Poem of the Week–Joshua Tree


Ageless rocks stand like desert monuments,
Trees with spiky arms reach toward the sky.
Roads snake into endless wilderness
Distant views bemuse the eye.

Sandy trails slice through unyielding brush
Where shy inhabitants slither, crawl and run,
Bold wildflowers in radiant colors
Lift their heads to the relentless sun.

Vast and wild, the park calls to adventurers
Who roar along its roads in fearless quest.
While those who come to look for sanctuary
Soon discover gifts of beauty, peace and rest.

Some say this place is where the spirits dwell
And who’s to know who has not felt its spell?

Dawn Huntley Spitz
Cape Cod Branch, MA

Poem of the Week–Mere Things, & Helen Holt service

Memorial Service for Helen Holt
Sat, August 15, 11am – 2pm
The National Presbyterian Church, 4101 Nebraska Avenue Northwest, Washington, DC 20016

Mere Things

Mere things don’t matter,
or so we’d like to think;

but on the brink
of forgetting,

of letting

some mere thing
turns us

to remembering.

by Cathmar Shaw Prange
Iowa City Branch, IA

Poem of the Week–Sassafras and Roaming

Sassafras and Roaming

Behind overgrown yews, in that wreck
of a cottage the color of old bones,
there lived my other mother.
Under oaken timbers her tea steeped
in chipped earthenware mugs
and her spinning wheel twisted
flax into owl feathers
and uncommon paths.

After the hearth embers cooled,
she left footprints in the ashes,
rowed me down river,
each dip of oar stirring marsh grass,
spider webs, orange-tip butterflies.

In the shallows, egrets waded.
Here I paddled
round and round.
In the whirling, she sang
as she wove dandelions into river reeds
and crowned me queen.

Diane McDonough
Cape Cod Branch, MA

Art of the Week–Mystical Pond and Poem of the Week–Nocturne

Art of the Week

Click on the image to see it larger.

Mystical Pond at High Lane  Mary Lou Griffin Diamond State Branch, DE Pastel

Mystical Pond at High Lane
Mary Lou Griffin
Diamond State Branch, DE

Poem of the Week


I dip my feet and slowly enter the quiet pool of the river,
breaking its mirror- like face.
Soon algae and leaves come to attach themselves to my skin;
they conspire to camouflage me.
I think of my New York apartment’s bathtub
and my attempt at turning it into a spa.
One cup of epsom salts and five drops of lavender oil poured into it.
Here I am one with nature, part of earth,
like going back to being dust,
but while alive.
There’s a concert of muted murmurs and a harmony of subtle scents.
My arms sway, sending ripples to the weathered stone edge,
and my cupped hands try to scoop up slices of the white moon.
A bull frog pulls its long tongue out.
Is it considering I maybe be something to nibble at?
The river, including all of us in it, is a big eye staring at the sky.

Liliana Luppi Dossola
Alexandria Branch, VA

Editor’s Note:
I have just returned from an all too short spiritual retreat in the hill country of Texas where I swam in natural springs to beat the heat–less than 24 hours after I wintered in the Southern Hemisphere. This poem by Liliana Dossola was waiting in my inbox. Kismet! The pastel by Mary Lou Griffin appeared in a previous website art gallery.

Speaking of travel, if you are in need of restoration and great get-aways (sorry for the cheesy segue), the NLAPW has two incredible travel opportunities coming up: click here to see our News and Events page for details about our “Garden Tour and Pen Arts Stay” and “NLAPW in Italy.”
–Treanor Baring, NLAPW Website Content Editor

Art of the Week (At Repose with Mitsy) and Poem of the Week (Cuba)

Art of the Week

Click on the image to see it larger.

At Repose with Mitsy E. Marie Francis Vero Beach Branch, FL Acrylic

At Repose with Mitsy
E. Marie Francis
Vero Beach Branch, FL

Poem of the Week


Amalia, but we called her Molly
The first and only Cuban I have known
She was orphaned when
Her parents died in a train wreck
She and her brother were raised by the nuns and brothers
The children were not permitted to see each other for a year
Thinking that would allow their unspeakable loss to heal
Like an unpicked scab
Her family name, unknown to me, had stature but no money, she said
Molly married a US navy man and left the island by twenty
Castro’s revolution was on its way
In the United States the soap operas taught her English
An economics course taught her capitalism
Amalia transformed herself into Molly
We met when teachers at a Catholic School
She taught Spanish; I taught English
I was a twenty-seven year old ex-nun fresh from the convent
Molly was a thirty-seven year old with a master’s degree in psychology
She became my counselor ex-officio
Molly transformed me.
She was outgoing and fun
She gave me permission to shake off the habits of my old life
And embrace my new life with gusto
Just as she had done for herself.
We partied with faculty and attended weddings together
We went for dinner and drinks often
One night she let down her guard
Her brother was waiting for his son’s release
He’d been imprisoned for handing out anti-Castro pamphlets on a street corner
They’d cross the Straits when the boat of opportunity sailed
As soon as her words dropped from her lips
Panic set in
Now, she had to trust me with her secret
I never spoke a word; not even to ask the outcome
Molly divorced and I married; our friendship suffered
I moved hundreds of miles away, we lost touch
But thirty years later, I wanted to mend the rift
The internet quickly gave up Amalia’s address
A letter came back
My opportunity had sailed a year too late
In 2003 Molly had died.

Descansa en paz, Amalia. Descansa en paz.

by Susan Bassler Pickford
Member at large

Poem of the Week–Dancer


Under ebony hair and smooth skin
her flashing eyes twinkle
like sun dancing on summer waves.
Graceful hands paint the air
as she punctuates the dance
with tongue clicks and song.
When she walks, she flows
sweeping away the hearts of men.
Yet deep within
there is a bruise
that only her eyes reveal.

from: Song of the Dancer, my second book of poetry
Christina Laurie, Cape Cod Branch, MA

NLAPW Art trip to Italy — discounted price and a wonderful opportunity!! See our news page for more info:

www.nlapw.org news page click here

Poem of the Week-Crop Duster

Crop Duster

The plane takes over the stage
where last night, constellations starred.
The morning’s blue backdrop
rips. Out pops a yellow machine,
double-storied. Oblong wings

tilt, bank, circle, assail
a sea field of corn stalks
high as a bulldozer’s windshield.
Two months ago, the earth opened.
Shouted under vast electric light.

Kernels danced into soil,
sprouted into floppy leaves—
they wave their tassels
to push away the airplane’s
sticky downward-drifting dust.

A shocking plane to fly so low,
just outside a bedroom window.
It should be in a museum, but
the live shadow sails on grass lawns.
Shakes the ears with alarm.

Jeanne DeLarm-Neri
Greenwich Branch, CT

Poem of the Week–Plant Me in Iowa

Plant Me in Iowa No. 2

When only I say it’s time
dear daughters, plant me
in blue-bearded Iris
where I shall wake
to perfumed nights
of fading petals that shyly
ply my touch.
There, will I rest and sleep
in peaceful quietude, alone
and quite at home with God.

Linda Newman Woito
Iowa City Branch, IA

Editor’s Note: Greetings from chilly Melbourne, Australia, where I am with family. I will diligently find time and internet access to give meaning to the “world” in “world wide web.”

Meanwhile, today is the deadline for submissions to the Pen Woman Magazine’s Summer issue. I will now be processing poetry for the Fall and Winter issues, and as usual for the blog.

Poem of the Week-Three Sisters and The Light Between Us


Up in the moors, under the clouds
Sturdy and wide sits a stone house,
Stretching upward, brown and cold,
Mysteriously enveloped in a gray shroud.

From the valley below, nothing is known,
Except for the icy sinister walls
Which trap ancient stories written by three
Talented sisters wrapped in their shawls.

During the day, there is no sign
Of life. But at night the stone house
Becomes mystically alive
As three shadows parade in the candlelight.

As in a trance, they furiously write
Till the break of dawn all through the night,
Those words that death stole from them
Despite their plight.

Three women living in the sturdy stone house.
Sisters that, unflinching, refuse to die.
They whisper their words to poets alive,
The Brontës, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne.

By Alexandra Goodwin
Boca Raton Branch, FL

click here for a link to the Brontë Society in Great Britain for more info about the Brontës and their groundbreaking works.

Light Between Us: True Stories of Healing Through Creative Expression

The Light Between Us, cover painting by Dorothy Atkins

The Light Between Us, cover painting by Dorothy Atkins

Click here to pre-order this collection of stories by Pen Women now! From the back cover by Marilyn Lewis:

The Light Between Us is the open and honest sharing of renewal. Throughout these pages, creative women bear witness to the healing power of artistic and literary expression. These stories will lift your soul and give inspiration to your own new vision.

Memorial Day Poem

Rest Peacefully

Once they floated in mothers’ wombs
Now interred
In well aligned tombs
Though much life
Meant still to live
Their lives
For our country
They did give
They lie beneath
Our sacred soil
Because man can’t live
Minus knife and foil
Now cannons and rifles
Rattle the calm
And horrific bombs

Rest peacefully
Under flowers
And flags
And long after
Due to the weather sags
They who died
For their blessed land
Are held tightly
By the good Lord’s hands
Happy Memorial Day
For all those who died for the USA
Barb Whitmarsh

Editor’s note: This poem was due to go up on Monday, May 25, but as many of you may know, I live in Houston and Monday and Tuesday were not ordinary days here. Prayers for all those affected by the storms and floods. We are fine and our hearts go out to those still recovering from losses.–Treanor Baring

Click here to visit our competitions page to learn more about our Vinnie Ream Medal competition, postmark deadline June 1, 2015!