Thursday, October 30, 2014
In Arco Times, 'bout every week,
they let us peek
at some place rare.
'Guess where! Guess where!'
This week's a stony creek bank scene:
a big rock--queen
of shoreline. Round--
an ancient mound?
I'll take a guess: old Cripple Creek.
There's fish to seek.
Or bring a chair,
enjoy the air.
[a Minute pattern, PL 8. 3. '13, from an Arkansas Times picture]
"89 Years Straight, then . . . . "
war, scandal, earthquake
couldn't stop the World Series
but players' strike did
[PL, Senryu form, from the news, 9. 15. '04]
of a haul," he
said, describing an art
heist of Picasso, Matisse and
[PL, Cinquain, from the news, 10. 12. '12]
"Keep it Down Out There!"
or"Can't a Fellow get Some Sleep Around Here?"
it's head out from
inside the bird feeder,
a raccoon glares at the feeding
[PL, from Birds 'N Blooms photo, O/N, '03,
written 10. 15. '03]
Thursday, October 23, 2014
A YELLOW LEAF
SAILING ACROSS THE PORCH
AND THROUGH THE RAILING DOWN TO THE
(Writers' Colony at Dairy Hollow, 2011)
I almost tossed
during the summer heat
now full of buds that will shortly
AND QUIET, BUT
FOR A DISTANT TRAIN, A
REVVING MOTORCYCLE . . . AND, OH,
(WCDH porch, 2011)
up just in time
to watch a lone red leaf
drifting, adding to the autumn
BEFORE DAWN, THUGS
ARE BASHING MAILBOXES.
NO, THE NIGHT-SHIFT NEIGHBOR'S SPLITTING
move to a chair
closer to the front door,
or be peppered by rain on the
PL- dba lovepat press
Thursday, October 16, 2014
LEWIS BUTLER TAYLOR - 1925 - 2014
My writing drips from off my pen,
or, on rare occasions, pours,
as case may be.
While either betides I hardly sleep,
but hold my pail to catch such drippings as I can.
I do not turn the spigot on,
I do not know who mans the tap,
but since each drop may be the last,
I try to save whatever I can
before the tap runs dry.
LT- from "Author's Preface" to Leaked From the Pail, 2003, edited/ published by Lovepat Press, Benton Arkansas
This little grave I dig will hold
the dachshund form of my shadow
for the last fourteen years.
Each spade of earth rekindles another memory
. . . .
I dig to rock.
His place dug here
is like the hole left in my life.
I ponder whether my going to join him
will leave as large a hole in any life.
I wrap him in his blanket
and bid a teary goodbye,
each of my tears mourning loss,
but also my own mortality.
LT - Ibid, p. 8.
years are golden?
Autumn leaves are golden
just before they sere, to fall from
LT - Ibid, p. 28.
spreads sere brown leaves
on pasture, field and lawn.
Fall moves from then to then. Thus, too,
LT - Ibid, p. 39.
Rest in Peace, my dear friend Lew.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
505 Spring St., Eureka Springs in October - PL
fishing off the dock
to clear her mind
[picture: M.S. Gerrits, AD-G]
a high-waisted panty shaper
and a candy bar
and wandering jew
on the porch
for the promised rain
upsetting or exciting
c 2014, Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, October 2, 2014
RHAPSODY IN AUTUMN
by (the late) Neville Saylor,
long-time member of Poets Roundtable of Arkansas
As Autumn's song drifts through the hills,
The trees in brilliant disarray
All dance to rhapsody which fills
Each moment of this perfect day.
My heart responds by beating time
While waltzing to her merry air,
As nature pipes a tune sublime
To lure me to a woody lair.
In sun-splashed beds of mossy green
Which hold the pale tenacious roots,
On paths that wear a frosty sheen
Above the tender sleeping shoots,
Let me lie as a dormant seed
To rest among the golden tones
As Autumn's music fills my need
Till Spring bursts forth to warm my bones.
~~ from Captive Harmony, by Hazel Gaither and Neville Saylor, 1995
AUTUMN IN THE OZARKS
by Marguerite Palmer, Little Rock,
PRA Honorary Member
The hollows are cloaked in blue-gray haze
shading to purple that matches blooms
of asters starring the dusty trail
where goldenrod waves feathered plumes.
Now softly plinking, the acorns fall;
and loudly cawing, the brash crow flies.
The night and the day share half and half
this time of the year when autumn lies
over the land and deep in the heart
so full to bursting it over-spills,
joining the medley of wild life song
when autumn comes to the Ozark hills.
~~ from Searching for the Key: Poems by Marguerite B. Palmer, 1999
by (the late) Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni
former Poet Laureate of Arkansas
Yesterday is past.
Why should we turn
To watch the flames
Of the sunset burn?
The present is ours
For joy or for grief.
It falls at our feet
Like a dry autumn leaf.
Tomorrow, through seeming
Close-kindred to me,
Is a threat or a promise,
Which may never be!
~~ from Lend me your Ears: A Beakfull of Humorous Verse, by Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni, 1965-66