“Pennessence”– May-June 2020.pdf · 6. A FINE MIST — by Patricia Thrushart A fine mist...

1.

Michael Bourgo...13 & 26

Gail Denham...14 & 19

Marilyn Downing...18

Ann Gasser...24 & 28

Byron Hoot...4 & 12

Mark Hudson...11 & 15

Betty Kossick...5

Candace Kubinec...23

Inge Logenburg

Kyler...10

Emiliano Martin...27

Marie Louise Meyers...3 & 21

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...17 & 20

Patricia Thrushart...6 & 7

Girard Tournesol...8 &9

Kenneth V. Walker...2

Lucille Morgan Wilson...

16 & 25

Colleen Yarusavage...22

(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors

formatted and illustrated by shared photos or digital paintings,

digital collages,and other images by Ann Gasser, Editor.

PPS members are invited to submit

1 poem of 28 lines or less in any form, on any apprpriate subject,

for the Main Section each month,

and/or

1 humorous rhymed and metered poem of 28 lines or less

for the Lighter Side Section.

Double this if the issue covers two months.

Deadline for receiving—hopefully the1st of each month,

Poems appear in order received if possible.

Target date for sending out—10th of each month

“Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– “Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..)

May-JuneMay-JuneMay-JuneMay-June2020202020202020

DIVINELY

—by Kenneth Vincent Walker

Touch my hem, divinely tremble

Before the clouds in chorus burst.

Watch astutely as I disassemble.

Touch my hem, divinely tremble.

Recall a time when I was nimble,

Before the advent of the curse.

Touch my hem, divinely tremble,

Before the clouds in chorus burst.

2.

Editor’s note:

My favorite image of Christ from the

Internet, and now I can’t relocate it to give

credit to the source!

3.

THE RED BUD TREE

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

It stands next to a Man-Made cabin,

bartering for space

so the instruments of Life that govern its growth

are not deterred and turned

into a chase for light,

but an all-consuming bloom.

It opens up a world closed down for me

but gathered up by rain water

while it pumps up through springs of relief.

The creek beyond showers its blessings

when we build up the Man-Made dam,

with a pipe that lightens our loads,

and enters the dead pond, now living again,

creating a magic spell here and beyond;

awareness drawn with

splashes of color everywhere with the return

of water ducks and mallards;

and the fish can breathe again with ease.

Nature and Humankind existing in harmony.

4.

ALL THINGS SHALL BE NEW

—by Byron Hoot

If this was not May,

I would say there is an October light outside.

That light that seems a little more real than it is

in the way Nature sometimes casts a spell.

Time slips a lot these days,

and light seems to be the catalyst

for the slippage:

I am here and then, by light and shadow,

I am somewhere else.

There are many paths I thought I knew

when revisited in these slippages of time

that I have to read the sign again, and walk there,

being shown what I had missed the first time

I trusted my steps to lead me where I followed.

And now, the light has turned,

but I can't just leave where I am.

I am taken by the beauty I see wherever I look,

reminding me of the beauty

of those I love, have loved—perhaps still do—

impossible not to—in memory.

What Nature lacks and we possess regarding beauty

is this—the truest beauty—like love—

rises all from inside,

emanates in who we are, what we do

beyond capture of anything but being in its presence.

I look outside and I am reminded

of you—and you—and you...

5.

SPRINGTIME IN THREE-PART HAIKU

—by Betty Kossick

Singing brook sounds its

water song while sunlight drops

diamonds in ripples

Flowers arrayed in

colorful garb sway caressed

with the springtime breeze

Fan-like sheltering

trees spread broad with fair young buds;

a new season born

6.

A FINE MIST

— by Patricia Thrushart

A fine mist rises in the wood,

left by a passing rain,

shifting shapes and slanting light

to mask the warbler’s flight,

and veil the fawn’s fern-filled place;

a space

hidden,

apart.

The trees stand solemn,

trunks obscured

where slashes mark their soon demise

by saw and boot and crane.

The stumps will remain,

to harbor fungal fruit and insect bore,

reminders of what is no more:

that all things pass—

some by fate, some by force

And some by Time’s gaunt march.

7.

HOW MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL

—by Patricia Thrushart

How much more beautiful

than the tinny chatter in my head

is the wind in the oaks.

A dove croons.

A junco trills.

I walk in beauty

and even my footsteps

seen too loud.

The vireo scolds me: Here I am!

The thrush warbles: It is June!

The woods say: Quiet, mind!

Be still!

I am stunned

into peace.

SECOND GUESSING

—by Girard Tournesol

We all needed a break. (Didn’t we?) I took my medicine.

(Was that today?) It’s better to let murderers go free than

possibly get sick in jail. (Right?) Should I pay this bill? (Or

buy flour?) These are just my seasonal allergy symptoms.

(Pretty sure.) I’d pay any price to save the environment.

(Maybe not any price.) Today is Sunday. (— No, Monday.)

Masks can be mandated while burqas are outlawed. (That

akes sense, right?) All my freedoms are just a cough away

from 1984. (Can it be true?)

8.

9.

JUNE 2020: FOGGY BOTTOM

—by Girard Tournesol

Fog is a sudden fate

Like a mirrored Fun House

reflecting different faces

A sudden sighted-blindman

I’m stupefied

straining to find the unfindable

blank distractions in a maze

some vague carnival barker taunts

Which way do I turn?

Other people can be heard

Cruel fate amplifies our humanity

“HELP!” “I can’t breathe!” “Mamma!”

My arms flail, swimming against the paralysis

a nightmare

How do I help? What can I do?

First. . .I’ll thank the fate of fog

Rarely I glimpse my ugly soul

Seek beads of strength

Found

Try for better

Believe it’s possible

Do my little bit

Know, then shout and scream

Fog is always a temporary thing

Foggy Bottom Metro Station

10.

HOLDING ON

—by Inge Logenburg Kyler

There is a sadness

in things lost,

when something happens

that is far beyond

what we can, in any way,

control. Perhaps it is

that loss of innocence,

that sense we had

that things would always

be the same.

Then when tragedy occurs

it’s hard to understand

the why and wherefore

of it all.

And yet, seasons

will come and go.

That meadowlark will sing

in some meadow

while the flowers, too

will bloom, no matter what.

Though nothing evermore

may be quite the same,

this, too, will pass.

Somehow, some day

our hearts will heal,

sadness will turn to joy

if we can only hold fast

and keep the Faith.

picture from WordPress.com

SERENE DAY AT THE DUCK POND (2016)

—by Mark Hudson

I was with my friend Chris, a fellow artist.

We were looking for a place to draw outside,

as spring sprang into full bloom.

We went to Lovelace Park,

by my old house where I used to live as a kid.

We went by the duck pond,

and sat under the shade of a tree and drew.

There were two Asian families fishing,

with cute little kids. We drew them as well.

They didn’t seem to mind at all.

This was a happy memory of spring

I am still enjoying in these locked-down times.

11.

12.

UNSPOKEN

—by Byron Hoot

Sighs are in the air,

unaccounted by anything, they rise.

The day has never promised

more than it's given.

I can't say the same,

I know so little until

after acts are done, words

said, the right responsibility taken up.

Another sigh goes up like a prayer

on incense rising

perhaps best

left there in a silent longing

imploring for me

what I don't know, but need.

photo by Glenn Gasser

COVID-19, DAY 44(?)

—by Michael Bourgo

The virus marches on as we huddle inside,

passing forty days and nights, near biblical,

but we haven’t found an ark and the dove is

nowhere to be seen. Some days we walk

and then we watch other people strolling by,

stopping to talk, but always at that prescribed

two arms’ length, and we dream together

of better days. It is something we can hold, if not

quite spring, but today is endless chill and rain

and no one’s outside. Even the dog refused

to walk, and I agreed, ready to settle for empty

dry and warm instead of chance epiphany;

and maybe this is how it will defeat us, with

that feeling Camus describes in The Plague,

the torpor that loses the difference between

Tuesday and tomorrow, and worse, beyond

calendars, we might soon lose the meaning

of what there is, even terribly diminished,

against what we will certainly not have

if we do not grasp our courage in both hands,

the power we must never lose, the one

that knows the way to find tomorrow.

13.

CHOOSING THE EASY WAY

—by Gail Denham

Searching for errant thoughts that scoot

behind bookshelves, slip under carpets,

hide in drawers, escape through windows,

I wonder: should I give chase?

It’s easier to clean up dog mess, sort laundry,

vacuum mini-blinds, dead-head pansies, phone

a distant cousin, wash stacks of crusted pans.

I choose the less-stress path.

Suddenly a few lonely words crawl up from the sink

hole. A lively phrase hits the window like bird splat.

Sneaky sentences coil and whisper in the pantry

behind cans of beans and olives.

Mid-scrub, I shake off soapy water, scramble for a pen.

Prodigal darlings, word rebels, vivid scenes, dark

plots join characters who perch on my shoulders,

poised to leap as I spread paper, grip pen with

wrinkly-prune fingers, and wish for hand cream.

14.

15.

JUNE

—by Mark Hudson

Is it really already the beginning of June

with summer officially waiting in the wings?

Is this what we waited for throughout winter?

Is the weather “just right on certain days,”

and other days it is unbearable?

Well, this summer is not going the way

that it had been planned.

But when does anything in life happen that way?

Perhaps I have forgotten the misery I associated with

winter, or the constant rain of spring.

Perhaps, I should be outside in the sunshine,

rather than sitting here, writing this poem.

Outside I go!

16.

BEWARE THE TARES

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

The seeds of weeds and wheat lie in the field.

Alike they grow as seasons swell and pass.

The weeds usurp the moisture, lessen yield.

In blossoms bright, their threat is well concealed,

as snakes are hidden in the verdant grass.


Against an overt foe one might have steeled,

but stealthily roots weave a tangled mass.


Without a bold attack, our fate is sealed.

What might have been pure gold is turned to crass.


Too late we beg for armor, reach for shield,

and pray the consequences soon will pass.


We wish neglect and oversight repealed,

with less insight than Balaam's balky ass.


The weeks usurp the moisture, lessen yield.

image from DandC8587

17.

ADJUSTMENT PROBLEMS (a Tanka)

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

Eskimos cooped up

in igloos for months on end

cannot understand

why folks fume when pandemic

forces them to hunker down.

photo by Weebly

18.

DINNER PARTY OF THREE

—by Marilyn Downing

They come every day,

three grand crows, strutting across

the open grassland behind my house

Always three, cawing raucously

at each other, as they poke around

for whatever they may find to eat.

It seems like slim pickings at winter’s end

before the greening of grass and weeds.

Iridescent blackness, starkly beautiful, contrasts

against cold blue sky or dry brown earth.

I’ve heard crows may fly a hundred miles

each way to graze in familiar spots.

As suddenly as they come, their squawking

signals them to take flight, together.

And I am left to wonder ….

Is there no better gleaning in fields

a hundred miles to the south, or nearer

a corn bin filled for farmer’s winter stock ….

Or are they like some friends I know

who drive many miles to a remembered

restaurant to recreate a dining experience

just as available in their own home town.

SYNCOPATED SPRING RHYTHM

—by Gail Denham

Soft air puffs tickle my toes.

Downtown, I hear a band strike up.

Drum beats shake the sidewalk,

even the grass, when I step aside

for Mrs. Johnson and her dog.

Her bracelets jangle a music accent.

She walks Dobie every afternoon

about this time. The fluff ball dog

struts by, his toenails clicking

the rhythm. Drums are louder now.

My feet pick up the beat. A grate

catches my toe. As I tumble, I

wonder “Why did I wear sandals?

It’s only May.”

My bad wrist crackles its old tune.

I turn and limp toward home.

A light spring shower begins

a drum beat on my paisley cap.

Behind me, the dog continues

to tick his toe tones. I hear Mrs. Johnson

and Dobie stop now and then, so the dog

can help water the greening bushes.

19.

20.

STEALTH

(a Tanka)

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

like a stowaway

virus hides inside humans

raises ugly head

at least expected moments

unleashes untold havoc

image from BioWorld

21.

THE HUMAN ASPECT

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

Where did I leave my mask?

I wonder with a tinge of guilt,

I might need it even to walk the streets,

but not here where there is only

the soft feathering of trees to remind me

of my fancy-free attitude.

Among the flowers, dereliction of duty

is born with a fresh open face of beauty and grace.

Only the donkey, Nico, with his big ears

hears the nuances in my voice, the shuddering silence;

still he has no fears or if he does he keeps them

under his heavy lidded eyes;

his mouth standing open in expectance, almost grinning

for his much anticipated carrot or even an apple core,

more or less appeased by the scent of trying to please.

How locked-down the world outside seems,

where every mouth or nose could spew venom,

and we could never recover. Even the strong and bold,

the veteran doctor and nurses anticipating the worst

are still exposed..

In spite of the chevrons of honor on the battlefield of the disease,

there are no Easy Passes to be gleaned from the well-meaning;

no Badge to wear as if you were in a Nuclear Power Plant

with a dial that reads, leave now, for you are over-exposed to Covid-19.

The ears tell it all, the mystery surrounding the masks,

which run the gamut from flowery to grotesque,

how easily it erases the Human aspect.

22.

* FEATHERED BEGGAR

—Colleen Yarusavage

I sat outside upon a bench,

with meal in hand, in fresh sunshine.

I paused my day and cracked a book,

so as to sit, relax, and dine.

But as I took a bite of food,

a zaftig bird flew up to me.

His repetend let it be known

he wanted lunch; ‘twas plain to see.

He thought I was an easy mark;

his choric tones formed sweet refrain.

He sought to tallage me a bit,

a crumb or morsel to attain.

But I remained in froward form

and sat and read while I did munch.

I was not labile nor inclined

to give the bird something to crunch.

This small ludibrium went on

between the two of us that day,

until the stubborn bird got bored

and gave it up to fly away.

* Editor’s note:

Colleen says this poem was written in response to a challenge which required

the writer to find and use 5 words or more from Webster's Dictionary that he or she had never heard before:

zaftig (adj) – pleasingly plump

froward (adj) – obstinate

choric (adj) – relating to a chorus

labile (adj) – adaptable

repetend (n) – repeated word/sound/phrase

tallage (v) – to levy a tax

ludibrium (n) – trivial game

23.

MOONBEAM

— by Candace Kubinec

It slipped out from a hazy moon

this gentle, little beam of light.

Although she thought she was immune,


and found her weary soul, then soon

she felt a peace in that dark night.


this gentle, little beam of light.

24.

GENE POOL IN THE ATTIC —by Ann Gasser

Grandma likes to tell how how her Gran climbed the stairs

of the attic many years ago, turned the big iron key in the lock

and opened the squeaky “Inner Sanctum” door.

She pulled a hanging chain to light the single bulb

and watched the shadows dance in its feeble glow.

In a humpback trunk covered thick by the dust of years

she found a wealth of family history.

Under tatted doilies and tissue-wrapped treasures,

a cigar box of tintype photographs caught her eye.

She lifted stiff metal squares and small ornate frames with care,

noticing that some of the faces looked very much like those

of relatives who attended the Family Reunion last year—

most of them blond and blue-eyed like their Nordic forebears.

Then, at the bottom, she saw the most remarkable likeness of all—

a young girl, high-cheekboned, with thick raven braids

and dark eyes very much like her own eyes

that stared from a dusty mirror propped alongside the trunk.

She told us that it was then Great-grandmother said,

she knew, why her eyes were dark brown, not light blue,

knew why she loved to ride with the wind in her hair,

felt at home on walks through a deep forest's mystery,

why she felt truly alive with rain in her face,

and knew a special peace on nights camping under the stars.

25.

BOUQUET TO THE FALLEN


Three black-barred feathers mingle in a vase

of summer's relics: grass plumes, soft and sere;

brown pods whose seeds will never swell in earth.

Mute symbols rest in doubtful glory till

a whim impelled by holidays or spring

reduces grass and pods and feathers all

to ignominy with apple peels,

the bone of Tuesday's roast, and empty cans.

Three feathers, strangely out of place and yet

half-hidden now, as in an August day

their brownness sheltered in the tall-grassed slough

from predators the bird whose tail they graced.

How futile to suggest a kiln-glazed jar

might catch the spirit of a pheasant hen.

I hope the winged one, sans three feathers, flew

to where some grass still rooted in the ground

awaits another spring and nests and young

that it may offer cover. I would not

adorn my hearth with one whose flight is done,

26.

From Season to Season

by Pavlina Michailova

and Michael Bourgo © 2020

JUNE: BACK IN THE COUNTRY


(after “June” by Pavlina Michailova,

translated by Adelina Hristova)

The city is a barren place

without a trace

of what I love:

a sky above,

the sound of birds, a golden field:

a place I’m healed

from city’s grime

and loss of time,

surrounded by sweet nature’s course

that lovely force,

as each year chimes.

27.

POETRY CAN BE

—by Emiliano Martin

Poetry can be fantasy… coming from a dreamer.

Poetry can be joyful… coming from a happy man.

Poetry can be inspiring … coming from a winner.

Poetry can be romantic… coming from the heart.

Poetry can be sensual…coming from a lover.

Poetry can be meaningful…coming from a philosopher.

Poetry can be religious… coming from a nun.

Poetry can be inexplicable… coming from an intellectual.

Poetry can be funny… coming from a comedian.

Poetry can be sad… coming from a loser.

Poetry can be interesting… coming from a thinker.

Poetry can be a melody… coming from her lips.

Poetry can be depressing… coming from a tortured mind.

Poetry can be political… coming from a radical.

Poetry can be crude… coming from an angry man.

Poetry can be irrational… coming from a wannabee.

Poetry can be obscene… coming from a pervert.

Poetry can be senseless… coming from an idiot.

Poetry can be cruel… coming from a mad man.

Poetry can be lost… coming from the fields of emptiness.

Poetry can be… just about anything we want it to be,

but unforgotten, wise and sincere…coming from a poet

like you and sometimes… me.

28.

MY DREAM (In the style of a Country-Western song)

—by Ann Gasser

My dream was less dream and more nightmare.

All my bluebirds were gone—flown away.

My sky was the hue of dark cobalt blue,

all my rainbows were dull shades of gray.

The inmates were running the asylum,

there was chaos that gripped like a claw.

Just as I feared, common sense disappeared,

a victim of lawyers and law.

The earth wore a shroud of black nimbus cloud,

as she covered her beaches with sea.

Our protesting voices, both strident and loud

were silenced by Tweedle Dee Dee.

No more cases, complaints, no courts where you file ‘em,

and gone was the world that I knew.

The inmates were running the freaking asylum,

and my dream, I fear now, has come true!

photo by ZachOnLeadership.com

5/29/20

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

May-June2020202020202020

Mark Hudson...35

Candace Kubinec...42

Richard Lake...31

Lucille Morgan Wilson...30 & 43

Colleen Yarusavage...38 & 40

29.

Michael Bourgo...32 & 36

Gail Denham...37 & 41

Marilyn Downing...33

Vicky Fake-Weldon...44

Ann Gasser...34 & 39

Mark Hudson...35

30.

CLEANING THE BASEMENT


With diligence we undertake the chore

of thorough cleaning, far too long delayed:

A croquet game, bent wickets, one or more

balls badly chipped; a banjo seldom played,

its strings all gone; my high school science text

when television was the latest dream.

Our trash pile grows, we hurry to the next

stack —scraps of lumber, rusted bolts, some scheme

that never saw fruition. Suddenly

I notice Sam's saved back a couple boards.

I'll keep this artificial Christmas tree

just one more season. Each adds to new hoards.

We grin at one another. Nothing's changed,

except we have our memories rearranged.

31.

WALMART IS THEIR NEST

—by Richard Lake

See the lucky duckies,

nesting in the shade,

thinking of the things they bought,

like Walmart lemonade.

I know they want to tell the world

"There's nothing Walmart lacks!"

but though they shout it happily,

all I hear are quacky quacks.

April 22, 2020

photo sent by Richard

32.

WARREN G. HARDING (1921-1923)


The GOP was in a spot,

their convention in a knot,

and the deadlock soon gave rise

to Harding as the compromise.

He was charming and quite handy,

and though his brain was not a dandy,

that autumn he would win the vote

so easily that he could gloat!

But for his aides he made bad picks,

folks inclined to dirty tricks—

and as their misdeeds made the news,

Harding surely got the blues!

It’s also true that he was smitten

with a woman named Nan Britton,

and as he hid this from the press

it must have magnified his stress:

at his decease, the facts were blurry—

some guessed he died because of worry!From my upcoming book

Hail to the Chief:

Portraits of

Our Presidents

portrait from history.com

33.

TRIAL RUN FOR A QUICK SNACK

—by Marilyn Downing

Sounded easy to me to try a quick meal ….

So first, I had to break a hard plastic seal.

It took strength to extract the molded tray

to throw the surplus covering away.

I pried with kitchen scissors …. That done,

I had passed and survived step number one.

A tiny, flimsy plastic spoon teased

me, with a bit of calculated dextrous ease,

to distribute the flakes of tuna, no haste,

onto four crackers--no extras, no waste—

and smear all with mayo to taste.

To tell you the truth, I doubt I will ever

be tempted by a snack kit quite so clever.

34.

AS ANOTHER BIRTHDAY RACES BY

—by Ann Gasser

If I stopped to think of accomplishments

I would probably have a fit.

I started out with nothing and

I still have most of it.

Time was my youthful body was firm,

I was eager and young and tan,

But now all my wild oats have turned into

Pitted prunes and All Bran.

I used to worry a lot about

would I get fat or lose my hair?

And how would I make a comeback when

I hadn't been anywhere?

This business of exercising

can sometimes be a tease,

If God wanted me to touch my toes

He'd have fastened them to my knees.

I finally feel I know who I am—

a late bloomer who got a slow start.

But now that my head is together—guess what—

my body is falling apart.

Some days I feel like "Top Dog"

tail-wagging and fancy-free;

but other days stuff happens,

and I feel like the hydrant is ME.

Doctors say that laughing helps—

so much better than if one cried.

Crying dampens the spirit—

laughing's like jogging inside.

35.

EELS

—by Mark Hudson

—Marriage is like putting your hand in a bag of

snakes an hoping to pull out an eel

—-Leonardo Da Vinci

Wind up the tornado, the eels are falling,

another bad Hollywood deal, eels are crawling.

Sharks eat eels and people eat both,

watch your tummy expand with some growth.

If you’re married your wife’s tummy grows,

you feed her some eels as the baby shows.

Divorces everywhere, even in Barbados,

people go through others’ lives like tornadoes.

Hurricanes hurry, wiping out the coast,

people look up and think they see a ghost.

But when they wake up and see the debris,

they eat eels and seals coming from the sea.

36.

A POEM FOR MY DIAMOND JUBILEE


As I approached my seventy-fifth,

it seemed a myth,

some line from song,

to live so long.

If genes were all, I would be dust,

bereft of lust,

caught in the chill

that comes with still.

Instead I’m here and on my feet:

I feel the beat

and write my verse.

It could be worse.

(From my upcoming book

This Poem That Poem,

copyright 2019 Michael Bourgo)

37.

CALMING STROLL ALONG THE RIVER

—by Gail Denham

Strolled out upon a river road

My mind flew, suddenly free

Off with the daily heavy load

I’m free to just be me


I came upon a huge brown toad


My mind flew, sudden free

A toad of such impressive size

so sure and still and calm

I sat down on a hilly rise



It eased my heart, became a balm



After my stroll, I caroled praise

The day was blessed with peace

My attitude, with hope did raise


This walk gave birth to a new lease

I’ll oft stroll this river road to ease


The day was blessed with peace

photo by Gail Denham

38.

SUMMER DELIGHT

—by Colleen Yarusavage

I heard the tinkling of the bell

and wondered what was on the streets.

But soon an ice cream truck appeared

with tempting, luscious, frozen treats.

It’s been so long since one appeared

or even came upon my block,

and, with this time of “distancing”,

I must confess it was a shock!

But quickly I found all my wits

and ran to get some dollar bills.

Then, in a nod to current times,

I also donned a mask, with frills,

before I ventured to step up

to purchase one of summer’s thrills!

39.

SONG OF A NEWLY PUBLISHED POET

—by Ann Gasser

Yesterday,

my snail-mail brought me wondrous news!

Goodbye, Rejection Blues!

Last night,

my consciousness just would not sleep,

it danced around the nears, the fars—

it sent out messages to distant stars—

a high that cancelled all my deeps.

It flew beyond the blush of pink perhaps.

past all the golden maybes, ins and outs,

and I was on a magic rocket ride

that cancelled all my self-defeating doubts.

I tried to wrap my joy in quiet hush,

and tell myself—no money you can spend!

But it was just a sparkled spangled night

all full of new beginnings and no end!

40.

CURRENT TIMES

—by Colleen Yarusavage

My husband, he rolled out of bed.

He went to the store for a med.

I asked for some treats,

some old Easter sweets.

But he brought me TP instead!

41.

SCATTERED …a limerick

—by Gail Denham

There came a wild wind to Tristarn.

A rancher complained: “Oh Consarn!”

My stock is all spread.

There’s a pig in my bed

and my wife was flung top of the barn.

42.

SILLY WHEREFORE ART THOU?

—by Candace Kubinec

What has happened to silly,

that willy-nilly,

slightly frilly

state of giggling quite shrilly

until you very nearly lose your breath?

When words like piccalilli

or vanilli leave us in a dilly

due to really, really watery eyes.

Oh how we need some silly!

43.

MICHAEL, ROW THE BOAT


I was the one most eager for Spring,

sung its praises each year when it came.

This morning, however, my voice is weak:

I’ve not greeted the season by name.

Left over from yesterday’s downpour,

drops glisten on crabgrass and fern.

In daylight the sun’s fragile blessing

seems to mock my internal concern.

Oh, sing to me songs of the springtime,

of verdancy brought by the showers.

Sing loud enough to drown out my groans.

I’ve been bailing the basement for hours.

44.

THIS MORNING AS I OPENED UP MY BLINDS

—by Vicky Fake-Weldon

A hummingbird came to my window pane.

It hovered as I watched— it seemed to say

it's time to change the sugar water now—

or I'll be in my way— on down the lane.

The bees don't mind the sour drink, they'll stay

and I'll stop at your flowers—wow—wow—wow!

photo by Vicky Fake-Weldon

“Pennessence”– May-June 2020.pdf · 6. A FINE MIST — by Patricia Thrushart A fine mist...

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Transcript of “Pennessence”– May-June 2020.pdf · 6. A FINE MIST — by Patricia Thrushart A fine mist...