By Mary Jedlicka Humston
Iowa City Branch

Oh, to have the Determination,

the Drive, the Dominant instinct,

the DoggeDness, the Demeanor

of beavers builDing Dams.

Witnessing their work

while walking

the Waterworks Trail

filleD me with strength,

stick-to-it-ness and a

never-give-up attituDe.

In this time of social isolation,

we neeD examples of what

happens when working for

the gooD of all.

Those Darling beavers

are inspirations.

Stay strong, my frienDs!

Like the beavers, Dig Deep.

We can Do it!!!

By Andrea Jones Walker
Pensacola Branch, Florida

Something about a road trip frees the soul,

fills the senses like fresh air in the lungs.

The pavement to Atlanta is in my tires,

they’ve made this trip dozens maybe hundreds of times

yet I’m behind the wheel again

farther this time

to the hills of North Carolina,

Maggie Valley, Hornbuckle Mountain

up winding roads

past brilliant fall leaves of golden maple

red Burning Bush,

speeding along the curves, slowing down the hills

to the gravel roads of Plott Balsam,

Field Mouse Lane and

Trail’s End.

My friend greets me, hammer in hand,

from within the walls of the cabin

she’s building,

dusts herself off,

offers me tuna salad and coffee.

We take a break on the deck

and listen to the rushing stream below.

Two days and nights in the woods

on the mountainside pass quickly.

There is a silence before dawn

when the sky is slate gray

before the November sun sets the treetops on fire,

a silence born of solitude

palpable, wrapping itself around me,

the Unmistakable Presence.

When I leave, a grouse scurries

across the road in front of me

into the woods.

The silence and solitude follow me

in the hours driving home, still free,

the trees now greener

the air farther south balmier—

home.

By Barbara Castle Hanson
Cape Canaveral Branch, Florida

She awakes with the gradual awareness

that she is awake.

She doesn’t want to be awake.

She tries to drift back into the soft, lovely dream

that had surrounded her.

She encuddles herself in the warm quilt,

pulling it snugly up around her shoulders,

 under her chin.

She turns away from the slivers of sunlight

sneaking through the closed blinds.

She lies there quietly for a moment

lamenting the loss of the comforting fantasy.

She arises slowly with stiff joints

 and unsteady gate.

She glances around her bedroom;

her eyes come to rest on packed suitcases.

Tears inch their way down

her wrinkled cheeks.

She dresses slowly

 hoping, praying,

 she will be able to escape to

 soft, lovely dreams

 at Gardenia Court.

.

By Janet Fagal
Central New York Branch

We always heard the story,

how he rode the train

for four out of five

days of leave.

From San Antonio

to New York

and back.

He wanted to see her.

For even one day.

The train. Changed so much

of history. Rails bringing

the circus or the camper,

the worker or the mail.

Connected by the hum

of the wheels.

Tasting time

in quick breaths

between stations.

The train

as certain as the heart.

How much do so many owe

to a train,

trailing puffs of steam,

screeching toward home?

By Carolynn J. Scully
Member-at-large

The ancients winked and
smiled at the mystery
and magic of the wee
island of green, a crock
of shamrocks hiding
Leprechaun gold for
hunters to find at
the end of rainbow
rivers. Finders dance jigs
in party with friends
unaware of the owner
nearby, smoking a pipe,
stroking an orange beard,
wearing a buckled hat and
velveteen knickers.

Carved stone crosses dot
the land to rule the myths.
Old manuscripts
illuminate truth, and
the three-leafed clover
is lifted up by a holy man
to teach about the Lord
who is the maker
of the dance. The people
of the green isle play and
kneel with fervor.

By Mary L. Gardner
CNY Branch

Being Clear

There’s not a follicle of truth

in a colleague’s chronicled memoir

that observing a tropical botanical

requires a monocle.

Footnotes for Thesis Writers

Straight from a reputable source

comes a cautionary corollary:   

^* Use one’s trove of melancholia with caution. 

^* Make time for sheer bacchanalia.  

^* Be not deterred

 by the weight of scholarly tomes and texts

 in the pursuit of intent, color and cadence,

 and the laying down of lyrical lines.

Reasoning

Though the elegant Narcissus spurned

the maiden Echo’s love  

(herself denied the gift of speech)

and was consigned forever

to a watery view of himself,

it does not follow that midday narcolepsy

in the pursuit of artful prosody

is the result of narcissistic obsession

nor the folly of spinning meter & rhyme

in the middle of the night,

though upon waking,

it seems the intent of these lines

has gone awry in this

overwrought writ.

Patricia Doyne
Diablo-Alameda Branch, California

(Based on Giraphics by muralist Dan Fontes)

Whoosh!

The freeway overpass

pulses with cars, pick-ups, buses, big-rigs, motorcycles.

All day they speed up, change lanes,

weave in, out, and on.

Underneath the overpass,

drivers pass the huge support pillars emblazoned with—

giraffes?

A giraffe stretching to feed,

a giraffe bending to drink,

two giraffes angling their necks to check out the neighborhood.

Comic surrealism peeks out

amid the apartments, small stores and ever-moving traffic.

“When the freeway fell down in ’89,”

says the artist, “these pillars

had to be enlarged. An old giraffe is still inside.

Can you hear him?”

The child puts her ear to the pillar.

Her face brightens.

“Yes,” she burbles, “He’s saying,

‘Mmm, mmuh-uh-uh, mmmuh.”

So now there’s a new spirit

haunting the Oakland street scene.

Not political. Not gang-related. Not religious.

This spirit makes you smile as you pass by,

shaking your head.

A giraffe poses photo-realistically on the pillar,

leaving homeland camouflage behind.

But his very presence echoes the Serengeti

in this unlikely cement place:

“Mmm, mmuh-uh-uh, mmmuh.”

Or perhaps,

We came, unwilling, from Africa.

Now Africa leaves a keepsake in our midst.

Mary Joan Meagher
Minnesota Branch

The present tense is tricky

When the one you love

No longer is

But has become a was.

Existence is measured in moments.

Moments are long when

Is no longer describes

The one who was immediacy,

The one who was forever.

Now a moment shocks,

Now a moment stretches,

Now a moment is eternity.

An eternity without,

An eternity bereft,

An eternity of empty.

One’s sight is blurred,

One’s hearing is gone,

One’s touch is numbed,

One’s moment is bloated

With grief.

Existence depends on the gyroscope

Of time and space

Returning to is,

Not was.

One’s moment becomes a merry-go-round of

Never.

Christina Laurie
Cape Cod Branch, Massachusetts 

When the serpent beckoned Eve
and she tasted the ripe softness
of the pink fruit from the forbidden tree,
she felt the energy of earth
pour into her bones,
teasing the marrow with cool sweetness
and the memory of being.

Then she knew of knowledge,
and adventure begged at her back door.
She galloped into the new world
with insight and understanding
that her husband only sensed
as he watched her frolic in the fields of gold,
free, beautiful and sensual.

She knew that, up until that moment,
all she had known was isolation
of green and blue, of earth and sky
and gentle walks with God.
His voice called her to His evening stroll,
but after the fruit, all she knew
that what had touched her tongue
was only partial truth.