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CONTENTS of this page:

• LETTERS
• LAGNIAPPE:  FRONTIERS OF THE HEART
• CLICHÉD MUSE
• EDITOR'S CHOICE
• AN OLD COUNTRY FENCE
• ROSEMARY & THYME:  HERB GARDENS
• Contact info

LETTERS (Some notes may be lightly edited.)

FROM -- SJ BALDOCK:  I got my first of SIX books today from Barnes and Noble; had two gift certificates to cash in and discovered B&N has a "books for under $5" offering.  We're having a family reunion next week and I'm providing the reading material.  Couldn't have done it w/o you ...

FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $10.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

To a Cherokee Ancestor

She was a strong woman, we know that. We remember
It in our bones. She was a handsome woman: we see it in
Our mirrors and the shifting planes of each other’s faces.

Some warm Tennessee night, she lay down and said Yes
To a fair-skinned man from a foreign land, and rose carrying
Us in the cradle of her hips. True love? Tradition says so.

Not even her name remains to us, lost in the careless spill
Of history … we have kept only the echo of my
Grandmother’s stories, the dark wings of my mother’s hair.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

There Were Reasons

A cold miasma crept over the low land, weaving
a spell over tall pine brakes and bringing a season
of death to a small, unpainted shack.

A house of five boys now had only a mother to care
for them; one, only ten days old, would never know
a father's love.  He would know privation and work.

Escaping at last from the small fields of cotton
dotting the newly-plaid spread of forest, he labored
in other fields and fought other wars all his life.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX  USA

My Grandmother
 
wore bonnets with backs flat as toast, rode in buggies,
chopped cotton, baked kolaches, strudels, bread,
picked eggs, churned butter, cranked washed clothes

through a wringer in the yard, raised six children.
When drought struck, when the black earth burned
and bolls withered, when nothing but zinnias

grew tall and red as the evening sun, she crumbled
the cracked earth between her fingers, whispered
mournfully in Czech, jej danecky, and kept on working.

Carol K. Cotten, Galveston, TX, USA

Turning points in living can often result from avoiding unbearable strife. Deciding not to watch his family starve was the turning point of my Irish great grandfather’s life. You see, a man can only tolerate so much pain.

Thousands of stone-walled houses, roofs of sod long since collapsed and gone, represent corner stones of that dreadful, desperate, unthinkable decision. Perhaps they did not blame him, or did, but what’s it matter now?

Had he not walked away and found his new wife in far Indiana, America, I would not be. When he lost that second wife and his only child learned what he had done before, she fled far away with my Irish grandfather.  I ache for them all.

Warner D. Conarton, Zephyrhills, FL, USA
COMMENTS:  Difficult topic well expressed with understanding.
============
Machinist

He wore his shoes over one shoulder
protecting their leather soles from wear
instead of his own.

And mended his tattered garments
so that each ruble could travel home
to feed his family.

Until he arrived in America, and found
a way to weave his family back together again
in the Lawrence mills.

Diane Davis, Chelmsford, MA, USA
COMMENTS:  Excellent detail of carrying his shoes on his shoulder to protect their soles instead of his bare feet.  Good use of  the verb "weave" to describe bringing his family together again through a job in the mills.
============
Passages

A redheaded girl came from Ireland
With her father and her brother
Crossing the Atlantic to a new life.

The boy died on the voyage across;
Only two stepped ashore in Philadelphia
Tears of grief melting into relief.

Through those tears could she foresee
Husband, daughters, their ten offspring, and
This great-granddaughter bearing her name?

Mary E. Gray, Newport News, VA, USA
COMMENTS:   The clever title refers to the ocean voyage, the turning point in the surviving child's life, and her future "passages" as wife, mother and ancestor of the poet.  Strong last stanza beautifully ends this narrative.
============
Pink and Red

Gathering eggs and firewood, tending a little sister--
plenty to keep a boy busy. But Pink was five,
and heaven to him was seeing what would happen if . . . .

Grandmother was four, a willing assistant to anything.
Bring the ax, he said, and put your head on the block.
Her long, red braid was thick. Much later I saw the scar.

She carried a little child on her hip for years --
as a sister, mother, grandmother, protector. I carry her
in my mind--hip to one side; thick red hair; and that air.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA
COMMENTS:   The first five lines of this interesting poem build quickly from describing the common situation of an older child watching after a younger sibling to a chilling climax.  "That air" is mysterious.
============
Crushed Rock

When December hardened football fields, before Christmas,
my parent’s address changed. My Dad in shock--
six children--buried the rock of our family.

Devoured by cancer, we watched her wane away;
two years she laid in daze--alert enough
to watch wall clock for nurses appearance and painkillers.

Her youngest daughter, only six, and dressed in red;
ushered via the back staircase.  “Beautiful,” Mom said.
She closed both eyes and made us motherless daughters.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  The title brutally condemns the force that "crushed" the mother, the rock of a family.  The last stanza makes excellent use of color symbolism; the daughter is "ushered" into the sickroom dressed, not as we expect, in black, the color of ushers and death, but in red, the color of passion and sacrifice, giving the mother one last glimpse of beauty before her death.  Touching story that moves the reader into the tale without saying what to feel.  Well done!
============
From a Distance

She became Millay, on stage pointing to mountains unseen.
Hinged between aloofness and indifference, her mind
chattered, she spoke in frozen glares and too quick grins--

the sister I followed to the roof; where nothing mattered
except Elvis and shooting stars, the sister who would say
don't be afraid of dark, monsters are only in your head.

The nurse announced our visit over, she shrugged,
and stepped out of her slippers--I'll lie and look my fill
into the sky. All at once things seemed so small.

Judith Schiele, Brandon, MS, USA
COMMENTS:   This poem's first stanza employs excellent diction for describing mental confusion-- a mind which "chatters" and is "hinged between aloofness and indifference," speaking with "frozen glares and too-quick grins."  The second stanza, its coziness rooted in the comfort of the past, contrasts painfully with the third stanza, the current reality.  Nicely done.
============
Sounds of Life

Mississippi, July 1863.
The battlefield was a colonel's abandoned estate,
the prize a well of water.

There were other prizes in the house itself--
"Carpets, mirrors, and a fine piano."
A little was saved when the defenders burned the house.

They brought the piano to the breastworks,
and there, "paying no attention to the shells,"
they enjoyed the sounds of life amid the sounds of death.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  The "prize" of a Civil War battle turns out to be not so much a well and its water, however necessary for life, but the piano, necessary to the soul, a sound of beauty amidst the sounds of battle.  Lovely well-written idea.
POET'S NOTE:  My great-grandfather, Douglas John Cater, a Confederate soldier during the Civil War, was the pianist who played the "sounds of life." This anecdote (with the quotes) is taken from his memoirs, which one of his grandsons published in 1970 under the title, "As It Was.

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Cliche: Blessing in disguise
Re-write: Wrapped in brown paper

Surprise!

Fate delivered it, wrapped in brown paper,
smudged with ink, tied with half-rotten string--
had to cut through my heart in the opening--
but what rainbow-wrapped treasures within!

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
 

Autumn’s Seeds in Rafts

Pleasant, autumn afternoon--snow coming soon and
best friend's bringing seeds of herbs.
Comparing verbs, Walt Whitman and me,
to geniuses of thyme and rosemary;
their aromatic appeal like rhythm in stanzas.

We plant the rows at garage
back door, the light to shine for food.  In autumn’s
beauty, we shake their booty, the prize will change
our mood.  A medicine, a seasoning, a scent,
and English lesson of time will spent.

I want flowers of blue, he craves spices
that’s true in odes with lines short and long.
My flowers wither, his work lingers, studied
by those who yen to pen his craft.  He masters
words like rafts riding river’s rifts.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  Alliteration and rhyme create sound echoes throughout this lively work.  Powerful images awaken the senses.  Wonderful title!

Sol Magazine's editors choose one favorite poem each month for the honor of EDITOR'S CHOICE.  No prize is associated with this, but each EDITOR'S CHOICE will be automatically entered in the FAVORITE POEM OF THE YEAR 2004 competition, voted on by Sol Magazine Members at the end of the year.
 

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FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $10.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

acrostic:  separation

Weathered Fence
 
So here we stand muted,
Each alone with worry,
Parted by gray pickets.
After all these years unable to
Reach across sepia silences,
And in this indigo sorrow
The unsaid can bruise and ache.
I wish these rusted hinges
Open, still we stand in silent
Need against this wordless gate.
 
Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA

Ebby's World

Needs paint, the falling down fence around Mama’s grave, but
Ebby doesn’t have enough pennies in her bank to buy a
Gallon of whitewash at Buck’s hardware.  Not
Likely Paw will give her the money.  Disability checks are
Earmarked for booze.  Booze and fifty-pound sacks of
Chicken feed.  Feed the chickens.  Sell the eggs so
They don’t go hungry.  Hate the monotony of
Eggs - scrambled or fried - for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Dream of a white picket fence … of meat … of potatoes.

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA

acrostic:  remember

Between Time and Time Again

Roses swarm madly over graying pickets
Eroding under time’s ticking markers.
Magic again comes to waken fields with vari-greens.
Embers, long cold, answer with no flicker,
Make no move to resurrect conquered walls.
Beyond pity are those who settle in dead memories,
Expecting today to be yesterday.  But roses there are,
Reminding travelers of beauties that once were.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA

acrostic:  legacy

Basket Weaver
 
Lovely baskets woven
Eighty years ago when Grandmother
Gathered honeysuckle vines from her old country fence
Always whisper to me, "You, too
Can survive scarcities of life
You make do."
 
Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
COMMENTS:  Like the basket it describes, the message of this poem is simple and sturdy.  Making do with what you have is a message that lasts through the years.  Nice ending lines sum up the poem in a philosophical way.  Great lesson in human tenacity.
 

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FIRST PLACE

WINNER OF A $10.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

Autumn’s Seeds in Rafts

Pleasant, autumn afternoon--snow coming soon and
best friend's bringing seeds of herbs.
Comparing verbs, Walt Whitman and me,
to geniuses of thyme and rosemary;
their aromatic appeal like rhythm in stanzas.

We plant the rows at garage
back door, the light to shine for food.  In autumn’s
beauty, we shake their booty, the prize will change
our mood.  A medicine, a seasoning, a scent,
and English lesson of time will spent.

I want flowers of blue, he craves spices
that’s true in odes with lines short and long.
My flowers wither, his work lingers, studied
by those who yen to pen his craft.  He masters
words like rafts riding river’s rifts.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA

Bequeathed

Cinnamon child
Running wild across
The springtime pasture
Pauses to pick a
Wildflower posy

Saffron hair
Dances on air, a
Mass of tangled
Curls swirling
Behind her

Cinnamon child
Raging wildfire of my heart
Goldenseal forever binding
-- Though you call another
Mother ... I am she

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Brief lines of action and sharp imagery support a sense of energy beyond the narrator's voice.  Lovely picture.  Nicely written.
============
HONORABLE MENTION

It’s the Herbs that Might Save Us

In a world full of lettuce
it’s the herbs that might save us
from nothing but piles of dull food on the table.
So I’ll grow some herbs
as long as I’m able.

in a world full of half-truths
perhaps the truth could be there in a verse.
For nothing is added, it’s all short and sweet,
with every bit counting
like herbs flavor meat.

In a world full of sameness
it is thoughts that might save us
from nothing but lots of dull talk round the table.
So I’ll write some poems
as long as I’m able.

Colin William Campbell, Kunming, YP, CHN
COMMENTS:  Interesting and well crafted, similar lines and phrases act as a bridge between the stanzas.
============
OTHER POEMS COMMENTED UPON BY OUR JUDGES AND/OR EDITORS
============
The Way from a Woman's Heart

Here is where my roots are, this little patch of earth,
This dab of grass and trees amidst green fields,
This white house with all its nooks and crannies.
Here is the heart of who I am, made from whatever
Comes to hand, rambling, untidy, tenacious.

I saw this old cistern filled with dirt long ago, the song
Of toads far below now changed to the drone of bees
At knee-height. After winter’s long night of snow-lit work,
I stir and stretch in spring’s warm showers as the herbs
Peek through dead leaves and renew themselves.

When I sink my hands into the soft soil, it sustains me
In ways beyond the reach of words. The touch of leaves
Against my cheek renews my spirit, and the breeze blowing
Through becomes my breath, my inspiration. When I cook
With these herbs, beloved, you taste my nature.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
COMMENTS:  These strongly poetical free verses are expressed with a painterly and sensual style.  Excellent writing, well-developed theme.
============
New Life

My garden hums ancient chants as I
Turn sun-warmed sod to receive new life
Tuck in seeds then await their arrival
Confident as when I was an expectant mother
Knowing that age-old rituals succeed

My garden hums ancient chants as I
Water and watch for signs the birth of
Cilantro, sage, parsley, and rosemary
Pause to listen to White-wing Doves speak
Stitch sounds and sights into my writer memory

I hum ancient chants as I
Buzz around snipping herbs
To enhance family meals and poems
Then ponder over plans to store seeds and lyrics
For repetition of next year's spring ritual

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Visually and audibly interesting figurative language.  Repeated sounds throughout create interest and a sense of unity.
============
Files and Files of Notes

Seeds scattered here, scattered there,
on an oily shelf in the garage,
or in a box under other boxes of junk,
they wait to be planted.  Like these rue seeds.
How I rue the garden I might have produced.

Here’s a packet of thyme in this box…
Yes, I am running out of time.
If I were as frugal as sage plants, I would use
what I have, and perhaps words as aromatic as parsley
would accidentally slip from my pen as these seeds
fall among tools stacked by the garage door.

I could say that during droughts of past troubles,
there were no cool streams of unharried time,
no clear sight with which to toss together, like a pungent
watercress salad, a body of work that might bloom
as though touched by immortal tansy.  But I know better.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Metaphorically clear images and ideas.
============
Picante

To watch the cilantro spread out and grow,
You’d never guess
That patch of dirt lay fallow for years
The fussy herbs didn’t come up this spring
Only the spicy, aggressive ones are thriving.

Four years in recovery, the only
Glimpse of hope a shimmer of humor
So black it had its own gravity sink
Living in a pine cold frame, a lonely
Covering of fallow dreams for company.

After so long untended, of course
Only the strongest, spiciest, weediest bits remain.
No flowers; recovery isn’t compatible with gentleness,
Being a warrior’s occupation.  We survived, but
We are a bit strong for the palate.

Heather Jensen, Cheyenne, WY, USA
COMMENTS:  Imagistic and thought-provoking human experience, expressed in a way that reaches up and grabs the reader's attention.  Nicely done.
============
What Grows In Small Spaces
 
Under the window, in a box, tangle
lemon balm, sage, thyme, confined
to wander in a small space like
my mind.  Thyme creeps through
knotted thought, escapes
 
boundaries, thrives.  Lemon balm
reaches skyward, scent to soothe
this restlessness inside.  Sage exhales
mint, weeds my mind's soil. Like herbs,
reflection grows in small spaces.
 
Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA
COMMENTS:  Lovely writing that uses an extended metaphor with language as soothing as the topic.
============
Heart of the Garden

I plant my garden with mint;
I turn each plant in gently, with a tender hand.
I dare not use a trowel, lest the herbs crumble:
tender and sensitive as they are,
the slightest rough treatment could destroy them.

When the mint is mature,
I pick the herbs and heat a few for tea.
I dare not use too much, lest the delicate flavor
turn to an overpowering intoxication.
An overdose of good can do harm.

As with the garden, so with the soul--
my heart is sensitive to rough treatment,
my heart is a haven for deep feelings.
Like mint, the herbs of the heart
can make your eyes water.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Sweetly sentimental, with a tender heart.
 

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