www.sol-magazine.org
Fall 2004 Edition
September through December

Sol Magazine, A Poetry Journal:    An international organization of Members and Volunteers interested in the education of poets.  E-mail us at Sol.Magazine@prodigy.net .  For Submission Requirements and Membership information, visit: http://www.sol-magazine.org.

FEATURED ARTICLES - Fall Note: These links are on a separate web page and will exit you from the current edition. Celebrate the USA: Winners announced Famous Poets: Federico Garcia Lorca

CONTENTS of this page:

• September
• September Song
• September Lagniappe
• September Editors Choice
• October
• In My Own Land
• October Lagniappe
• October Editors Choice
• November-December
• I Voted This Year
• Alabaster Cities
• November-December Editors Choice
• Contact info

FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $30.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

Last September

I come to the end of the day
longing for piney woods
and autumn's song from Fergus's pipes.

Long he would play Amazing Grace
with the breath of ancient days
blowing through apple trees so sweet

on Murphy's hill. Crickets chattered
in harmony, critters watched
from afar, color lulled the sun

to sleep. I think of warmer nights
and wander up through dead wood,
listen for wind to blow, alive

again, past my predictable pines,
up Murphy's hill. I long to hear
still the breath of Fergus to God.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

September Threads

Thick autumn heat sews color slow,
remnants of August's party dress linger.
Green fades, gives way to bold patches
of scarlet and saffron mending maples.

Gentian-stained wild flowers flutter
in the folds.  Asters and achillea
stitch among goldenrod.  Thistle seeds
disperse, puffs of white fuzz carried zigzag

in beaks of chickadees.  At stream edge,
yellowed bracken ferns wrinkle, a frog bastes
on warm stones, bumblebees needle pollen
in joe-pye weed.  As the sun hems closer,

in the moon of falling leaves, light shrinks until
the earth changes her skirt for October.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA

Memories of September

Autumn waits in the wings, as September
beckons her to come forth.
Summer wanes and bids her time adieu.
Our wedding vows spoken on day eleven,
now we reminisce about trials and blessings
in our walk through many years as one.

Another year – ninth month, day eleven,
terror fell from skies, as if out of Heaven,
ripped structures and lives asunder.
Fires, dying embers remained long after
evil befell our land.  Out of the rubble,
we counted bodies, not souls, as we sifted
ashes through fingers – past our hearts.

Three years have passed since that last
day eleven – bittersweet memories rise.
Now, celebration of marriage with children
who travel life’s road together in boundless
faith, and we, as they – wonder where
and how our journeys will end.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA

EDITOR'S NOTE:  For many in America, September 11th is a time for remembrance of the 2001 destruction of the New York Twin Towers.  But lest we forget that we are not the exclusive holders of grief when this date is mentioned, let us spare a moment to recall September 11, 1972, when terrorists killed eleven Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympic Games.  We are alike in strong recollection, disbelief and sorrow.
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HONORABLE MENTION

Fall Festivals

Sonatas swell in Galveston woods
With the arrival of southbound
Feathered frequent flyers
Perching in live oak canopies
Festooned with swags of Spanish moss

Nature’s invisible baton signals
Scarlet Tanagers' loud rich call
Fading into high pitched trills
From choirs of Yellow Warblers
Concluding with an Indigo Bunting aria

The symphony continues on college campuses
Each September as migrating freshman scholars
Converge in dorms with cell phones twittering
Melodic Tanager, Warbler and Bunting notes

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENT:  An interesting, unexpected final stanza introduces a fresh comparison, and lends a surprising twist to the preceding nature scenes. Nice use of the topic.
Fall Festivals  Crafty description of birds and students.
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

Falling Sand

When school children suddenly appeared again
at bus stops, whirling and diving at one another
in a last frolic before the year turned serious…

When fields faded and mottled with dryness
and leaves of  roadside bushes curled and frizzled,
worn out with the exultation of hard summer's labor…

When from crests of mountains could be seen ponds
steaming in valleys below,  like giants' wash pots,
in the first coolness of shortened days…

In that time, now faded, we walked slowly, softly
in the last bright light of promise that soon seemed
to fade into a dark, cold night.  Now is the time of regret
for the beauty of former days, seasons too soon over,
like life.  It was life, life that is yet longed for…
another time, another place, another self..

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA
COMMENT:  Well crafted simile.  Wistful and expressive!
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

A Fresh New Song

Sap of Africa rising,
Rising with power,
Voices chanting
Under budding
Blossoms, delicate
Fragile leaves
Coming slowly
Into a new world;
Unfolding leaves
Of a new democracy
Easing uncertainly
Into a new season;
Voices chanting
A fresh new song.

Gillian Beatrice Wilkinson, Saxonwold, RSA
COMMENTS:  A powerful poem of brief lines and clear strong images, that swells as each brief line leads the reader into the next; this piece captures the feeling of new hope. Well done.  Simple and direct, the poem pulses with hope.  Nicely done.
=====
OTHER POEMS
=====
Fall Song From Roswell 2004

The moon plays tag between the clouds,
adding a pattern of light and darkness to the cold fall night.
Red maples dot the hillside mixed with green pines,
yellow aspen higher up the mountains shine in the morning sunrise.
Wind song opens the morning and brings the smell of fresh mown hay
and the rustle of pines echoing the winter coming.
A wheat field turns golden with ripe grain,
as the combine arrives to harvest and send new wheat to the mill.
Large fields of Milo maize cut into silage for the dairy herd,
that graze now in the open meadow.
First frost on the reddening tomatoes
white with red balls between, the last of summer’s fruit.
The flying V and honking song in the misty white sky
as the sandhill cranes return to winter in the bird refuge.
The heady smell of roasting green chilies fill the afternoon
warn with thoughts of grandma’s green chili stew.
Golden rod lines the shore of the old pond
and frog's chorus songs fill the evening sunset.

Jim Applegate, Roswell, NM, USA
=====
This Is September

When the days grow short and a bit less sunny,
When the afternoon light turns thick as honey,
When the crickets’ tune has altered its timbre,
This is September.

When the nights are cool and moon gently shining,
When the world for rest seems to be repining,
When the reeds are worn and no longer limber,
This is September.

When the wind has fallen down in the hollow,
When the flowers are gone and leaves soon follow,
When the fire has died to just one ember,
This is September.

When the might-have-beens of the spring come wooing,
When the hoot-owl asks you what you are doing,
When the oak tree wonders if you remember,
This is September.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
=====
Autumn Pleasures

Camouflaged with colored leaves
we point our sticks at the enemy,
stalk the silent stand of trees,
attack, fight with gallant daring.

Returning to our leafy fortress,
we leap and tumble
in cushioned heaps of foliage.
Conquest is ours.

I'm still the tomboy in my heart,
love to kick the crispy leaves,
smell the woodsy scent,
remember times of childish pleasure.

Bright cold days of autumn

Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper, Portland, OR, USA
=====
Preservation

Steaming saucepans of fragrant apple butter
Stir up memories of past Septembers
When three generations of cooks
Gathered to preserve the season's bounty.
Perspiration dripping we sat in straight-backed chairs
Pealing luscious peaches, slicing yellow pears
And coring red Rome Beauty apples
Anticipating cold days and opening sparkling jars
Of pickled peaches, pear preserves or apple butter.
Boiling kettle lids rose and fell like cymbals
Clapping Chim Chim Cheree songs to accompany
Our chatter and gales of laughter.
Sipping icy lemonade we rested, ears cocked to catch
Gratifying pop of jar tops assuring their seal
While sharing well-traveled family stories
Creating memories that cement generations together.

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
=====
September Mind

Oh!  My memory serves me well,
It’s keen this time of year.
Oh!  I’m like a recollection,
College football draws near.

When fields of sod began to turn,
Autumn leaves shuffles ‘round.
Arenas light up ‘cross the land,
Bands ring atop their ground.

The bands ring loud upon these fields
At half time, some before.
As arenas light up the land
Music fans beg for more.

Oh!  My memory serves me well.
Excitement!  Labor Day!
College football is my first love,
Passes my weekend of play.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
=====
The County Fair

The calendar says that September’s here.
Back to school; every child’s fear.
Harbinger of cool weather is in the air.
But there’s excitement at the local fair.
Great exhibits, food, rides everywhere.
Crafty artisans sell one-of-a kind wares,
colorful musicians fiddle and pick,
magicians perform stellar tricks,
and farmers display abundant harvest
knowing they’ll have the winter to rest.
For the local folk a memorable day
and one final time to make hay.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA
=====
Cool Relief

When September comes to Houston
the sauna in the air
becomes a crisp freshness,
the fire in the sky
becomes a golden ball on a royal blue background,
and the sirocco becomes a luscious chill.

When September comes to Houston
an afternoon outdoors is a long-awaited pleasure,
a stream of hawks flows across the sky,
and last spring's warblers
(many mellowed from the brilliant golds of those days)
come by for another visit.

When September comes to Houston
we rarely envy New England its brilliant leaves
in the thrill of the first pleasant weather
we've felt in four months.
We enjoy an autumn as glorious
as anyone could wish.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
=====
Back to contents

FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $10.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

The Forgotten Food

Milk is the forgotten food,
The first food our bodies knew.
We put it in everything – the bread
We bake, the cereal in our bowls,
Casseroles and scrambled eggs.
We don’t think about it much – perhaps
We’ve gotten out of touch.  We think,
When we think at all, that it comes
From a carton, not a cow.  Do we ever
Wonder how?  A brown cow eats
Green grass and gives white milk:
Childhood’s miracle is today’s
Tip-of-the-tongue event, lost memory
Jumbled under more important things.
But mother’s lullaby is tucked
In our bones like calcium, and
Honey is only half of heaven.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

Mood Magic

Cocoa simmers on the stove,
comfort teases my nose.
Lips anticipate the taste
of the peppermint-stick stirrer.
Wind-torn branches
thrash against the pane,
make scratchy noises
like tomcat claws.
Leaf-stuffed gutters
tumble water with a rush,
hiss down, play drum rolls
on garbage can lids.
Tufts of grass dance
bravely in the breeze,
whomp along like waves
in a wild Flamenco.
Ominous creaks grate
as I tuck my toes
deeper into the coverlet;
hot chocolate works its magic.

Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper, Portland, OR, USA

With a plate of Grandma's dark, fudgy brownies still
warm from the oven in one hand and a copy of
"Gone With the Wind" in the other, I headed for
the hammock that was stretched between two
Magnolia trees.  The blooms were scattered like
giant snowflakes nestled between clusters of shiny,
dark green leaves that made me think it might have
just rained.  Velvety petals opened up to reveal
cone-shaped faces that looked up at the sky
while a whiff of lemon scented the heavy air.
Memories of days spent lazily sipping sweet tea
laced with fresh mint from the garden, munching
cookies and daydreaming of Rhett Butler.  What
could be more delicious than that?  Memories of
innocent, carefree days long gone.

June LaVernway, Roswell, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  Fine comparisons of blooms to snowflakes, and petals to faces.  Nice scattering of scents and tastes, with lots to see and think about.  Good lyrical poem.
============
HONORABLE MENTION
Egg Saga

On the day we give thanks,
our share of dinner
is eggs, hard-boiled; twenty plus four
divided, makes forty-eight.
Hot gems: hard, brittle, cracked
after time spent in pan on stove.
Then flowing in cold water, the egg shells
peel as fast as four hands can work.
The albumen solidifies when boiled,
the epidermis peels, tears into big
holes like craters on the moon.
Some yolks come through, some lay
upside down, sideways in pan
when cooked...fallen yellows.

I remember my dad, his favorite food,
these hard-boiled eggs.  But peeling them caused wars.
Tempers rose on home front, conservation blunt.
My mom began baking them like casseroles.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  Catchy title.  Great foray into process of boiling eggs, each point detailed and explained, including the use of wonderfully particular words such as "albumen" and "epidermis."  Interesting comparison to "hot gems," that brings up a double picture of both boiled eggs and stolen jewels.  The intimate touch at the end allows the poem to segue from simple description into a personal and humorous narrative.
==========
HONORABLE MENTION
Liver and Onions on a Sunday

Sometimes poems will take you places you don't want to go--
like milk-soaked liver and onions for Sunday dinners.
Fried bacon and onions would be all right I suppose, but
sometimes those poems will take command-and you don't want to go!
Doused with flour, fried in fat - it's enough to make you gag.
So you take a breath, then hold your nose before diving into the fray.
Sometimes poems will take you places you don't want to go
like milk-soaked liver and onions on a Sunday.

Terrie Leigh Relf, San Diego, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  This succinct poem well and humorously describes this poet's dilemma, as she gives way to a lament.  The variation of the same lines as they repeat brings a natural unity to the poem.  We see, we smell, we weep with the poet.  Nicely done.
==========
OTHER POEMS
==========
A Cordial Lagniappe

We never planted our wild plums.  A bird did.
She scattered seeds, the seeds germinated, then nourished
By nature (though nurtured by no hand) her trees bore fruit
­ Scant pickings for the gardener in those first years, but
This year of ample warmth and rain, the bird’s trees
Bore a payload:  tiny, tart yet tasty fruits the size of
Queen Anne cherries.  Plum sauce and plum tarts graced
Our table.  Plum cakes consoled bereaved
Plum butter, plum jelly -- plum tired! -- I piled the dregs
Into a jar with sugar, water and grain alcohol.  Set it
Aside a place overlooked but not forgotten
Waited as the magic brewed, for
Magic’s in a springtime taste on winter dreary
Nights.  Remember sunshine?  Gentle rains?
Delightful that bird unawares gained entry to
Our carefully platted sanctuary.  Ignored
Manicured landscape.  Spit out a plum seed
On her travels, who knows where?
We never planted wild plums
But a bird did.

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
==========
What Was Wrong With My Mother?

To a child, a wood stove was nothing but pleasure, fun.
Fun to occasionally bring in wood, sniffing its rawness
take out warm ashes without sniffing them up my nose.
Pleasure!  Oh, the aroma of smoke mixed with supper.
Baked apples and a wild duck fried to perfection, tender
and crispy, accompanied by thick, rich, creamy gravy
pert with crunchies and rice so sticky it was glossy.
And the biscuits hot from the oven's iron box that filled
them with smoke, mixed-wood smoke, sensuous as Siam.
Nothing ever tasted better.  No god's nectar was ever
more enrapturing.  It was a shock to my artless palate.
A shock to my sensibilities came with an announcement:
a new, shining white electric stove had arrived.  No more
wood to split, to haul in, sometimes set out on the porch
to dry.  No more carting off buckets of ashes, sometimes
with hot coals glowing like novas in the gray ashes.
No more building fires every morning, cozy, hissing fires
with bacon sizzling and mingling its hickory smoke
with the smoke seeping from cracks in the oven walls.
No more.  Mama, it seems, preferred electricity to wood.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX  USA
============
Sweet Smorgasbord

Ice cream party at the church tonight.
"Do you want vanilla or chocolate?"
I opt for one scoop of each.
Then I slide down the toppings bar,
drizzle on caramel, watch it harden into golden streaks.
I ooze on chocolate syrup,
add fresh strawberries, chunks of pineapple
(the juice mingles with the melting ice cream),
raspberries, white chocolate shavings, peanut butter chips.
I top it all with a sprinkling of chopped almonds.
Seated at last, I plunge my spoon in
like a pirate unearthing a chest of jewels.
The whole pile melts on my tongue,
the choice nuggets lingering after the liquid slides down.
The mass in my bowl melts together
into one luscious blob
(I help it along, churning with the spoon).
I feel five years old again,
making a mess and loving every moment.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

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From the SEPTEMBER SONG Contest

Last September

I come to the end of the day
longing for piney woods
and autumn's song from Fergus's pipes.

Long he would play Amazing Grace
with the breath of ancient days
blowing through apple trees so sweet

on Murphy's hill. Crickets chattered
in harmony, critters watched
from afar, color lulled the sun

to sleep. I think of warmer nights
and wander up through dead wood,
listen for wind to blow, alive

again, past my predictable pines,
up Murphy's hill. I long to hear
still the breath of Fergus to God.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

Back to contents

When you are an adult, with an adult set of responsibilities, it is very difficult to write as if you were a child, yet these poems here somehow transport us into a child's world, where war may or may not be real, where sometimes the fight is not against other people, but what is going on in our own bodies, and into that very special place where understanding is incomplete, and very very personal.
=====
FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $30.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE
 

Timur at Beslam School #1

Don't cry mama papa's waiting
Pretend we are secret agents for President Putin
Without paper we have to remember everything
Soldiers killing children and teachers
Bombs hanging from the gym ceiling
Everyone is hot, no food, no water
Think of the cold juices we'll have at home
I'm rubbing your feet like I do
When you are tired after work
Papa's coming
Next week, you'll bake my birthday cake
With ten candles plus balloons and flowers
Like we had in our School Parade 3 days ago
Before the bandits took over
Papa's watching
Stay low Mama
It's all exploding
There's a hole in the wall
Climb out - run
Papa's here

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

In Georgia, 1864

I hide
with my sister
in the cellar, afraid,
listening for Sherman's Army
eyes shut.

Broken
molasses jars
litter the earthen floor.
It's dark. We hear our mother scream
nearby.

One tear
mars my resolve
as I hug Sis tighter -
from now on, I'll no longer be
a child.

Deborah P Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA

Today I watched on the TV
news about the war in Iraq.
Mom told me my Uncle Bill
is over there.  She won't talk
about the guns and bombs,
shakes her head and says
there is too much death.
I ask my Grandpa, he says
no war is good but sometimes
we do what we feel we must.
He shows me his bullet
wounds from Vietnam.
I remember when the Twin
Towers burned.  I had an Aunt
that worked there.  She was lost
that day, we prayed, we cried,
we hoped.  I went to her funeral,
her coffin was empty.  We couldn't
even scatter her ashes in the wind.
I hope my Uncle Bill comes back.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA
=====
HONORABLE MENTION
Any War, Any Time, Any Place

My friend doesn't play with me any more
Mama says he went to sleep
and has gone to Nirvana
but I saw him just the other day
lying in the street. His eyes were open.
I called to him but he didn't answer.
He didn't move, he didn't even blink.
Mama pulled me away from our door.

He and I used to play even after the men came.
Sometimes we played in the broken bricks and dirt
We played hide and seek alongside our mothers.
We played the "quiet as a mouse" game with them too.
My mother cries her prayers. She weeps when
she looks at me. She wimpers when she sees
my friend's mother.

I will be six on my next birthday.
I wish my friend would hurry back from Nirvana.

Claiborne Schley Walsh, Montrose, AL, USA
=====
HONORABLE MENTION
Child's Eyes

Hear the bands
clap my hands
bright flags waving lots of fun
see Dad marching
going somewhere with his gun.

Daddy's gone
letters come
smiling pictures Dad in camp
one bright morning
there's the preacher, her eyes damp.

Hear the drums
Daddy comes
see a big box going by
bright flag folded
and I watch my momma cry.

Gary Wade, Seymour, IA, USA
=====
OTHER POEMS TO THIS TOPIC
=====
Saphronia's Story

I just don't understand why Pa left
me, Ma, Lunceford, Shelby and Baby Lottie all alone.
Ma said he has gone to war. Wonder what war is.
Pa missed my birthday again when I turned seven.
Every day Ma makes me watch the young'uns
while she fetches water from down the hill.
She tells me to latch the door so Indians can't get in.
I don't understand why war took Pa away. Ma's always tired.
Me and her plant and weed the corn and feed the hogs.
I wish I could ride my spotted pony but strange men
in blue jackets with guns were in the woods yesterday.
Ma called 'em rabbit hunters; look liked soldiers to me.
Folks on Cold Mountain said men are taking things
so we hid our sugar and salted fat back.
Not much left, we're real hungry. I don't understand war.
Those strange men are in our barn poking around.
Oh Ma, they have my pony. I'll stop them.
Please, don't take my pony, please.
Ma, they took my pony. My pony's gone!
Is this what war means?

Kay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
=====
"Kriegskind" Part I - The Vanquished

I have no father; our fathers have scattered to the winds
North to England's skies, to Norway; south to Africa, Crete
East to Mother Russia's vast steppe; west to France, the sea
Always to death or to something far worse:  the unknown
Mutti still has Göring's telegram about Vati's heroic death
I wish I had his courage - I also wish I had him back again
Speaking of Göring, I remember a street vendor who'd hawk
"Herring, herring! Fat as old Göring!" - he soon disappeared
We never saw him again, but I doubt he died a hero's death
Peter's father came back - two months' walk here to Berlin
He jumped from a cattle car, hobbled home on a broken ankle
Better that than slow death in a French POW camp, he said
Now the Russians have taken him to ask him some questions
Mutti says he won't be back; funny how things don't change
I miss Klaus; he fell at his flak battery post, age fourteen
He had a nice uniform and a medal from the Führer himself
He was old enough to fight for our Fatherland, unlike me
My great war duty was to help Oma to the bomb shelter
Annette also fell, to shrapnel - she was eight; but
Mutti made it, and Oma - Opa too, at first; we're survivors

Michael Christopher Jansen, Friendswood, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Strong intimate writing.  Good diction, with many personal details that transition back and forth from memories to commentary.  Although this was written about childhood from an adult's point of view, rather than in the asked-for voice of a child, it is well worth reading and contemplating.  Nicely done!
=====
Repulsive War

I do not understand the hate,
such ugly fate,
repulsive war.
Whose keeping score?

An older brother went away.
Came home today
in a pine box
with bolts and locks.

My friend sees depth this pain I feel,
emotions reel.
My pain as deep as ocean floor,
but deep as mine, her pain is more.
I lost my brother.
She lost her mother.

Repulsive war,
we’re keeping score.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
=====
Daniel's War

When last bell rings I leave my room
for clinic's gloom.
In dark I cry
then start to sigh.
There is no pain in gentle rain.
I cry again.
I watch the clock,
will my friend mock
my new bald head laced with wire thread
or shave his head?
I think he cares.
He'll shed head hairs.

Yvonne Byrd Nunn, Hermleigh, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  This poem relates a very personal war against an enemy a child can barely understand.  Shows the pain and hopes of the narrator, while evoking a resonse in the reader.  The short lines and clipped pace force the reader to stop and read each line again, and as we do, we come to understand this child's feelings.
=====
Land of Plastic Rat – A – Tat – Tats

In this made up game of war we’ll play
I’m the good guys and this is my home base.
You’re the bad guys; you have ‘til ten to go away.
One, two, three – no, it’s not unfair for me to stay;
I was here first, so find your own place
so we can start this game of war we play.
Four, five, six – come on, you gonna start today?
Why do you have that big frown on your face?
You’re the bad guys, you’d better run away.
Seven, eight, nine – get ready for doomsday!
You’d better be quietly hiding someplace
if not I’ll win this game of war we play
Ten – coming in! Ready or not, ok?
You’re about to meet Commando Ace!
Here I Am, Bad Guys, you’d better run away!
I’ve got my guns blazing, and my green beret;
Why don’t you fight back, or retreat someplace?
Nobody really dies in the war we play –
Good guys and bad guys, we all walk away.

Brady Riddle, Galveston, TX, USA
=====
Daddy, Come Home

I don't understand why Daddy is in Afghanistan.
I ask Mommy and she says that he's fighting terrorism.
I don't really understand that word, but I know one day,
a few years ago, some bad people flew some planes
into the towers in New York and a lot of people died.
I watch the news and see Army soldiers in desert camouflage.
I’ve seen Daddy in his uniform and know he is in a place
where people wear funny clothes and rags on their heads.
There's an explosion and the TV scrambles the picture.
Grown-ups scream; kids cry; and everyone gets out of way.
I’m glad I’m here and not there where there are explosions.
Soldiers carrying guns chase after the people who did it.
Then the television switches to another story.
I miss my daddy, my tall and strong daddy.
I know he's brave to fight for our country.
Mommy says I’m a big boy to help her with the baby.
But if I suck my thumb and curl up in my blanket,
just maybe Daddy will come home.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA
=====
I Don't Understand

Why aren't the neighbors friendly anymore
The grownups call it war
Why doesn't my father come home
My mother calls it war
Who are these strange men in strange clothes
The neighbors call it war
Why are the nights so noisy
My teacher calls it war
Why can't I go out to play
Who are these strange men in strange clothes
carrying those long dangerous things
They call it war
They say they came to help us
if they came to help us
why are things worse since they came
Everyone calls it war
All I know about war
is it's everything that's bad
If it's everything that's bad
why do we have to have war?

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

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FIRST PLACE:  WINNER OF A $20.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

Freedom in Johannesburg, South Africa

we stand on the corner in the orange rays
of the setting sun, holding up a tatty
chalked placard: " Help me pay the fine - my
dog ate Thabo Mbeki's shoes" - the shoes
of the president busy bringing money and
houses and hospitals and jobs to the likes
of us standing here on the street corner begging
day after day. they say that there will be a
chance for me in the new democratic south
africa because the economy is improving
and more black people are driving mercedes,
wearing gucci and buying houses in bryanston
which is why I stand here on the corner near
the bmw garage hoping for a few rand so that
I can buy a bottle and some glue, so that
I can experience the freedom of our recently
freed land. there is a poster of Mandela on
the pole above my head - I like looking at
it especially when the fumes swirl around
the channels of my brain, freeing me from
my poverty, from my despair and my pain.

Gillian Wilkinson, Saxonwold, RSA

is simple, and sweet.
It is easy to forget those
who daily struggle
for our right to forget them.

We awaken in a warm home
wealthy by the world's standards.
Clean linen and a healthy breakfast
to move into the day.

How can I remind myself
hourly, daily, weekly, to remember?
Or is their sacrifice
just so I don't have to?

Freedom is more than being free
to live peacably and well
It is the ability to once and again
forget there is another way to live.

Marsha Steed, Roseville, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  Nice use of a bridging title to bring the reader directly in without a hint of  hesitation.  Intimate, thoughtful.  Universal ideas well expressed.
=====
Freedom in Houston, Texas

I remember when I was a child
when our church had its first wave of Vietnamese members
first time I ever really noticed immigrants.
Twenty years later, everywhere you go
you see a microcosm of the world
every known race, country, and culture
turbans, head scarves, and flowing saris
African, Arab, East Asian, Latin American
a parade of styles and colors
all shades and shapes of beauty.
Culture endures to the third and fourth generation
we all take pride in our heritage
we all learn from each other
this is equality
this is interculturalism
this is freedom.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Nice listing of elements; like a parade they parade before the reader in a smooth transition of general to particular, then back again.  With the mention of her childhood, this poet gently brings us into her world.  And as her world changes, she shares her understanding of how we are all similar, yet also how we cling to that which we know.  Excellent writing that shows care for diction, word choice, and placement.

Back to contents

From the YES, FREEDOM Contest

Freedom in Johannesburg, South Africa

we stand on the corner in the orange rays
of the setting sun, holding up a tatty
chalked placard: " Help me pay the fine - my
dog ate Thabo Mbeki's shoes" - the shoes
of the president busy bringing money and
houses and hospitals and jobs to the likes
of us standing here on the street corner begging
day after day. they say that there will be a
chance for me in the new democratic south
africa because the economy is improving
and more black people are driving mercedes,
wearing gucci and buying houses in bryanston
which is why I stand here on the corner near
the bmw garage hoping for a few rand so that
I can buy a bottle and some glue, so that
I can experience the freedom of our recently
freed land. there is a poster of Mandela on
the pole above my head - I like looking at
it especially when the fumes swirl around
the channels of my brain, freeing me from
my poverty, from my despair and my pain.

Gillian Wilkinson, Saxonwold, RSA

Back to contents

FIRST PLACE - WINNER OF A $20.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

At the Turnstile

In the midst of hope and wish and wonder
V.I.P.s, who could not sleep, rush,
while temperatures are rising
on where we are heading
to change the hour of appointment,
the standard of living polluting towns
of people...hoping, wishing, wondering
and saying
we could gain with a wisdom far greater than
hope and wish and wonder.
V. I. P. s, any single one, recount so much
they have done
showing their stripes with signs and events
demanding laws far greather than
each one had done before.
Today, in the midst of hope and wonder
I am thankful for that power
of freedom to change the appointment hour
--take one more look as friends are saying,
step through that turnstile, stand and Vote.

Betty Ann Whitney, Wesley Chapel, FL, USA

Electile Dysfunction

I voted,
but I don’t feel any better.
I voted,
but I don’t feel heard.

I voted,
but it didn’t change anything.
I voted,
but it didn’t do any good.

If this is the land of the free,
why are civil rights threatened?
If this is America,
why are bald eagles endangered?

If this is democracy,
then splintered crystal is music.
This is tomorrow,
and we all dance to the sound of breaking glass.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

Inaugural Experience

As usual, our votes are going to cancel each other out.
Thirty-plus years and I still haven’t persuaded him
To embrace my way of thinking.

How could two people who are otherwise “peas in a pod”
Be polar opposites in the political arena?

We cast our slurs like arrows across
The distance between recliners.

“Why waste our time going to the polls,” he suggests
And knowing --a s  u s u a l­- we will cancel each
other out
I agree not to go.

Lunchtime.
I drive to my precinct and wait my turn
I have no remorse

For once my vote will count.

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Captures the anger felt at a personal level over political differences.  The line turns force an interesting pause between thoughts, slowing the poem where one might rush through to the end.  Nicely done.
========
HONORABLE MENTION

A wise friend once said

"Listen to what they do--not to what they say"
so I watch

my ears following each movement
each smoky mirror trick

and so I keep watching

my  lips moving in syncopated rhythm
to their gesticulating hands

and then I watch some more

my eyes tasting car exhaust and
pink-slipped  promises

and I'll keep watching
for the sound of democracy

Terrie Leigh Relf, San Diego, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  Very cleverly stated disappointment, disillusionment and disgust.  Nice descriptions.
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

When I Voted

dad was with me
in more than spirit
with an open heart
and him in mind

i cast the vote
that would honor him
in all that he'd done
for all that he taught us

Bonnie (lilibon) Williams, Deptford, NJ, USA
COMMENTS:  Gentle piece shows honor to a parent.  Good cadence, nice line turns.
=====
OTHER POEMS
=====
November 2, 2004

I got up with enthusiasm to vote in a hurry
Everyone was confused and started to scurry,
They told me to stand in a line from A-Z,
Then they completely ignored me,
It was a good thing I had my voter's card,
Because finding my name became really hard,
They didn't know I was so with it,
That's how come I viewed my name in a minute,
After I whacked through all the red tape,
I closed the curtains and put on my voting cape,
I felt like Super Woman trying to save the day,
Even though I was just voting for a better way.

Margaret Brown-Bailey, Westbury, NY, USA
=====
A Vote Not Counted

I heard mudslinging on the news
The verbal trash and pointed views
While driving to my job each day
I listened intently to what they'd say.
I felt passion in their hue and cry
Saw banners waving in the sky
My mailbox filled with campaign sheets
The candidates would beat the streets.
Speechmaking voices filled the air
Donkeys and Elephants were everywhere
Debates took place and lines were drawn
Vote for ME signs on every lawn.
It's time to rise and take a stand
You all must vote! spread across the land
The teens, minorities, women and men
It's time to elect a president again.
The day has come to cast my vote
Unfortunately, I missed the boat
When moving, missed the new registration
My lost vote may have changed the nation!

Shelley Culver, Benton, KS, USA
=====
The Gothic Voter

The polls close in two hours.
I’m feeding the babies, still in my pajama pants
and t-shirt.  When John gets home from work
I’m on baby #3 and dinner is in the freezer.
The polls close in one hour and 40 minutes.
John says, “Go vote!”
I’ve been going over my excuses ­ I’m tired,
not enough time to get ready, the babies don’t
feel good ­ teething.  Does he really need
me in Texas anyway?
The polls close in an hour and a half.
The babies are fed.  John has started dinner.
All right, I’ll go.  Quick shower ­ hair tied up ­ no
time to blow dry.  Old black sweat pants, new
black t-shirt and easy black clogs.
John says, “What, are you the gothic voter?”
The polls close in one hour.
The sticker on my hand reads, “I voted!”
The polls closed 53 minutes ago.
I’m feeding babies.

Julie Hartman, Magnolia, TX, USA
=====
Eanie, who's Meanie, Miney or Moe?

An American vote should not be one,
selected with random toe
Simply minded, its decision flawed
A guess can lead, to biased political nil
Who's for what, if, how and or
by way some foreign name looks?
The 'Punch' to the voting card
could be the one 'Thrown' back
I'm off to the polls, propaganda in hand
Gullibly are its words, misleadingly minced
Let the counting begin, all through the night
while 'Old Faithful'  waves freely at
her 'White House' mast for our Freedom cast
However, the one choice we've yet to find,
Bipartisan of mind...
Be ever immortal, the candidate for 'Peace'
bragged for and yet, despairingly left,
and led forsaken,  behind....

Louie Levy, Thousand Oaks, CA, USA
=====
Day at the Polls

Early voting is all the rage this year.
You don’t have to be out of town,
or confined to home or bed.
You just vote early to avoid the rush
on November 2, the last day ever,
as fate might cause you not to deliver.

At the courthouse two weeks early,
no crowds, nice ladies showed us the ropes.
Into that booth with ballot in hand
and special pen on a chain to join
those arrows for choices of candidates.

In the kink of a tie, finished – not late.
Feeding those ballots into the machine,
so certain our man would make things right.
A great rush comes as monster eats paper.
We could almost hear the Star Spangled Banner
as we carried out patriotic duty,
then outside to drink of nature’s beauty.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA
=====
Absent Ballot

I could not vote
today.  I spent
12 hours on my feet
extracting cataracts
to remove the yellow
blur from ballots.
No butterflies,
no recounted States
this election.

Went to work
in the dark, came
home in the dark.
No lunch break.
Missed the open polls.
Some would say
I am not a good
American to miss
this freedom, but I work
to pay off debts.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA
=====
Voting Rites

I VOTED - not because I had to
but because I could.

I VOTED - because it's an obligation,
self imposed and accepted.

I VOTED - so that I can praise or complain
about the guy at the top with a clear conscience.

I VOTED - because I believe that ANY two people
who are committed to each other are entitled to a
legally recognized union.

I VOTED - because I fear the same unholy marriage
our Founding Fathers did - that of Church and State.

I VOTED - exalted and humbled by the power of my
hand, and every other hand, on the ballot.

I VOTED! Did you?

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA
=====
Far From Home

One escaped to Paris,
Moved because his vote never counted
Four years ago today only to pass away
So far from home;

But I feel moved too many times
Family is here besides
Our brother in the Air Force
So far from home;

Behind the red curtain in
Church lights lit
Under my fingertips,
Choice and a chance
To have it go my way
Keep me from despair for our troops still
So far from home.

R. K. Rowe, Englewood, CO, USA
=====
Making History

The candidates have shared their views
helped by their families, friends and celebrities.
After a long campaign, Election Day is finally here.
As my family and I stand in a long line at the polls,
waiting for a voting machine, I think of our power;
the 2004 Presidential Election  is in our hands.
I ponder the times I voted in years gone by.
I like the fact that I will influence history once again.
I think of my grandmother who voted in
the first election that women were allowed to vote.
This year will be my daughter’s first election.
I picture my grandmother smiling in heaven
watching her first great grand-daughter exercise
the right that she earned as young lady.
Now the line does not seem so long.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA
=====
Dedication

Early voting in Houston, Texas,
Mid-October, 2004.
It was the hottest autumn on record--
ninety-plus degrees at noon that day--
and the line extended thirty minutes
into the sun at its hottest point--
most of the line senior citizens.
A few with obvious physical disabilities
were allowed to the front,
the others stood there until their turns,
not one leaving the line,
two weeks leeway to vote notwithstanding.
The woman in front of me held a sunbrella,
to keep her skin cancer
from being aggravated, she said.
I wish all who complain about the apathy
of today's voter-eligible public
could have stood in line with me that day.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
=====
Back to contents

FIRST PLACE
WINNER OF A $20.00 ELECTRONIC BOOK GIFT CERTIFICATE

Dame Bremerton

She was over seventy when we first met,
already shabby after a life among the dives
and cribs along First Street and lower Pacific,
decked out in fur and silk when the swells dine.

She could drink, waltz and flirt all night,
but in the day raise steel and iron in defense
of her country against the Red menace.
Swabbies were her first love, but, oh, Leathernecks…!

These last forty years, she’s been abandoned –
the elite left for younger, fresher facades;
bars and dance halls closed until the few left sit
near her frayed bodice like warts.

Winters in this region have been California mild.
I wish for a severe season, several feet of snow
and ice to cover her blemishes, so I can pretend
she’s the lusty dame I danced along the upstairs hall.

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA

Belle Mobile

She is
hooped and ruffled
but so much more than that;
has fine strength beyond measure yet
tender.

Cold red
beyond scarlet
like a fireball ova
shreds her horizons pink and scorch.
Night falls.

She wears
a chinchilla
sky, diamonds on it.
It shows her wealth so beautifully,
so well.

To date
what people read
beneath this old image;
modern woman sitting beside
her past.

Claiborne Schley Walsh, Montrose, AL, USA

Sentinels

Before sunshine meets the morning mist
Iron gates clang open for custodians
Who carve a home for today’s new resident
Iridescent grackles forage fresh turned earth

The limousine procession stops
Beside white marble memorials
Mourners come and mourners go
Until they come to go no more

Alabaster stones coppered by sunset skies
Stand sentinel over silent citizens
Chuck-will’s-widow whistles low
In the alabaster city of the dead

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

The Castle Town: Charleston, Illinois

The castle stands above the town,
A fortress of uneven towers,
With strings of white lights hanging down.
In the courthouse, bells ring the hours.

Sunset’s stain washes from night’s hem,
But the shoppers only get bolder
Circling the Square, crowds of them.
The air, crisp as lettuce, grows colder.

Snow drifts down, patting people’s cheeks,
The cold wet paws of wayward kittens.
A man stops to buy what he seeks
But, hurrying, forgets his mittens.

The castle watches all below:
The season’s rush, the students’ bustle.
Along its walls, ivy vines blow,
A hint of wisdom in their rustle.

Do not say the past’s dead and gone.
It’s here – will still be here tomorrow –
Memory stays, though lives move on,
And love returns what time may borrow.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
COMMENTS:  An excellent ending to a well-paced poem.
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

Doorstep

A nick midway up the handle of the melting pot's ladle, just
Now easing into the firm grip of the Old Man's hand, smeared
With LeRoy Neiman vestiges of yesterday's Thanksgiving
You beckon me from the kitchen counter of my youth

Far from the dreaded chore represented by soiled dishes
You offer me warm memories of the sumptuous meal that was
A feast shared with family and friends which sustains me
Even into my own pending turn of advanced season

My palate dances in color-splashed fruit cup reminiscences
Swirling, arms-wide appetizers - running-tumbling-sliding in
Youthful exploration of hayfields, forests, ponds, old barns
Washed down with the cider of tree climbs, critters, caves

Ah, the main course - honey-glazed school days, small-knit
Band of all-knowing-all, first kisses under schoolyard maple
Segueing to parked explorations under forest canopy on the
Old logging road, city field trips sowing a need to leave

Norman Rockwell dessert - whitewashed clapboard rear-views
Mysterious railroad ribbons stretching to bustling antiquity
Birched hills, hairpin lanes, Gibby's Diner, one-room church
Your aftertaste lingers sweetly on my tongue - Delanson

Michael Christopher Jansen, Friendswood, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Very particular imagery brings an intimate glimpse into the life of this writer.  Sweetly remembered without being overly sentimental; rich in feeling and descriptions.  Nice visit to nostalgia.  Good link between food and memory.
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

St. Louis

As the Mississippi of mud and mirror chugs,
winter's hope of crispness
is lost amidst turbid waters of might
and willful determination.

We are a River People with a childhood
of chasing barges marching in formation
and tugboats earning their dinner,
balancing on one cobblestone at a time.

Candy colored Christmas lights spite the
smear of waning street lamps
highlighting the ash of industry
streaming through avenues and lungs.

Yet curling from smokestacks and tailpipes
this city breathes and exhales spirit.
We couldn't trade this grime for gold and wouldn't.
We are the Gateway of the West to come.

Michelle Marincel, Rolla, MO, USA
COMMENTS:  Unflinching descriptions of a city, not beautiful, yet well-loved.  Strong statements well balanced by the excellent warming ending.  Powerful voice of the people of the city.
=====
HONORABLE MENTION

A Small Town Sampler
(Kimmswick, Missouri)

in the
Kimmswick bone bed
a sycamore without
memory of the mastodon's
passing

old man
Robert E. Lee
returns as a steamboat
his battle fought on a rising
river

iron
ribs of bridge that
once held the town's traffic
gone but the holes of dog tracks in
the snow

there's still
places where talk
floats through picket fences
with boys like Tom Sawyer telling
white lies

Cindy Tebo, Catawissa, MO, USA
COMMENTS:  Wonderfully written "bites" of imagery that show both history and long familiarity.  Each stanza stands alone, yet there is a thread that runs through the entire poem, that of the poet's obvious love of this place.  Simple description translates the tone of a small town.
=====
OTHER POEMS
=====
Into the City

Sunrise between the tall towers
comes early before man has arrived.
Daylight opens the day to work
and maybe even something more.

Teaming towers become a work place
for a world filled with so many people.
Alabaster walls enclose a world of commerce
and business that is carried through the world.

Sunset means the end to a long day of work,
machines are shut off for the night’s rest.
Workers leave wearily to return to family
in the sprawling green lawned suburbs.

Others who slept in the daylight time
come out to play in the electric light shine.
Later all is quiet in long lonely streets
as lights dim to sleep before the new day.

Jim Applegate, Roswell, NM, USA
=====
Thanksgiving Pilgrimage

Abreast
the undulate
dunes scarred by hurricane
backwash from Florida, are whole
trees like

beached whales
bleaching.  Tangles
of seaweed litter once
pristine beach where tourists were wont
recline,

reposed.
Warmth forgotten,
November chills the bones
-- most people long for home, for hearth
for kin

Not me
-- I stroll along
Quintana’s surf line; seek
treasures elusive.  Pondering
trek on.

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
POET'S NOTE:  Quintana, Texas is a small island located between the mouth of the Old Brazos and New Brazos Rivers.   It became a beach resort community in the 1800's and the town was plotted in 1833.   Although once a thriving shipping community, today Quintana has only 51 full time residents.
=====
London

The cold
drizzles through fur.
The hope of white Christmas
paving way to a December
downcast.

People
oblivious
to the gloom, make merry.
For once, the English spell
riot.

Curries
In pub are rife.
The timeless wax Queen sails
yet smooth, another century
on Thames.

Arms wide
and people pride
of history, bygone.
Today, the big Ben ticks for our
future.

Aparna Belapurkar, Middlesex, GBR
=====
Sometimes Home Is Somewhere Else

They stay
bright in my mind,
avenues of color
that led me through a living past.
Desire.

Leaves skipped,
scratched, skittered, fled
across each street, hurting
my heart with longing for something--
but what?

Maples
kept the quiet,
reflecting their own light
from pools of still golden circles
beneath.

You took
my heart from me,
mountain village glowing
in the cool sun.  I never knew
your name.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA
=====
Southern Lady

Atlanta, our southern lady
Wears her alabaster buildings
Like strands of cultured pearls
As she twirls skirts of dogwood blossoms

Kudzu draped pines dance the minuet
Along Peachtree Street on spring mornings
She treasures her old Georgia marble facades
Nestled among sleek modern glass structures

Reflecting acceptance of change and progress
Of almost one hundred and fifty years of commerce
Sparkling gold mined from Georgia hills
Covers the imposing columned capitol's dome

Where legislators from mountains, plains and shores
Assemble to guide the state's rocket
Into the promising new millennium
Yet preserving her past charm and dignity

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
=====
Los Angeles

Traffic
clogged up freeways
and everyone complained -
secretly I enjoyed the time
alone.

Sunset
cast a golden
glow to alabaster
skyscrapers, the breeze from the west -
salt-tinged.

Between
obligations
a small taste of freedom -
of course, this was before we had
cell phones.

Deborah P. Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA
=====
edinburgh

is like a rock and stone melding,
winter gods giving land and idea form,
above a wind cutting walkers on North Bridge,
its edge true to the North Sea birthing.

the restored Parliament stays in,
curved, compressed waves-
you need no David Hume to rid,
the tartan tat and give the facts:

the land that whispered life into
pauses and power in the Declaration,
needs further heart restored,
a capital out for more.

Andrew McNeil, Edinburgh, GBR
=====
Moved To

New Town:
Nascent friendships
Natives welcomed...friendly
They love football...both our children
toot horns.

Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
=====
City by the Bay

Sunrise blazes the skyline.
Walls of stone and steel aflame.
Quiet shattered by the awakening horde.
Day roars to a new beginning.

Chariots of metal crowd the golden bridge.
Multitudes ferry across the foam-tipped waves.
City streets erupt with humanity.
Work defines the day.

Sunset envelopes the city.
Stars twinkle between wisps of fog.
Lights bejewel the streets and buildings.
Day slides quietly into the night.

Amanda Burgess Murphy, Brentwood, CA, USA
=====
City, Just for Fun

Poplar
Bluff, Missouri,
city not visited
of late; more youthful time of life
recalled.

We sailed
on nearby Lake
Wappapello – carried
our boat atop the car, bent on
suntans.

We danced
in Poplar Bluff
at Tia Juana lounge,
spot likened to a private club,
our tans

stunning.
Again we sailed
at dawn to deepen tanned skin
before we began our homeward
journey.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA
=====
The Seasons of Houston

When the heat of summer settles on the southeast Texas coast
And the air is hot and clammy and discomfort's at its most
One could hide indoors forever with the AC turned up high
But be careful--several buildings are as cold as frozen pie!

No relief till late September (give or take a week or two)
When the daily air grows cooler and the sky a brighter blue
And the leaves break out in colors of a red and golden sheen
(But this isn't quite New England--many stay forever green!)

Fall goes off and winter enters and the sky is cold and gray
(Cold by Houston standards only--barely freezing on the way)
On occasion days are cooler and the sky is clear and bright
But the clouds are all we locals ever see attired in white!

Winter passes, spring is coming--this is Texas at its best
Migrant birds stop by in transit in fantastic colors dressed
And in fields around the city every wildflower is in bloom
(We enjoy it while we have it--summer comes again too soon!)

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
=====
Houston Holidays

Home for the season
home to celebrate
one plane flight
one carry-on bag

Free from the snow
the below-zero temperatures
the sinking to the ankles
the sliding on white oil

Home to blue skies on
"cold" days of forty degrees
(some days hot and sultry
milder versions of summer)

Winter home to calling birds
golden warblers deck the trees
robins decorate the forests
bluebirds bring clear sky to gray days

Old south meets old west here
urban meets country
no better place to be
for the turning of the year.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
=====
Back to contents

From the ALIBASTER CITIES Contest

Dame Bremerton

She was over seventy when we first met,
already shabby after a life among the dives
and cribs along First Street and lower Pacific,
decked out in fur and silk when the swells dine.

She could drink, waltz and flirt all night,
but in the day raise steel and iron in defense
of her country against the Red menace.
Swabbies were her first love, but, oh, Leathernecks…!

These last forty years, she’s been abandoned –
the elite left for younger, fresher facades;
bars and dance halls closed until the few left sit
near her frayed bodice like warts.

Winters in this region have been California mild.
I wish for a severe season, several feet of snow
and ice to cover her blemishes, so I can pretend
she’s the lusty dame I danced along the upstairs hall.

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA
============

Back to contents

---

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