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.