Mary Beth Kwasek: Thirteen

The 2010 Collins Poetry Residency ends today. Thank you for your participation.

Mary Beth Kwasek is an English teacher at a community college and a member of Quint City Poets. Mary Beth packed this poem with imagery of at least three of the senses and with strategically placed similes, while the beginning and the end loop the poem. I will not say more and let you enjoy.

Thirteen

The “who” at the beginning
of the red-winged black bird’s call
resonates in a girl
in a tiny red wind breaker
soft from two year’s wear
short in the sleeves and waist
who stands out in a field
still brown and soggy
weepy from winter snow.

Her flesh --
the luminous tan and pink
of freshly cut cedar
Wisps escape from her brown braid
and curl like
butterflies’ tongues
tasting her salty neck and face.
Her fingers tinker
with the string to the kite
that leaps away from her arms
in a colored blur
joyful and unfettered
beloved in her eyes.
A tug brings it soaring one way
then the other
always farther and farther
away from her body.

Her spine plays
underneath the thin coat
pressed and pulled.
Tongue explores her mouth.
Body sings madly with breath
as the kite
burns and flickers
against the gray clouds
tied together with the black ribbons
of migrating birds,
flocking above the flat landscape
watching as it heals its winter bruises
perching in the bare branches
dark shadows of the leaves to come,

but she doesn’t notices the birds.
She thinks about the kite and
the pasque flowers
that silently opened
without her knowing
reaching their purple petals outward
exposing their golden hearts
to the rainy cold day.
Some had even formed
green pods round and ripe
without anyone
to admire their flowering.

Daffodils
did not come to her mind
nor tulips
smuggled away by the moles.
For these flowers were planned
for when the sunny skies
and the warmth
made it convenient
to see them,
but not the pasques—
blooming, oh so early
before anyone would think
to venture out from the house
to notice.

The cold from the ground rises and
strips her of her coat and jeans
clothing her in spring chill
while in the field below her feet
the wild carrots stiffen
their sap quickens
their soft fern-leaves greens.
She stands there
looking upward
and they whisper of
the purple stain and
willing whiteness
of the tall graceful flowers to come.

Her breath catches the air
suspended
with the lacy mist
as she watches the kite
reach out to the sky
almost obscured by the soft rain.
She extends herself toward it
up from the earth.
Her soul’s muscle
strains, strongly-strung
in a tall slender girl
holding fast to the string
that burns her fingers
and captures her breath
too quick, too unexpected
it will run out.
It pulls at her strong arms
that refuse to let go
before the very end

as the “chirree”
the shrill end
of the red-winged black bird’s call
meets the girl’s ears
like cracks frolicking through
half frozen puddles
heralding the coming of spring.

Mary Kae Waytenick: Lucy in the Sky with Elvis

Mary Kae Waytenick retired from 25 years of public school music teaching. Now, she is the director of music and organist at a Rock Island church, directs a flute choir, accompanies performers, volunteers with the symphony, and has time to do some composing. She has a B.M.E. from Augustana College and M.M. from Indiana University.

Mary wrote, “I attended an outdoor concert in the city park of Orion, Ill. Elvis and the Beatles were the performers in the 100-year-old band shell. It was a beautiful night, and the sights and sounds seemed almost surreal as the memories from those years crossed time. I felt compelled to write my impressions of that evening.” This scene is Pepperland before it falls under a surprise attack by the music-hating Blue Meanies.

Lucy in the Sky with Elvis

Summer eve concert in Orion with so much to savor,
A big slice of American pie filled with robust flavor.
Diamond chips glitter in the paling sheet of sky.
The moon plays peekaboo with aviator flies.
Rows and rows of lawn chairs, each placed to see the sight
Of wild vibrations in kingly fashion, middle-aged music piercing the night.
Elvis romps and stretches, struts and calls the tunes.
His spotlight seems brighter than the man in the moon.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

Purple dressed ladies wave their hats to beat the band.
And the shocker of it all: They do the can-can!
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

Ringo gives the beat for the rock and roll show.
Behind his drums the keyboard hides that makes brass and strings go.
Floating down is Elvis in his jumpsuit that must swell
With pride to have the strength to hold in the King so well.
“Who could ask for more?”

Just one more thing would take this evening over the top.
The audience was sated, but Elvis wouldn’t stop.
While singing Memory, with a spray can he painted,
And soon a six foot portrait of himself was created.

So much music from this vintage band shell:
Even had ice cream and the town band played as well!
They shared their public home with Elvis and the Beatles.
“Look out! There goes Alice chasing a rabbit!”
“Let it be! Let it be!”

Luke Deitrick: Breeze

This one of the three poems I will publish before closing the journal.

Luke Deitrick hails from the city of Springfield, Ill., but is now proud to call the cornfield sea known as Geneseo home. He participated in the Young Emerging Writers program for two years before finally yielding to the curse of old age. Even so, the toaster will continue to toast.

Luke wrote, “The inspiration for Breeze came from a lakeside fishing cabin in Canada. Each morning, the window overlooking the nearby lake offered a thick fog masked breathtaking scenery, until one morning, everything except for the dock. The idea is that one detail of a place, no matter how simple, can be integral in releasing the overall beauty.” The repetition of the poem builds suspense and then it ends like a blackout. I do not know what format this poem is in or if it is a formal form, so I am calling it Luke’s form.

Breeze

Up one morning
and out the window,
the wind waltzed the water,
And the dock wavered.

Up one morning
and out the window,
the wind waltzed the water
and gave the eager leaves a voice,
And the dock wavered.

Up one morning
and out the window,
the wind waltzed the water
gave the eager leaves a voice
and beckoned eyes to the paint palette sky,
And the dock wavered.

Up one morning
and out the window,
the wind waltzed the water
gave the eager leaves a voice
beckoned eyes to the paint palette sky-
to shower color to the stage where the wind waltzed the water,
While the dock wavered.

Up one morning
and out the window,
The dock stood still.

Richard Stahl: I Want to See the Birth of the Mississippi River

This is the last official poem of the 2010 Collins Poetry Residency because the journal was supposed to end today. However, each day I will continue to post poems that I have and will receive up to 27 October 2010 at 11:59 PM. But, I will only post poems from poets I have not yet published and those that meet the prompt.

Your submissions made this journal successful. We published poems from established poets to emerging poets who submitted a poem for the first time. Poets across the oceans, young and mature poets, poets from the eastern U.S. and many poets from Illinois/Iowa Quad Cities submitted. I applaud you and please applaud each other.

We must also applaud the Midwest Writing Center for sponsoring this residency and we must give an ovation to Robin Throne. She brainstormed the concept of this residency, she set up and kept this journal running free of technical issues, she worked behind the scenes, she made the broadside a reality and she was my mentor throughout the residency. Robin poured the cement for the foundation where we the poets built this community.

I hope to see you tonight at the Midwest Writing Center and hear you read your poems!
Thank you
- Salvatore Marici.
Now here is the poem for 27 October 2010.

Richard (or better known as Dick) Stahl has said, “When my father delivered milk in downtown Davenport, Ia., I roamed the levee and Le Claire Park and was inspired by seeing the beauty of the Mississippi River early in the morning. I am still inspired by the rolling power of its currents. I was the first Quad-City Arts Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003.” In his context statement, he added, "I read that the Mississippi River is a trickle of what it once was. I can only wonder how wide and powerful it was in geological time.” He emphasizes his desire for experiencing the Mississippi River’s birth with the repetition of 'I want to'."

I Want to See the Birth of the Mississippi River

I want to see its first little fingers slide down
the dry land to make
the valley
of the Mississippi.

I want to catch its pure waters come
like a pulsing artery.

I want to touch the glacial melt rise, cut deeper, roll stronger,
muscle its way with sharp
elbows, heaving chests, gathering breaths
at every stretch
of its youth tickling my toes.

I want to step back at the last moment
as the gushing waters widen the shorelines
and race their way south
in a slab
of mist showering
my face.

I want to stand on higher ground
as the water spreads its corrugated skin
under the burning sun
to catch the stippled spots
in its troughs.

I want to hear the roar
of waves shooting skyward
and shoving me back
in full retreat
before the charging
breakers
catch me chest high.

I want to believe
the inspiring birth of this waterway
connects
and consecrates
my watch
with the first wash of its
sacred waters.

Ann Hudson: If You Can Climb Up, You Can Climb Down

Ann Hudson grew up in Charlottesville, Va., in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but has lived in Chicago for the past 11 years. Her first book, The Armillary Sphere, was selected by Mary Kinzie as the winner of the Hollis Summers Prize, and was published by Ohio University Press in 2006. Ann was also one of MWC's 2010 Great River Writers' Retreat winners and held a reading at St. Ambrose University on October 22 with Paul Brooke. During the retreat, she was the guest of the Sisters of Saint Mary Monastery where she spent the week writing and exploring the nuns’ 90 beautiful acres of land. She thanks the MWC for this fantastic opportunity. You can find this poet at www.annhudson.net.

Her poem shows a child looking at her world from a new perspective and her stalling to return. It also shows how the parent is pleased with her daughter’s discovery. Yet, the voice slips from present to the past. Though the past is gone, it lingers beneath the ground. I will let parents realize the metaphor.

If You Can Climb Up, You Can Climb Down

Today my daughter’s classmate
teaches her to climb a tree,
a runty crabapple in the corner
of the playground. It’s stooped and low,
the branches curved in a goblet of leaves
that holds two young girls perfectly,
their knees clamped against the rough bark.
It’s about high time someone
showed her how to scramble up
the short trunk and swing her torso
over a branch, pivoting her weight
to her advantage. They perch up there
all recess and again after school,
and although I scold her about ignoring
my warnings that we need to go,
and tell her a dozen times
not to work her fingers into the tear
in her leggings until I can mend them,
I’m pleased. Particularly in the flatlands,
it’s a good thing to find a place to climb
up and away, to vanish in a canopy
of leaves and ivory blossoms. It’s good
to let your shoes dangle off the ground,
to feel gravity cuffing your ankles.
Look out where there once was prairie:
switchgrass, clover, false heather,
horsemint, wild carrot, junegrass, aster.
Below the roots of the crabapple
are dormant bluestem rhizomes,
gnarled and still multiplying underground.

Clarence Wiser: Sparrow to Homeland

Clarence Wiser is a poet and short story author from Rock Island, Ill. A funeral of an old friend inspired him to write this poem. Neighbors scorned the deceased's lifestyle when she was young. The title and each stanza are metaphors on the deceased and her mourners.

Sparrow to Homeland

High
Above birthright's
Common chaff,
She soared

Wayward,
Seduced by the whirlwind,
Scorned.

Today,
There's talk of love,
Loincloth pulled from ebon attic
To clothe tongue's sharp cut.

Frocked in dead winter's pall,
She lies naked
As mourners file past
chipping away lingered ice form.

And I,
I long her to reach out,
Take my hand,
And lead me from this hovering chill.

Paul Brooke: Tending a Fungal Garden

Paul Brooke is a professor and once-trained biologist and naturalist from Ames, Ia. An avid outdoorsman and nature photographer, Brooke seeks to learn the intricacies of many ecosystems in order to understand his own place in the world. His work has been published in The North American Review, The Antioch Review, and Flyway. His newest book, Meditations on Egrets, was released in August of this year. Paul was also one of MWC's 2010 Great River Writers' Retreat winners and held a reading at St. Ambrose University on October 22 with Ann Hudson.

This poem stems from Paul’s newest manuscript, Kept in the Sunlight: Poems of the Rain Forest. In this collection, he uses the rain forest as a metaphoric hot bed. The poem examines leaf-cutting ants and how their ways could help understand our own.

Tending a Fungal Garden

Leaf-cutting ants
are Herculean,
carrying trunks
of stems and table
tops of leaves
enormous distances
to their burrows.

Inside is all rot
and decay, a bed
of fungus, which
they tend like
vegetable gardeners,
nourishment for their
soft-bodied young.

If I could, I'd bury
all the bad
of my life
underground:
the taunts
about crooked teeth,
the relentless gossip
about drinking,
the rumors
about hots trysts.
Compost them,
turn them, water
them, until they form
a single fruiting body.

John Denton: untitled

John Denton is a young Illinois poet who shares with us a sense of place some of us may never know or experience...

Untitled

We get beefin
Machine’s will be beepin
And bleepin
Them straps will get to clappin and clickin
Don’t get caught slippin
Im silahin and creepin
I let my actions do the speakin
When you leanin on the cement
You gon’ see whst I meant
I tried to prevent the sequence of events
Ya’ll gon’ me do some sitt im gon’ resent
And it won\t be my first offense
I prolly get sent
Back to the pin where color of your skin
Determine where you fit in
And then
Id prolly get shon hed for not plegin legiance
Cuz when you locked up you only friend in this jesus
Like him desired to die
By the hands of my enemy’s
Im in drop tops like John F. Kennedy

Stephan Abbott/John Denton/Greg Miller/Mike Miller/Skyler OHanlon/Steven Mooney/Justin Reed/5thSt Shawty/Ashley Shownolove/Nick Tharp: BlackHawk Squad

I had the privilege of conducting a workshop with some young poets in East Moline, Ill., on Thursday. This poem shows how the seed for a poem can emerge from an image as simple as a bottle of water sitting on a desk. Stephan Abbott, John Denton, Mike Miller, Skyler O'Hanlon, Steven Mooney, Justin Reed, 5th Street Shawty, Ashley Shownolove, and Nick Tharp all collaborated to write this poem. A collaboration poem can be one of the most difficult to write, especially in less than two hours! Only these poets know whether their poem is finished or whether it will continue to evolve... [the working title of this poem was "Aqua Watta," but it quickly became about something else]

Black Hawk Squad
Goin to the club
Rollin on the dubs
Bangin in the subs
Makin lub
Got girls on deck
Got my squad/Show respect
Keepin h8ters in check
If you want it just flex

Gotta lotta
Botta watta
Gotta lotta dollas
Shotta vocka
Makin all the ladies holla

We ain’t gotta go home
But we all gotta go/Mind state movin real slow
Jus goin wit the flow/C u at da doh
Cruisin in the street on that same beat
In the Maserati goin to the party
Mooney ridin shotgun grippin the shawty
Goin round town tryin to find Gotti

Gotta lotta
Botta watta
Gotta lotta dollas
Shotta vocka
Makin all the ladies holla

Saverio Minervini: Butterfly

Saverio Minervini is a first-generation American, born and raised in northern New Jersey. He works in the banking industry in New York, and is a graduate student in financial engineering. Over the past four years, he has been reading and studying poetry, especially the works of Pablo Neruda, Alda Merini, and Fernando Pessoa. He also reads and writes poetry in different languages and continues to broaden his literary understanding.

In the context statement, Saverio said, "I lived in Brazil for a short time, and while I was hiking in a forest, I saw butterflies flying from one flower to another. After researching butterflies, I felt they would be the perfect metaphor for betrayal in a love relationship. This poem was my way of combining the love emotions of purity and betrayal within the beauties of nature."

Butterfly

Graciously you land on my petals
Pollinating my veins
Extracting my every essence
With your presence
Gracious and sweet
Colorful and deep
With honey flavored lips we meet

Scared and frazzled
By the winds you’re dazzled
My bright and illustrious petals
Are now Dry, folded, and dreary

Till there is nothing left to surrender
you fly away
A messenger of God’s or a pretender
Towards the sunset
Over the tranquil pink clouds
Fanning me
With the cold winds of your wings
Brighter, healthier, and more gorgeous then ever
You fly away enroute for the next nectar.

Steve Biehler: Basil

Steve Biehler is retired and pursuing the fun things in life like writing, gardening, and volunteering. He was born in Ohio, schooled in Chicago, and lives in Port Byron, Ill. He is serious about writing in different genres and has been at it for at least 15 years.

Steve said his poem is based on smells that erupt when weeding around basil plants as they grow. “EVOO” is Extra Virgin Olive Oil. The speaker juxtaposes the garden with the kitchen and the provocations one scent has on two species.

Basil

Exploding, from a bare brush of foot or hand,
sending shards of scented plumes to penetrate
the least sensitive olfactory detector, my nose.
The peppery odor brings thoughts of simmering
sauce; or leaf with EVOO, sliced mozzarella
and fresh red Brandywine Tomato on a plate.

Basil excites my eyes, like meeting an old friend,
green or purple, large or small, dried or fresh,
and companion. Protecting plantings nearby,
whether tomato, asparagus, green bells or
red hot mamas; defending the neighborhood
against flying egg layers looking to party.

Ryan Collins: Dear Rock Island

Ryan Collins (son of Richard and Susan Collins) was the chief architect for the 2010 Collins Poetry Residency after serving as the 2009 poet-in-residence for Quad City Arts. His 2009 residency served as the model for MWC's Collins Poetry Residency. We are indebted to Ryan and his family for their generosity and continued support of community-based poetry.

Ryan Collins resides in Rock Island, Ill., and is the author of the poetry chapbook, Complicated Weather (Rocktown Press 2009). His poems have appeared in many journals and magazines, most recently Greatcoat, Sentence, and Third Coast. He teaches college English and leads various writing workshops for Quad City Arts, the Moline and Bettendorf Public Libraries, and the Midwest Writing Center. Ryan also serves on MWC's Board of Directors.

Rock Island is one of four cities that comprise the Quad Cities (along with Moline, Ill., Davenport Ia., and Bettendorf, Ia.). The Mississippi River divides Illinois and Iowa. Like all partnerships, each need to do their part to make a relationship work. This is an epistle or letter poem.

Dear Rock Island—
It’s been too long since you’ve sent any word. Your eyes are wider than most of your neighbors, but what of your vision? What do you make w/ its attention? Why don’t you trust your gut? At least then new developments won’t flood. You’re trying, but the dragnet you’re currently prosecuting is excessive as best for a weekday—I know there’s a rock band in town, but they’re in compliance w/ the noise ordinances. I just don’t understand why you bother to hand over your care. There’s money to be made, weekend opportunity and the heavy patrols smother your voice. Say freely what you mean—if you refuse, remember that your fear is your problem alone. If you won’t take yourself seriously, don’t expect anyone else to do it for you. Call me when you find your care.

One if by land two if by river,

Quad Cities

Trent Matthew England: MY KIND OF TOWN!

Trent Matthew England resides in Davenport, Ia. He graduated in 2008 from Black Hawk College and self-published his first book, a collection of poems, vs. in December of 2009, and is expecting to publish his second book, a collection of short stories, before the end of 2010.

Trent provided this context statement: "With Chicago being close where I live, it is easy for me to forget that Chicago is the 3rd largest city in the United States and the 26th most populated city on the planet, but after visiting last year to attend my first ever Cubs game at Wrigley Field I was inspired to write this poem." I hear Frank Sinatra singing.

MY KIND OF TOWN!

I dream of
the big city,
streets busy
with life.
I see the
intersections
and allies dissected.

I feel infected
because I’ve got
a disease
called desire,
and I don’t
want to get
mired down
in the mundane.

I feel the need
to rewire
my internal
dialogue, and
expand my
horizons and get
into the game
of life.

In the big
city, where
I can reinvent
myself, I fire
up and take aim
for the limit.

William Lavarone: The Stretches Between Stop Signs and Accidents

William Lavarone is an adjunct faculty member for Scott Community College. He was born in Glenview, Ill., and received a BA in English from the University of Iowa and earned an MA in English from WIU. Currently, he has set his sights on becoming a counselor and future M.D.

In his context statement, William said, "I wanted to merge Dickinson on the carriage with Heidegger's Dasien at a stop sign intersection. I always seem to notice how everyone's personality comes to a head at a stop sign (the waiver, the control-freak, etc.), and I brought that out into the greater experiential place of being-in-the-here-and-now (taking a stand on being there), as I likened it to the situations before and after stop signs we either accept, ignore, or forget."

William further explained his allusion to the Dickinson poem, "Because I could not stop for death.” The word Dasein has been used by several philosophers before Heidegger, meaning human existence or presence. The place in this poem is a stop sign intersection and demonstrates how by obeying the “norms,” we entrust our lives with strangers. I think that is the poem’s metaphor.

The Stretches Between Stop Signs and Accidents
So much order in a stop sign,
That elegant dance of humanity,
Where quick signals tempt our most civic being
On skeleton waves and rote smiles,
On modest gestures at flashy nouns.
Oh, the idle courtship of community
Runs perpendicular to our senses––
Or not at all, when personality’s in the rearview.
(Unsure acceleration makes for angry headlights.)

Life greets the dead at stop signs,
As strangers intersect and bow and curtsy
To take a stand on their posterity:
Stop for me! Or else I’ll stop for you.
The dead are pushy. And make the rules.
How the limits to breathing are learned,
Between the glow of a break light
and the crack of a windshield.
(Inertia joins our invisible vertebrae to that inevitable fold.)

Stretchers confuse us who want to stand,
But some bumps grow more than silly bruises;
And some blood is clean and bleeds in frame.
Awake, asleep, and back again––
How often we woo our consciousness,
Like meaning buffed out of laughing gas,
Or ghosts who fake twelve hundred deaths.
Yet we forget and heal once more
To live within the stretches of stop signs and accidents.

Lindsey Wheeler: Concrete Slab

Before starting kindergarten, Lindsey wrote story books, which consisted of poorly drawn pictures and a few words held together by tape. In first grade, she received the "Quickest Composer as an Author" award, wrote a play that her third grade class performed, started her own newspaper The Fairy Tale Times, and wrote adventure stories. In high school she wrote for the Kewanee Star Courier and reported on city council meetings, special events, and on Annawan School highlights. In 2006, Lindsey received her B.A. in mass communications, public relations and marketing from Concordia University in Wisconsin where she also served as the editor of The Beacon. Much of Lindsey's writing today is grant requests, press releases, and promotional pieces, but in her free time she enjoys crafting a poem or short story. Lindsey currently has the best job as MWC's Board Administrator.

As Lindsey said in her conext statement, "Before 'hitting the ground running,' I like to start my day drinking coffee out in my backyard on my concrete slab. I try to use this time to sort out and plan my day, but I often get distracted."

The white space in her poem enhances the subtle sounds and movements, and the interruptions of the speaker’s morning meditation of what to do today.

Concrete Slab

It catches the neighbors’ first conversations of the day;

the hums and honks on 19th street;

the slow dance of a spoon

stirring, clinking the sides of her cup;

and realizes her many unheard plans as they transpire.

But her careful mental arrangement of the day

interrupted by…

slow,

warming sips

and a breeze

carrying

Fall.

A new union- so it’s still welcome.

Never mind the goose bumps, she takes in a lungful.

The trees’ reaching branches don’t seem to mind either

letting out a soothing, accepting sigh,

surrendering a few orange and crimson leaves as a peace offering.

Sprinkling the yard with autumn’s paper-thin gems,

hoping to coax the sun to stay honest for a little longer.

Meanwhile oblivious and unflappable squirrels perform
their acrobats on the hodge-podge fence

only further derailing her train of thought and
leaving her coffee cold.

Nancy Ann Schaefer: THE EXAMINATION

Nancy Ann Schaefer holds a Ph.D. in sociology, and both a master's and bachelor’s degree in history. After she worked in Europe for 20 years, she recently returned to her Midwestern roots and teaches at a public university in Illinois. She enjoys reading and writing poetry every chance she gets.

Nancy wrote this poem while living in Liverpool, UK, invigilating a final exam in American Studies. She said in her context statement: “So the 'place' is a classroom (or in this case, an examination hall). At that time at my college (before semester system was introduced) exams were given only once at the end the academic year. Students were given three hours to answer three essay questions (not given in advance nor open book`)--much pressure! So one year while I was waiting to announce the start of the exam, I wrote this 'concrete' poem (you'll notice the letter it forms....).” The letter the poem forms has a similar power to a poem's last line that makes you yell, yeah.

THE EXAMINATION

The hush in the room is strained
hearts race
palms perspire
pencils poise
papers rustle
fingers drum nervously on
desk tops
knuckles crack
eyes dart
mouths dry
as the
punctilious
proctor
announces the
start of
the exam.

Katherine M. Searle: Street Scene

Katherine McLeod Searle teaches eighth grade language arts and English studies at JB Young Intermediate School where she has taught for the past 27 years. She earned a BA at the University of Iowa and MA in creative writing from Western Illinois University. She is the current president of the Quint City Poets, an IL/IA Quad Cities area writers' group, and also serves as the group's webmaster. She has been a Mississippi Valley Poetry Contest judge and grand prize winner (twice), appeared on Paula Sands Live, and interviewed for Bruce Carter's Art Talks on WVIK-FM. Her poetry has appeared in Lyrical Iowa, the University of Iowa's Daily Palette, The Aesop Review, The Ethical Spectacle, and Writing Raw. Clearly, writing continues to be a force in her life.

In this poem, she takes us to place most have not seen or choose to turn away from. The unfolding of events here is like shuffling cards almost in slow motion; she takes us to an unknown and yet does not judge.

Street Scene

I see him
early in the morning
when the heat
is but a promise

He stands at the corner
turning in precise circles
waiting to cross

A woman’s bathing suit
cut off jeans
tall black socks
and bejeweled flip flops
complete his outfit
accessorized
by a woman’s purse
worn diagonally
across rounded shoulders

He does not make
eye contact

His straggly hair
lifts with the breeze
as he rakes
his grizzled beard
in concentration

before scampering
into the street

and gently lifting something shiny
a discarded CD
inspected thoughtfully
and tucked into his purse
like a bird
snapping up a found object
to build its nest

Beryl Dov Lew: Lost in Venice

Beryl Dov Lew was born in Brooklyn, a small shtetl in New York. He performs live in clubs accompanied by his chutzpah, and is the winner of numerous awards, including the coveted ECHO Award in direct mail marketing. He is the author of A Primer of Love and 165 Tools & Techniques to Jumpstart Creativity , as well as four books of poetry. Beryl now resides in Bali, Indonesia, where he works as an artist.

His poem uses metaphor and simile to illustrate the learning about a person while falling in love to the ageless discoveries at every turn in an ancient city. Even though the discoveries may be old, they can be new and magical.

Lost in Venice

I only found you like I found Venice,
Lost in the skein of back alleys,
Secret gardens, shadowy passageways,
A pleasant discovery at every turn.
You too were a city of bridges,
Of limitless connection to my heart,
Which floated like a palazzo on the Adriatic,
Kept afloat by the spells you cast in your sleep.
Yes, you were this mystical city in microcosm,
A serene Vitruvian woman,
Truest measure of man,
Sipping your espresso in Piazza San Marco
And slowly vanishing under the flood waters
Like Atlantis.

Wayne Sapp: A Cardinal at the Feeder

Wayne Sapp has 61 years of life and was born and raised in Wyanet, Ill. He resides outside Maysville, Ia., with his wife Cathy, dogs Rufus and Duke, and cat Sampson. He retired as career soldier in 2002, and has been writing for at least 40 years. Wayne tricks the reader in a subtle use of rhyme. Yet, he is a master of word choice for concision in his poetry.

A Cardinal at the Feeder

The brittle stems of Queen Ann’s Lace
reduced to barren, brittle bone,
a hoarfrost Ermine coat embrace;
impaled in soil that turned to stone.

The flowers became wicker cups;
wear bowler hats of purest white,
while snowflakes that they interrupt
await the wind; resume their flight.

A Junco in the prairie grass,
drab colors blending, stems and snow
his flitting business come to pass
without a glimpse of style, or show.

White crystal mist, the morning still,
a cold and colorless display;
and fence posts marching up the hill
like soldiers, slowly fade away.

This day in its entirety
constructed thus to fit my mood
cabin bound and winter weary,
must you in my lament intrude?

From deep within a Cedar tree
in blazing red from cap to tail,
you interrupt my woe-is-me;
assure my pensive mood will fail.

Trisha Nelson: Transformation

Trisha Nelson is a native of the Illinois-Iowa Quad Cities. Dr. Nelson is a pain modalities specialist at Rheumatology Care. During her free time, she enjoys serving on MWC's Board, and is an active member at First Presbyterian Church, Davenport.

I lost the poem's original format when I posted it on the journal. In the four line stanzas, the original format has the second and fourth lines indented. Please imagine those spaces are there. The weaving lines add an energy that parallels the speaker's efforts to find transformation in the town.

Transformation

I returned to a place I once called home,
after many years away.
What I found, I did not foresee
there were not changes to be.

Does time stand still in this rural town?
I witnessed evidence that time passes.
The sunrise, the sunsets
the stars in their proper arrangements.

Yet, where is the change?

The band shell still stands with lighted pride
in the middle of the park,
with sounds from the band
still playing their familiar march.

Change is not there.

The clarinetist wife, with her large brimmed hat
still knits throughout the songs.
The town’s reporter scribbling notes, snapping pictures
as she walks along.

Change is not there

Ah, the familiar scent of pork chops sizzling on the grill.
The aroma fills the air.
The ladies from the Lutheran church baked rows of pies to share.
Which one I take, I do not care.

I am glad change was not found there.
But, I know change is somewhere.

The children are still climbing on the monkey bars
and swinging on the swings.
Push me higher, Push me higher,
with their laughing pleads.

There is a few inches of change there.
Where is the transformation and change, I came to find?

As the last pork chop and pie were consumed,
while the band played the last tune.
I discovered in the sunset where change was key.
It was all along within me.

Anne Mae Longbons: The Weather Vane

Anna Mae Longbons is 12 years old and has been writing poetry for over two years now. She loves words and enjoys piecing them together to form poems. She wrote, “When I was outside one day I looked up at the weather vane on top of my family's corn crib and this poem began to form in my mind. The places that inspired this poem were the corn crib and America.”

This poem shows history. Note the rhyme scheme of the four line stanzas. I would think that if Ms. Longbons were Robert Frost’s student, he would be proud. Yet it has a Carl Sandburg feel.

The Weather Vane

Some split wood shingles
Atop a barn
A wicker basket
That’s filled with yarn

The grazing sheep
From where it came
And on the roof
A weather vane

A cow to give them
Milk and cheese
A growing garden
With beans and peas

Look to the North

A salty sea
So large and vast
The whaling boats
With towering masts

The tall brick buildings
So strong and old
They housed men
Both brave and bold

A country’s birth
A war of pain
Upon the roof
A weather vane

Look to the East

A noble land
Yet holds the mark
Of hating those
Whose skin was dark

A weather vane
And it has shown
A fertile land
Where crops were grown

They feel betrayed
And yet with grace
They bear the trials
They must face

Look to the South

The thousands flocked
In search of gold
And their possessions
Have all been sold

They’re rushing to
The open plain
They give no thought
Towards weather vanes

They’re leaving now
As pioneers
They’ll live through laughter
And hope and tears

Look to the west

Jodie Toohey: Fog on the River on a Cold February Morning

Jodie Toohey has written poetry since she was a young girl. In 2008, she published a book of poetry for pre-teen and teen girls: Crush and Other Love Poems for Girls. Samples of that project and other information about Jodie are available on her website at www.jodiet.com.

The poem was inspired by the fog over the Mississippi River as seen from above while driving downtown over the Harrison Street hill in Davenport, Ia. The title reflects the metamorphosis of a cold foggy morning as a masquerade ball.

Fog on the River on a Cold February Morning

The masquerade ball begins;
I watch from the balcony.
Translucent swans glide
In ice-air, bow their heads
To the other as if to say, “begin”.

She curtseys toward him,
Paper lace fan flutters;
Only her eyes reveal.
Eyelids flutter so softly,
Whispering her invitation.

He lilts to her gracefully
His foot so slightly behind,
Seemingly unmoving
But floating
To initiate the dance.

He takes her fingers in his hand
And kisses the soft flesh.
Her silken scarf billows
Encircling him with the shroud,
Briefly obscuring his face from the crowd.

Arms raised encircling in ascent
Commencing the winter dance.
Rising in curls
Fading then ascending
Her bell skirt swishes and swirls.

The dance smooth and calculated
But un-efforted and unintentional.
Scripted but aimless,
Rising and falling like a smooth
Merry-go-round or a wave.

Continuously riding the stream of air.
Warmth lifts to heaven
Away from cold crystals;
Frigid meets frozen and mingles
As the dance continues.

Wisps of fog reach out like fingers
Saying, “Come hither”;
Other dancers join;
Flowing symphony of
Dozens of couples dancing
Above the ever changing
River ball room floor.

Dancers curling, mingling
Until becoming one,
Boundaries of individual
Indiscernible in the smoke-filled room.

They dance without purpose,
Sway, wander, floating,
Performing to perform,
Power of the movement.

The ordinary cannot be ignored.
The ball continues
Even as music disappears until dawn threatens
As air warms or river cools,
Bringing equilibrium ending the fog
And the dance.

David McMillen: at close of summer

David McMillen is a native of Freeport, Ill. and works in the social services field. He is an occasional participant at MWC's Out Loud and the Quint City Poets, and a frequent reader with the Bucktown Revue. Dave said in his context statement: "I was looking for something sentimental and evocative of the feeling of departure, of transitioning from one season to another, and the approach of autumn became the perfect inspiration for this. I look forward every year to the onset of crisp fall weather and the metamorphosis of vibrant color it produces among the oaks, elms, maples, and birches of the upper Midwest. Summer is perfect for picnics, gardens, and vacations, but autumn is my favorite time of the year."

I asked Dave about arctophilia, and he clarified that it means literally, "love of bears." This man who drinks scotch and stout, and eats meat cooked on a spit with his hands also collects teddy bears.

at close of summer

blue shadows stretch long
at the fading of the day;
haze fills the meadows,
covering waves of wild flowers,
their bright glory now passed on
to sepia tones
and brittle, bent submission
at close of summer

now the tyranny
of relentless sweltering
begins its surcease,
and we breathe many a deep sigh,
grateful just to draw in air
that does not roast us
inside and out, slow-basted
in our own juices

morning sun tarries
below the dim horizon,
late for appointment
with the breaking of the day;
dawn, his mistress, sleeping in,
rosy fingers still
folded ‘neath starry mantle
‘til her master calls

lazy days, numbered,
intruded upon by thoughts
of study, of work,
of responsibilities
that rise up, stern taskmasters
that they are, to call
us in from carefree play with
our fair-weather friend

the equinox waits,
cloaked in September shadows,
biding its good time,
ticking off one muggy day
and night after another
‘til the time is spent
and we say our last farewells
at close of summer

Mark Walmsley: Triage

Mark Walmsley hails from Hull in the United Kingdom where he is a member of the “Write to Speak Group.” He performs in community theater and just finished recording a BBC podcast. His visit to a hospital inspired this poem. He noted that A&E is a British abbreviation for Accident and Emergency.

Triage

Sat alone... at two AM,
In a blinding white lit room
Waiting...
for someone to notice me
As I sit nursing my bloody wound

Contorted people sprawl over chairs
Bloodied and bruised...one sits staring at me,
While I wait and tame my pain
In this soulless room...they call A&E

A drunk is wheeled in
Soaked in piss... and sick
Yet still has time
to pick one more fight
As he shouts “what you looking at?
You prick”

A Woman sobs in her stained nightgown
And rocks back and forth in her chair
“Just one more score” she repeats to herself
Clawing her bony fingers
through her matted grey hair

There is an eerie silence around these wards
I look at my watch
It says ten to three
How much longer must I watch and wait
In this soulless room they call A&E

A group of lads, who seem worse for ware
Hobble in, on walking sticks
Their girlfriends follow
swearing and shouting
At the grey haired women who asks them for a fix

I still sit here alone, amongst this crowd
An alien in a full room,
yet empty
The blood I have lost, now pools on the floor
Of this soulless room they call A&E

Gemma Mathewson: Above Kibber

Gemma Mathewson was born under a new moon so it took her awhile to cast a shadow. Eventually, she observed that the shadow often shape-shifted, so began to describe the phenomenon in poetry. Recently, her poems have been encouraged by the observation of the Chinese artist, Mu Xin. "Art is one's privacy, revealed without qualms," she said. She lives in Connecticut and enjoys hiking the Blue Trail and playing with her three grandchildren. Gemma shared the following about her poem:

"Kibber is the highest elevation permanent village in India. It is located in Himachal Pradesh, in the Himalayas. Because of its proximity to China, a special inner line permit is needed to travel there and for a four-wheel drive for the hardscrabble roads, which are indeed only passable from late spring to late summer.

This poem brings out music of beast and farmer depending on each other in crisp air. I am also going to bring a personal note on how this poem moved me. Instead of hearing a collaboration of vibrating glass bowls in a Ben Franklin’s glass armonica–crystalline, I hear singing bowls’ hums and my body absorbing energy balancing vibrations the Himalayas’ valleys and soil release. That is only because I like singing bowls and I have a few."

Above Kibber

The path that curves along the folds
of the village is unpaved
and unravels upslope beside a cairn
heaped with yak horns
in nubbly rust colored loops.

No tree line obscures our view
of a cluster of whitewashed houses
their windows rimmed with black trapezoids
to absorb sunlight, their flat roofs
overlapped at the edge with dried brush
that wicks off snow to prevent roof collapse.

I don't know how much snow, exactly,
it being mid-July
but I’m told the road is closed
October through May and tongues of
two glaciers lap the switch back approach.

Below a family in a terraced field,
the wife and three children stoop
behind the farmer, who guides
his yoked yaks beside him.

Only now, plowing and sowing.
I begin to connect a distant singing voice
to the farmer by the coincidence of his notes
with the movement of the beasts.
Forward, backward, turn, pause, churn.

The voice is not commanding - but guiding -
a love song. Pure, ringing into the wind,
it reminds me of my favorite sound
in all the world, Ben Franklin’s glass armonica -
crystalline vibration in rare atmosphere.

And listening acutely,
not echo, but antiphon
in folds of the valley obscured
more voices elevate in resonance
with spring planting and snow capped peaks.

John McBride: Is Grant Wood's Iowa True?

John McBride has a B.A in English, magna cum laude; Ph.D. in English; and a Master's of Social Work. He has held several teaching and administrative positions in major universities until transitioning to a social services career that led to founding a Big Brothers/Big Sisters agency. He has earned numerous poetry awards from prominent journals and thirty state poetry societies. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and other periodicals including Christian Science Monitor. He is retired, yet remains active in volunteering, visiting libraries, walking and jogging, and participates/leads various writing groups, and, of course, writing. He lives with his wife in Bettendorf, Ia. In his poem, I see the old and new supplement one another.

Is Grant Wood's Iowa True?

Past obliging cattle his brush maneuvers,
flows easily over the crop-rich slopes
of industrious family farms,
and there is much reassurance in
each neat replication
of well-maintained farmhouse, silo, barn.

Take yourself inside the picture, and you can stop
with any question and know
they will give you their best shot,
and they will chat, as long as you want,
if you appear at all interested,
on wind and rain and sun
and corn and bean rows.

And if you do step in, out of the blue,
into a rambling century-old farmhouse
for a cup of coffee in the bright kitchen,
you might notice the blinking computer
nodding good-naturedly to you,
specifying yields and the seeding plan
-but that was beyond his time,

so now you look out
the lace-framed window
to the small shoots,
so young, so unseasoned,
their rustling sighs at the combine
are still food for the imagination,

and then, sauntering on,
leave there, and reach
one of those acrylic towns
where it always is
high noon,
where weather-beaten homes
disclose white fences,
and all the cats,
demure on front porches,
have that cool do-I-care stare.

Joanne Wiklund: Spring Stream

Joanne Wiklund has been a journalist for more than 30 years, a columnist for The Argus, Moline, Ill, a public speaker, and a writing teacher. She has edited weekly newspapers and has worked as a correspondent, reporter and librarian. She published a bimonthly magazine about the Mississippi River from 1993-1995. Her poetry has received awards in local competitions. Joanne lives in the Northwestern corner of Illinois. Her poem takes you on a journey through a Midwest farm landscape in spring.

Spring Stream

Sunlight sparkles through yellow willows,
as a stream slips through freshly plowed
fields of black dirt,
turned over, waiting for seed.

The stream wanders through grassy pastures,
fallen trees blocking its path.
it sneaks under or cascades over
dark rotting wood

Mike Bayles: Sylvan Island

Mike Bayles wrote this reflective poem about Sylvan Island, Moline. He is a lifelong Midwest resident, published poet, and fiction writer.

Sylvan Island

I walk on ancestors’ bones
and around the island, restored,
reclaimed as a park
to recall memories.

Somewhere inside a grove of trees
lie remnants, recalling other lives
of the small island’s enterprise,
a steel mill stilled,
a quarry filled.

On the north end water stirs,
captured by dams
to turn turbines for power generation
for others by river side.

To the south a fallen branch lies,
whittled by greater forces
and the passage of time.

I complete my journey late afternoon
and listen to the river’s song
to visit but never stay
and reflect on ancestral ways.

Ellen M. Tsagaris: Chippiannock Sanctuary

Ellen M. Tsagaris, “Dr. Ellen,” shared this poem. She holds a Ph.D. in Modern British Literature, M.A. in English, a J.D., and a B.A in English and Spanish. She has taught in many colleges and universities and is currently teaching in a small college in Davenport, Ia. She has also published a book on the British writer Barbara Pym, various articles, and has many ongoing writing projects. Her other interests include pets, collectibles, needlework, history, and the piano. Chippiannock is a cemetery in Rock Island, Ill.

Chippiannock Sanctuary

Alone in the hub of swarm
Heart shrouded in gossamer shadow,
Weary soul damned by sunlight
Harpy-hounded, soul devoured
By ivory bone.
No hiding place, no bandage for festering heart wounds
Lacerated with salt and gall
Sanity rent like rotted silk.

No hiding place but the corridors that lead to the dwellings
Of the Dead in this City of the Fallen.
Dulcet Death, seducer of
Desperate Hearts,
Of Captains of the River,
And Mother’s with Babes in arms,
Of Brave Colonels
And Builders of Cities,

Purveyor of Peace, soothing shade
Soother for centuries,
Offer me the doss of Slumber deep
In this stone forest guarded by faithful
Limestone hounds
Where silent cradles rock and winds breathe through
Broken boughs.
Tranquil my mind, embalm my heart
Embrace my soul, close my eyelids with your cool touch.
Let a little stone lamb be my companion,
And remember me with a little stone bench.

There lies my grandmother’s friend,
She cared for me like her own,
So that in part of our neighborhood,
I’m still Rose Mare’s Little Girl.

There sleeps my sweet friend,
Double hearts marking her rest, but still
Not as big as the heart that beat within her
During life.

Across the hill sleeps another one dear,
Cut off the like cement trees on this or that
Ancient Grave.
He is with his grandfather, and our
Flowers mark our visits, growing more
And more Sorrow in our hearts.

Sweet Death, handmaid of
Chippiannock,
Listener of your citizen’s tales,
Pilgrimage of those who would love your markers and
Your Stories,
Let your friendly worms enmesh me
To my Mother, Earth, and
Bind me to my father, Hades.
Dust the cool night with my Essence and let
A gentle pall
Silence my tortured soul.