* * * * * * * * * *
"an ode for ernie"
By Todd Mountjoy
After a lifetime of misering away every penny.
After hoarding his accomplishments
trying to screw the government
before it screwed him.
After losing his family and any semblance of a close friend
to acquire yet another dollar, another business.
After managing to accumulate everything
he thought would make him happy
He died . . .
Dropped in a cheap box
A casket as warm and inviting as the gash
in the November earth which embraced them both
His young wife and her son got it all,
every soiled dime that was gone
before the first breeze of spring
Every dime, that is, except the hundred dollar bill
stuck on the fridge, under the
magnet from Jake's Towing.
A hundred dollar bill for the son with a prodigal father
the preacher son who managed to say kind things
while those who sat un-listening wondered how much
his father has screwed them yet again, even in death
The hundred dollars that didn't come close
to covering the gas
covering the motel
covering the time on the road
covering the time it took to lay
An old bitter man down in his earthen crib
An old man writhing motionlessly while his young wife and her son
celebrated by spending what took a lifetime of severance to accumulate.
"My father was a pastor while his father was a businessman. When my father 'got the calling' he left the family business and my grandfather left our lives. This poem is a reflection on my grandfather's funeral at which my father gave the eulogy. Sometimes, when we write, there are not words you would like to use as words. Poetry gives a certain license to create words, such as the use of 'misering' which isn't a word, but one I kept because I liked it . . . And honestly, sometimes poetry is more for the writer rather than the reader . . ."
