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.