Summer 2005 Edition
July through September
 © 2005 Sol Magazine

Sol Magazine, A Poetry Journal:  A ten-year project of an international organization of Members and Volunteers interested in the education of poets.

Dead poets are paid in praise.  Live poets are paid in copies. 
~ Mary Margaret Carlisle, Sol Magazine 

Question:  Is is the word "fire" one syllable or two? 

Answer:  If "higher" has two syllables, then so does "hire," for both are pronounced the same way, and therefore "fire" should also should be considered to have two syllables.

Note: These links are on separate web pages and will exit you from the current edition.
  • Poetry +: Maryann Hazen Stearns (Aug. 2005)
  • Poetry Works: "About Publishing, Part 3, LCCN & CIP" (Aug. 2005)
  • Poetry +: Craig Tigerman (July 2005)
  • Poetry Works: "About Publishing, Part 2, ISBN Numbers" (July 2005)

    CONTENTS of this page
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    Letters may be slightly edited for length.
    TO:  Our poets.  You are all in our thoughts, and we do so much appreciate the many contributions you make to Sol Magazine through your writing and the sharing of your lives.  Warmest regards from Sol's Staff. 
    FROM:  Jeanette Oestermyer ~ I received the certificate, and noticed it was dated 10/21, the day I had foot surgery and have not been on my PC until today.  I am in a wheelchair and on crutches for at least four weeks.  Thank you so much and God Bless. 
    FROM:  Warner Conarton ~ Thank you for the gift certificate.  Also, the award certificate.  Also the lovely poetry/photo magazine. Also, the fun I have had because of Sol Magazine.  I love you. 
    FROM:  Avonne Griffin ~ Your package arrived...I was surprised and delighted with the magazines and journals you included for me to read and consider submitting to. I am enjoying them very much. Thank you for such a thoughtful extra!  And of course the Poet's Market is always a delicious addition to any writer's library! I appreciate and have benefited from Sol. If I can be of any help, please do not hesitate to ask.  Sincerely...


    FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $10.00 electronic book gift certificate.

    Missouri in Late July on a Search for the Joplin Spook Light

    We turn wrong and eat our own dust going back the same way we came.
    Every mile is rutted and what's supposed to be gravel has worn down
    to pebbly bits of chalk.  We follow the sinking sun
    and find a spot to park. There's a sad cry.
    I mistake a child for the whippoorwill.
    Twilight settles into a ring of cigarettes.  I hear a whoosh.
    Thank god it's not my tire.  Just a breeze through
    the oaks and hickories.  An orange globe steps out of the woods.
    Maybe a teen with a flashlight. But it's not.  The figure bobs along
    skimming the treetops.  I lose sight of its glow.  It's time to leave
    but we're stuck between cars.  We talk about the devil's campsite
    and the soldier who's lost his head.
    After wearing these out, the spook light returns.
    It's trapped here like us.  A bouncing ball
    on a lonely ridge of repeat performances.

    Cindy Tebo, Catawissa, MO, USA

    COMMENTS:  Like something out of a haunting mystery, this narrative poem speaks directly with highly descriptive, almost surreal images and sound to create a recognizable yet unsettling setting.  Well done, poet!  Even with the presence of a car and a flashlight, this piece evokes a time and place from more than a century ago. The poet has used a staccato, jangly rhythm which suits the spooky subject and setting very well. Careful word selection and placement gives us fine imagery as in  "...eat our own dust going back ...", "... a ring of cigarettes." and the wistful, sad final sentence.

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    How we maidens learnt to count to five

    I watch as, with his black umbrella,
    Dr Ahmid waves the boys
    alone to join him in the palm-shade.
    Unseen behind the reeds we maidens
    hide and dance the numbers they sing;
    "One!" I hear them count the sun,
    which sails these skies of Bedouin blue,
    "Two!" we hop. Our stamping feet
    and oil-dark toes, awash with sand.
    "Three!" they shout; we twist as fig trees,
    "Four!" we stand like minarets.
    On "Five!" we raise arms, splay fingers;
    spin in dervish pirouettes,
    until talcum-fingered Dr Ahmid
    chases us, toward the river
    to join our countless laughing sisters.

    Phill Doran, Johannesburg, RSA

    COMMENTS:  A delightful, refreshing piece!  Beautifully descriptive word-pictures draw the reader into this far-away scene.  Wonderful irony in the word "countless" at the end!  *Applause*  Well-drawn portrait of time and place. Interestingly and tightly composed with vivd images-- and although the poem departs from rhyme, there is alliterative effect, and a sense of rhythm throughout.

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    NOTE:  This was a "not-haiku" contest, where entrants were asked to send in three untitled lines of exactly 5, 7, 5.  No other rules were required, except to use the word "July" somewhere in the poem.  Many creative results from such a small prompt; some poems ironic, others thoughtful, all expressive.  Look how much you can do with the freedom and constraint of seventeen syllables and just the right words!


    South of Capricorn
    a careless July scatters
    winter's scalpel blades

    Phill Doran, Johannesburg, RSA


    still embers smolder
    beneath a copper-kettled
    searing July moon

    Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA, USA


    Zion lookout gone
    thick smoke from wild grass fire
    hides July beauty.

    Jim Applegate,  Roswell,  NM, USA


    semester goodbye
    I long for the warm touch of
    seducer July

    Colin William Campbell, Kunming, YP, CHN


    July dust devils
    doe and fawns drink warily
    at swimming pool lip

    SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA


    born in late July
    Saturday's child in Cancer
    winking at Leo

    Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN


    sweat rimed and sleepless
    July broils on lobster-faced
    thirsts for cooling rain

    Celia Lawton-Livingstone, Colchester, EG, GBR

    slug slithers across
    sizzling July-baked sand stones
    slips under loam home

    Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

    smothering July
    wandering through dry creek beds
    restless locusts chirr

    Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX  USA

    dry lightning ignites
    mountains around Las Vegas
    July wild fires

    Neva F. Darbe, Las Vegas, NV, USA

    sow sinks in mud hole
    lifting snout squeals with relief
    escapes July's heat

    Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA

    July flattens cat
    Under chaise lounge on red porch
    No escape from heat

    Mary E. Gray, Newport News, VA, USA

    building sandcastles
    hot sand in July cooler
    if we dig deeper

    Deborah P Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA

    calm surface of lake
    sudden puff of evening wind
    shook up July moon

    Marek Kozubek, Zywiec, Silesia, POL

    tropical storm blows
    fed by hot July waters
    takes aim at Gulf coast

    June P. LaVernway, Mobile, AL, USA

    July sunrays smile
    tap dancing like Helios
    hip hop hot cement

    Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA

    in July's heat haze
    wild berries shrink on brambles
    wait for swelling rains

    Kathy Paupore,  Kingsford, MI, USA

    July thunderstorm
    drenches raggedy flowers
    passing earth carpet

    Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA

    July lion sun
    blistering skin and rooftop
    sweat and soda pop

    Frances Schiavina, Ardmore, PA, USA

    seagulls soaring cry
    shadow breezes blowing by
    happy kids July

    Craig Soderquist, Bend, OR, USA

    In scorching July
    the hungry heat seeping in
    mosquitoes attack

    Robin Pelata Stone, Houston, TX, USA

    exiting cold store
    instant eyeglass steam-over
    and July blindness

    Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

    polished brass and wood
    circle in night air's ceiling
    cool July island

    Gary Wade, Seymour, IA, USA

    Bone marrow chilling
    July winds freeze iced fingers
    In winter sunshine

    Gillian Wilkinson, Saxonwold, RSA

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    Lux Eterna

    They sit
    in the same two seats
    every other Thursday
    at the Hollywood Bowl.

    As seasons change with Vivaldi
    as piano duels fight through Liszt
    without cartoon accompaniment
    they are there
    through Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart
    and they never miss Tchaikovsky.

    There are no fireworks
    at the Bowl on Thursdays
    just music
    and the steady comfort
    of a married couple
    in the same two seats
    June through August.

    Deborah P Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA

    COMMENTS:  Beautifully employed sense of reality recognized within the portrayal of controlled emotion.  Understatement, an  effective tool, allows readers to make their own interpretation of the work.  Fine cadence set up in the lines, from choppy to musically rhythmic, this piece moves, slowing only at the end, with the married couple in the same two seats.  Well-written with a strong depth of content.
    Arpeggio To Largo

    Tempo is relentless, August
    moments pulse into monotony,
    strike with never-ending rhythm
    to mark the days,

    turn to a quicker motion,
    speed up the ticks
    and count the minutes
    as if to taunt me.

    Steps race to match its pace,
    a lifetime passes in the blink
    of an eye.  Wicked beats strike
    faster with a roguish smiles.

    Too late to keep stride, my
    measured gait slows to a shuffle,
    these feet, no longer in sync,
    don't march with time.

    In speed warp - the music fades
    and slows to a largo.
    The metronome of life
    rushes to a crawl.

    Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper, Portland, OR, USA

    COMMENTS:  Internal rhyme and alliteration within the lines emphasize the rhythmic structure through the energy of similar sounds, and influences the harmony and percussion throughout.  Comfortable clichés juxtaposed with fresh phrasing skim through the piece, making an interesting contrast.  An excellent title that fits the work.

    Water Harleys
    Slicing triumphant Phrygian modes
    Into water so thickened by August
    Ribbon-wounds sluggishly heal their wakes
    Mud Lake Bridge refuses to succumb
    Resonating sympathetically
    With the Dorian chant of Kubotas
    Chewing another mouthful of
    Armand Bayou into sapbleedingrubble
    Reconfigured beyond recognition
    As the Snowy Egrets dance Lydian elegies
    In the reeds, in the half-remembered fringes
    Of the music of the reeds, the haunted, hunted
    Music of the Chorus of the reeds.

    Martha Kirby Capo, Taylor Lake Village, TX, USA

    COMMENTS:  Found music!  Certainly to the spirit of the competition, with a focus both on sound, but also on a wished-for lack of human sound, where nature sings the chorus.
    On first skipping a light fandango…

    ’67 it was, I know this because
    the years I rarely get wrong;
    but was it July or August when I
    first heard that fabulous song?
    The memorable day when I heard them play
    new music, (that is, new to me –
    I now know of course the probable source
    was J. S. Bach’s one-forty in "D").
    What could inspire it? I must acquire it!
    For weeks after which I’m afraid
    to mother’s disdain that moving refrain
    was played! (How that record was played!)
    By winter I’m sure it was playing no more,
    though I suspect not before time,
    yet it must form some part of my musical heart –
    I can still recite all of the rhyme.
    When I do I recall the thrill of it all,
    of younger times, free of facades;
    of the waiter’s full tray and of what falls away
    when one wanders through strange playing cards.
    My tears then rolled free for humanity;
    for the lost, for the weak and the frail.
    But I wept most, its true, as the girl the boy knew
    turned a shade that was whiter than pale.

    Phill Doran, Johannesburg, RSA

    Comments:  What a lovely tripping ride through rhythm and rhyme, cadence and beat, soft and sweet then sad...The miller tells the tale, as the poet "takes us by the looking glass to force us to agree..."  Well-done referential narrative, with a stunning and memorable conclusion that refers both to the thoughts of the poet and to "A Whiter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum.
    Orchestrating the Eighth Month

    The music of August is
    The lazy buzz of cicadas.

    The music of August is
    The purr of combines getting
    Ready for the harvest to come.

    The music of August is
    The county fair carnival rides blaring
    And the Fair Queen tossing platinum curls
    As she sings “The Star-Spangled Banner,” badly.

    The music of August is
    Smooth bluegrass floating
    Over fescue pressed flat by foot traffic
    At a craft festival where weathered men sell
    Burnished banjos, tangy mandolins and tambourines.

    The music of August is
    Fresh-minted kindergarteners
    Whining about school supplies while
    Their older siblings hastily refresh memories
    Of band and chorus to impress the opposite sex
    And harried parents waver from lullaby to march to dirge.

    The music of August is
    The rubbing of wings, cough
    Of engines, vibration of voicebox,
    Squeal and plunk of sounding chamber,
    Soft or stern strumming of family ties that bind,
    Every note sharpened by the nostalgia of summer’s end
    And the quivering coda of the season’s fingers on heartstrings.

    Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
    COMMENTS:  Stanzas are linked by a repeated line which intensifies the theme as it weaves into a poem of festive movement.
    Rainbow Rhythms

    From June through August music rebounds
    Between historic Ashton Villa and Rosenberg Library
    As the Galveston Beach Band led by Frank Incaprera, Jr.
    Lifts the spirits of islanders and tourists
    Frank and his wife Hazel, drummer and vocalist
    Began leading of these concerts in 1962.
    This sparkling hometown band is now entertaining
    Its seventh generation of families since 1928.
    The programs include marches composed by Frank, Sr.,
    A frequent guest conductor throughout his life.
    Folks sway with the Tarentella dancers
    And join flag-waving, marching children
    To Sousa's "Stars and Strips Forever."
    When the sun, as golden as bee pollen, sets
    Maestro Incaprera announces the evening’s finale.
    Everyone feels their troubles melt like lemon drops
    And soars "Somewhere over the Rainbow."

    Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
    COMMENTS:  Nice remembrance piece that swings us with old rhythms and sounds.

    With bated breath
    An audience waits
    As music fills the air.
    Stately stepping children
    Fill the aisle with flowers.
    Handsomely clothed young men and women
    Stand anxiously ahead.
    A sob breaks loud and clear.
    The heat of August melts the candle
    Faster than its flame.
    The bride appears in brilliance
    Clinging to her father's arm
    Al rise in unison as they pass.
    The groom steps down to make her his wife.
    The wedding now begins.

    Shelley Culver, Benton, KS, USA
    COMMENTS:  Thoughtfully chosen words create multilayered images that project the right ambience for the poem.
    Autographed Poster Found in the Attic

    Cooler days of autumn, attic cleaning time
    Photos with that out-of-town band
    Autographed poster, thick black lines drawn
    Somewhere between reality and memory

    Hotter than August, cooler than jazz
    Bass guitar outside the spotlight
    Cast sometimes on drummer John
    (love child of Scarecrow and Animal)

    But owned by the petite blonde
    In three-inch heels kicking high
    Playing for people who bragged
    About pirating their last album

    Small-town patrons tried to dance
    Broken glasses and broken jaws
    Overshadowed beats - softer
    Harmonies trapped on the stage

    They opened for the Beach Boys
    Once, smiled tightly when someone
    Else took home Most Promising
    Then whispered one more song


    Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN
    COMMENTS:  Cleaning out the attic and the mind of old memories results in this nice work.  Great details, good contrasts.  Fine lines take us there, such as "bass guitar outside the spotlight," and "softer harmonies trapped on the stage."  Thanks.
    Grand Tour

    During our flight from Miami to Berlin
    We perused the musical tour itinerary
    Escaping Florida's August heat to enjoy
    Works by famous composers through Europe
    The perfect reward for recently retired siblings.
    Our world came alive with the sound of music
    Beginning with Wagner's "Lorengrin" in Bayreuth
    Followed by "A Little Night Music" and other melodies
    By Mozart at the Great Festival Hall in Salzburg.
    Refrains of his "The Magic Flute" flowed throughout the bus
    As we traveled to enchanting Vienna.
    There Maestro Beethoven's presence was felt
    As we drifted under the "Fifth Symphony's" spell.
    Each event was viewed as a stepping-stone
    To our beloved composers - the Strauss family.
    We rushed through an Austrian Veal Parmigiana dinner
    Leaving a beautiful spuomoni with torte untouched
    In order to arrive early in the City Central Park.
    Sitting on the front row in eager anticipation
    We hummed "The Blue Danube" and Strauss minuets
    Until the Master of Ceremonies announced
    "Help me welcome our special guests for tonight,
    Orlando, Florida's Brass Band from the USA."
    Our hearts sank like stones in a cold well.

    Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
    COMMENTS:  Nice use of natural language patterns as the poem progresses through an ironic experience.
    Summer’s Tempo

    In the hottest days of summer,
    students and instructors
    fill classrooms that have been empty since May.
    Years ago, my spouse was young
    like them on football fields.
    He played the game then
    marched at half-time’s music
    show.  With a mean sax, Blueberry Hill,
    was his favorite solo part.  Unlike
    the banjo of Jerry Garcia and Glenn Campbell,
    who played his strings
    in Albuquerque’s “The Grave”
    and “The Chesterfield Club”...later dated
    a girl I worked with.  Nor did Pat’s band
    clone the Grateful Dead who held
    concerts in arenas’ like Soldier Field,
    but one whose mom
    and close-knit friends played
    their music at weddings
    in his hometown.  When August 9, comes around,
    the date of Jerry’s passing, it always rings two bells.
    That’s the day I get one year older.

    Carol Dee Meeks, Artesia, NM, USA
    COMMENTS:  Nice reminder of the past with interesting references.
    Summer Memories

    The summer we fell in love,
    or, perhaps it was early spring;
    we met in January.
    When August came, we knew it was real.

    On Sunday afternoons, we would
    attend concerts in the park, listen
    to our city band play music, old and new.
    We were young and full of zest for life.

    The bandstand stood across a road from
    Clear Lake, one of five lakes
    in our home town.

    On one such Sunday afternoon,
    we set our wedding date,
    three short weeks away.

    The tiny diamond solitaire I wore
    glistened in the summer sun,
    reflecting dreams of future years.

    Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM,  USA
    COMMENTS:  "We were young and in love" says it all.  Good details in the solitaire, the bandstand, and the city band.

    A peanut shell
    few colored foils
    unwrapping a tear:
    from the dark
    streaming in
    merging into
    a crowd
    walking under
    arches of lights
    stepping out
    to return
    with hands-full
    of peanut to shell
    and torrone chocolate
    heading toward
    the square
    crowded already
    around the band
    tuning to start
    the music
    in their heart
    under a starlit
    August night

    Frances Schiavina, Ardmore, PA, USA
    COMMENTS:  Nice rendering of a particular moment in time, this piece brings the reader directly into the moment.  Interesting "skyscraper" formatting forces the eye down the poem.  Tasty writing!
    Bluegrass Weekend in Spring, Texas

    I arrived early that Saturday morning
    (though not as early as those who camped out),
    just as they were frying the chuckwagon breakfast,
    pancakes sizzling on the grill,
    filling the air with a golden smell.
    My outdoor appetite went through three plates,
    the perfect opening to a day's diet of bluegrass,
    country music with that unspoiled taste,
    light and cheerful and wholesome.
    The August heat seemed to disappear,
    all of us lost in the song of the fiddle,
    our hearts dancing like the player's feet.
    A break for potato salad at lunch--
    with hot dogs and fresh-baked cookies--
    then we sat down again under the shade trees,
    happy as Kentucky hillbillies,
    regular doses of water and iced tea
    all the air conditioning we needed.
    Group after group played song after song,
    the day grew cooler and the shadows long,
    they barbecued supper as the west grew red,
    and contentment swept over us like the evening breeze.
    The red turned black overhead,
    black as only a country sky can be,
    and the fiddler played on under the stars.

    Katherine Swarts, Houston, Texas, USA
    COMMENTS:  Not like prose, the poem is influenced by implications and meaning, adding to the range of expression marking special occasion.  Many fine details warm readers as we are brought to the table.  Well done!  Serve us more of this memorable writing!
    Bagdad Cotillion

    Their turbine songs
    are the bagpipes of August,
    their treads rumble the beat from the street
    that gunners punctuate in thunderous syncopation.

    Hummers swirl the roundabout
    chaperoned by tanks on the boulevard
    moving with feigned grace
    like heavy women at a prom.

    The music rises ructious
    as the rolling bands crescendo,
    as dusty heat blurs the score,
    as reddened singers cry the coda.

    Then the stagger-song reprises, but
    only Satan really dances.

    Gary Wade, Seymour, IA, USA
    COMMENTS:  Expressed in such a way that can leave no doubt as to the author's opinion.  Well-written protest work.

    Back to contents



    How we maidens learnt to count to five

    I watch as, with his black umbrella,
    Dr Ahmid waves the boys
    alone to join him in the palm-shade.
    Unseen behind the reeds we maidens
    hide and dance the numbers they sing;
    "One!" I hear them count the sun,
    which sails these skies of Bedouin blue,
    "Two!" we hop. Our stamping feet
    and oil-dark toes, awash with sand.
    "Three!" they shout; we twist as fig trees,
    "Four!" we stand like minarets.
    On "Five!" we raise arms, splay fingers;
    spin in dervish pirouettes,
    until talcum-fingered Dr Ahmid
    chases us, toward the river
    to join our countless laughing sisters.

    Phill Doran, Johannesburg, RSA

    COMMENTS:  A delightful, refreshing piece!  Beautifully descriptive word-pictures draw the reader into this far-away scene.  Wonderful irony in the word "countless" at the end!  *Applause*  Well-drawn portrait of time and place. Interestingly and tightly composed with vivd images-- and although the poem departs from rhyme, there is alliterative effect, and a sense of rhythm throughout.
    Daniel's Day

    Today Miss Benberry said to be thankful for what we
    have because in New Orlins the little children can’t go
    to school and jus about the time I was thinkin “those
    lucky New Orlins kids!” Miss Benberry said how
    they don’t have houses enymore or beds to sleep in
    or food to eat or even water to drink because
    flood waters broke over the levees, and then
    she asked did we know what a levee is but
    not even Steven Millican who is the smartest
    boy in our class had any idea at all.  Then
    Miss Benberry cried and I felt bad for not
    being thankful and for not knowing what a
    levee is or which country New Orlins is so
    can I take some of our water for Miss Benberry
    to send to the thirsty children in New Orlins?

    SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA

    COMMENTS:  This prose poem speaks eloquently from the little child's viewpoint.
    Invisible Would Be Nice

    The rough boys yell
    "BOO" in my ear
    No one listens

    Good report cards
    But little notes
    Make me look bad

    My teacher says
    I cry too much
    That makes me sad

    She says I'm shy
    I guess that's wrong
    I want to hide

    Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN

    COMMENTS:  Carefully crafted (exactly 4 beats in every line) statement full of ironic contrasts, with the title itself providing both the beginning and final comment as the reader is brought back the the start to read again.
    Wanted--A Little Relevance

    Everyone says
    I need an education
    to get a good job.
    But I see my parents
    going to work in suits
    while everyone at school wears jeans,
    I hear of people who got fired for being late
    when all you get at school is a scolding,
    I hear working adults
    talk about job interviews
    and tough bosses
    and customer complaints
    and being bored with their jobs--
    and I wonder,
    among algebra and multiple-choice tests,
    when is all this covered in school?

    Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

    COMMENTS:  Raises excellent points indicative of teenaged anxiety about the world into which they perceive they are being sent after education.

    may I have a quarter
    to buy a sack lunch
    like the blond girl
    eats in the lunchroom
    with the sandwich
    and an orange
    it looks so good
    I am so sick
    of brown rice
    and biscuits
    in a syrup can

    Anna Wilke, Conroe, TX, USA

    COMMENTS:  Heart-rending plea from a child who sees and begins to question why things are as they are in the world around her or him.
    Stone Power

    Kay said, I don’t like school, the girls won’t let me play.
    I want to be in Suzanne’s group but she screams, ‘no way.’
    Tomorrow, I’m taking jackstones and gonna play by myself
    Maybe someone will come join in, as I’ll be having fun.
    Now, Glenda and Debbie and I are playing jacks every day.
    In class, Mrs. Jeffery told us to list five people we love.
    Then she passed the trashcan round four times
    We tore off one name and threw it in each pass.
    At the end, we held onto the one we loved best
    When we read our final choice to the group
    I had a big smile cause Glenda saved me last.”

    Forty years later:
    “Mom, our Katie starts kindergarten today.
    I know she’s off to a good start because I tucked
    My set of jackstones in her backpack.”

    Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
    Miss Beebe

    Don’t get Miss Beebe for eighth grade math.
    She’s mean, threatens with letters to parents
    if you miss class, don’t do homework, fail tests
    and more.  My friend, Sandy claimed the teacher
    wanted to give kids a bad time, expected
    them to learn and not talk in class.  Of course,
    I got her for 2nd period.  I was scared

    but not for long.  Miss Beebe taught
    with a iron hand but she was fun, especially
    if there was any time left before the bell.  Often,
    she plied us with math head games, no counting
    on fingers, no pencils and paper.
    I loved the challenge even though I knew
    she’d always be way ahead of me,
    now matter how hard and fast I could think.

    Margaret Ellis Hill, Wilton, CA, USA
    My Teacher

    For being my teacher, thanks
    in place of my far away dad
    for telling me, you can,
    when no one dared to care.

    They thought they reasoned well
    from the crazy stock I came
    what else can you expect
    if not more of the same?

    The look on their face still hurts
    the shock at my success
    and all for my teacher and friend
    who told me, yes, you can.

    Frances Schiavina, Ardmore, PA, USA

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    We hate to ask, but providing prizes for our winning poets is an non-ending task.  Over the years we've offered many locking diaries, hundreds of book gift certificates and bookmarks, uncounted books and chapbooks, and even a few picnic baskets!  Less than one-half of our prizes come from Sponsors, and the rest are donated by co-founders Leo F. Waltz and Mary Margaret Carlisle.  Please consider adding your name to the list.  Become a Sol Sponsor.  Write to Sol.Editor@prodigy.net for more information.