Poem of the Week: The Virtual Crafter

Carolyn Aune
Minnesota Branch

 

My Aunt sits in the well worn wing chair,
Her winter grey braids, thick as a child’s wrist,
Wrap around her noble head.
I’m perched on a low leather hassock,
My thin arms stretched in benediction
Proffering the skein of wool
That my Aunt winds slowly into a ball.
I am five years old.
Later, I watch the needles flash,
Catching the firelight as they tap out a click clack rhythm.
“I can’t teach you how to knit” my aunt murmurs” you’re left handed.”

 

Yet, might I claim that I did learn to knit If only in the virtual sense?
For, I knitted together the nine Disparate souls, snuggled in my womb For their allotted nine months

Before they were flung into the world
Where they were nourished into a cohesive whole.
Knit together, strong bonds that likely will never unravel. We are still, today, above all else, a close-knit family.

 

Now, my mother’s mother was a quilter
I see her nestled on a narrow sofa,
Placing every delicate stitch,
No nonsense black lace up oxfords planted firmly Atop the braided rug.
Every pattern in harmony, Every stitch perfect.

 

Yet might I claim to be a quilter too?
For I have fashioned a crazy quilt of a life, Struck to the core with the dull colors of Grief and Turmoil and tragedy
Blended with flashes of bright colored joy, Recording a kaleidoscope of complexity.

It was in the euphoric months of a first pregnancy, That I tried my hand at weaving. …
A small loom, the strands of wool the soft
Colors of baby pink and blue.
But life intervened, the loom abandoned, accusing me.

 

Yet might I claim that I did learn to weave? For I wove the strands of nine children’s lives Into a cohesive tapestry able to withstand
A world that hasn’t always been kind.

 

So I am, if only in the virtual sense,
A knitter, a patchwork quilter,
And a weaver of lives that now look
Fearlessly ahead to the future.

 

Poem of the Week: Meditation on a Mosquito

Kathleen H. Langan
Greenwich Branch

 

First the tell-tale bzzzzzz, then there it is

walking across my husband’s bare arm

and heading straight to do harm

to me, the Go-To-Girl for mosquitoes,

silent and sinister as it propels its improbable body

on six long skinny legs, jointed in the wrong direction,

its proboscis leading the way to the last meal of the day,

a tasty, warm, bright-red midnight supper.

 

As the fiend inches toward me,

Albert Schweitzer’s theory pops into my head,

the one he calls reverence for life.

It asks each of us never ever to forget that

the two things all living creatures share

are the right and the desire to go on living

and thus we are constrained to refrain

from killing any of them at all, large or small.
 
It’s a praiseworthy philosophy, I agree,

but it certainly strains credulity.

I mean, does the dear Doctor really expect me

to believe he lived in Africa all those years

and never once swatted a mosquito?

This one is just playing its role, I grant you that,

Nevertheless, I smash the damned thing

until it is totally dead and flatter than flat.

 

Poem of the Week: The Summer Party

Lois Batchelor Howard
Palm Springs, CA Branch

 

I look into the corner

of my backyard

and the green and flowering

plants

are huddled together.

They look like a cocktail party

with too many guests.

Whom shall I uninvite?

Shears in my hand I approach

the foxtail lily desert candles

the wall germandus

the fairy bells

the bougainvillea

I know this is rude to say to them,

but I do.  “It is too crowded here.”

They laugh and I hear their thoughts

become audible in the late afternoon sun,

“but none of us wants to leave.”

I look at my shears, put them down,

and return with a cocktail to join them.

 

Poem of the Week: Words

Sandra Seaton Michel
Diamond State Branch

 

The wonder, the plunder, the marvel of words

that snap our attention, cause anger and fear,

joy and elation, laughter and tears

and sometimes,

sometimes

sprinkle fairy dust upon the ordinary.

 

There it was, “apples, sauced.”

Oh, how delightful that sounds,

a delectable dish, undoubtedly served

with swagger and swish.

Not plain old apple sauce,

which children love

and hospitals too

but you won’t find it taught at Cordon Blue.

 

Poem of the Week: Walking on Water

Carolynn J. Scully
Orlando/Winter Park Branch

 

Confidence is momentary, never permanent.

 
Get out of the boat.
Just do it.
Jump!

 
Time for me to walk
on waves that reach out and back,
dip down and rush up.
Self talk builds sea legs, but
one word or look can weaken knees.

 
Fear washes over me and
drenches me in sweat.

 
First steps are always unsure.
Self-assurance, like the sea, cannot be controlled.
No guarantees.
But there is no end without a beginning.

 

Carolynn J. Scully ©2016

 

Poem of the Week: Fear and Want in Revolution (A Russian Pantoum)

by Linda Newman Woito
Iowa City, Iowa Branch

 

It has been a bitter winter.

Russian guards are still outside.

Who will watch the horses dancing?

Priests lead them all in prayer.

 

Russian guards are still outside.

Children of the Village have forgotten how to dance.

Priests lead them all in prayer.

Chickens hide within the barn, emptied of drying hay.

 

Children of the Village have forgotten how to dance.

Today the sunrise comes two hours late.

Chickens hide within the barn, emptied of drying hay.

Water in the cow-barn is freezing now.

 

It has been a bitter winter.

Who will watch the horses dancing?

Today the sunrise comes two hours late.

Water in the cow-barn is freezing now.

 

Russian guards are still outside.

Today the sunrise comes two hours late.

Chickens hide within the barn, emptied of drying hay.

Children of the Village have forgotten how to dance.

 

Water in the cow-barn is freezing now.

Russian guards are still outside.

Who will watch the horses dancing?

Priests lead them all in prayer.

 

Poem of the Week: Gaining Perspective

Rev. Nancy Schluntz
Diablo-Alameda Branch

 

Sunday, Monday, Thursday

It doesn’t matter

It won’t turn off.

 

Part of living and loving

Is getting used to things

That won’t turn off.

 

All trembling and hurting

From laughter and hidden tears

That won’t turn off.

 

A beautiful giving and

Making room to hold things

That won’t turn off.

 

Poem of the Week: Once

Patricia Dennis, Santa Clara Branch

 

We were young girls
holding hands
playing hop scotch
whispering secrets
sneaking into forbidden rooms
trying on the jewels of our mothers
and dressing up in their gowns

With skirts held high above our knees
we would twirl and swirl around
landing only for a brief second
just long enough to strike a saucy pose

With hands on our hips we would wiggle our derrières
Then turn around tilting our heads this way and that
Puckering our lips and blowing silent kisses

We’ll never be old! We would cry
Always young at heart and
meeting adventures head on
We gave nary a thought of what lay beyond

Years later, children grown, husbands gone, I see you again

We cry in unison, Where have you been!

Our minds flicker to when we stopped trying to stay in touch
when other needs and wants filled the space.

A silent prayer of gratitude for here we are again.

No longer youthful, no longer slim. The years have added wisdom to our faces.

Giggling and laughing we take a moment (to) step back in time
pause and remember those years of innocence
It seems just like yesterday
we were those two young girls
prancing unsteadily in mother’s high heels
and playing make believe

A long heartfelt embrace and a vow: to not let time separate
friends of the heart. Distance and time should never tear apart.

 

Poem of the Week: Give me a key to unlock my cage

Marsha J. Perlman
SW Florida Branch

 

I’ve been to court countless times.
Not because I broke the law.
Not because I was arrested or presented with a warrant.
I, an instructor of English as a Second Language.
They, my classes of Central American female and male students.

Yes, crossed the border illegally at night while entire villages
lived marginally to support one of their own to start a new life.
At first they couldn’t read the rules they were expected to observe.

Acquired English by day, but not fast enough to understand that
in this country one doesn’t offer a bribe to a police officer
when pulled over, hand-cuffed or incarcerated.

Jail cell was home until court date.

Result:
Lost wages, hungry families.
Lost English lessons, no jobs.
Lost cars, no transportation.
Lost apartments…homeless.
What _is _our definition of_ JUSTICE?_

Imagine an unbroken world designed for compassion with:
Harmony rather than conflict.
Unity instead of threats.
Defense in place of blame.
Acceptance without prejudice.
Laughter replacing tension.
Let us wage peace and rediscover _JOY._

 
www.marshajperlman.com

 

Poem of the Week: Costumes

Risa Roberts
Fort Lauderdale Branch

 

She stripped down to her underwear

Then

Slowly stripped down

To her bones

Not enough

She reached deep into her being

Found the child

And

Crossed over