Winning poem in PRA Anthology contest, 2016

from Google Images

Travesty

The walking trail through Wyndham Park, with oaks
and willows, maples, sycamores and gums:
a splashy autumn show for city folks
in step with robin songs, cicada hums.
One day, sweet woodsmoke in the air, they came:
a droning, giant buzz, like screaming knives
with swishing crashes following. The lame
excuse: obliterate what threatens lives.
They cut two hundred-plus: the young, the old,
the stately, vivid trees. Mimosas spared,
their listless beanpods left to hang like cold
and desiccated tears; but trailside’s bared.
The robins, mockingbirds have taken wing
but I am safe amidst this awful thing.

When one of the state papers published poetry: a Rosa Z. Marinoni "Poem of the Week" in 1960

 

 

Yellowed, brittle fragile, the lone page from November 6, 1960 Arkansas Democrat Magazine (We didn't take the Democrat; I don't know which of my forebears saved this originallly, or even how it ended up in my collection of photos and other memorabilia.)

 

As I was "thinning" stuff so MY descendants wouldn't have to decide what to keep, I found this. Looking it over, I discovered that one of the features was "The Best in Poetry." The subhead read, "All Arkansas writers are invited to submit poems to this column. Membership in a literary organization is not requisite."

Many of today's poets will instantly recognize what I recognized. Here, let me reprint what I saw under the heading "Poem of the Week:"

 

THE GOLDEN FOOTPRINT

Give us a small and peaceful world, dear Lord,

Without detours that lead to a dead end.

A world so small that at each corner turn,

A man can find along his path a friend.

A world where women only live to love,

And man, contented with his simple lot,

Learns knowledge from his heart and not from books,

With no desire to be what he is not.

 

And then, perhaps, along the sands of Time,

Some moonlit night a traveler might see,

Instead of traffic ruts and rusted wings,

The footprint left by One from Galilee.

 

--Rosa Z. Marinoni of Fayetteville

 

She is the poet responsible for the present-day National Poetry Day celebration in Arkansas.

How appropriate this "find" is for April's celebration of National Poetry Month.

An Ogden Nash poem for spring

photo by sister Carolyn Hoggard

 

THE HAT'S GOT MY TONGUE

 

A girl, oh a girl is a wonderful thing,

And so I am happy to say is spring,

And a girl in spring is the absolute works

But for one conspicuous item that irks:

That hat.

 

A girl in spring is a skylark's hymn,

An evenson in a cloister dim,

A moon in June and a dove in love,

 But why the discordant detail above:

That hat?

 

The crocuses put their best feet foremost,

The softest, tenderest raindrops pour most,

Nature walks forth in a robe of dawn,

And you, my love, what do you put on?

That hat.

 

Purple the lilac and green the oaks,

Is spring the time for a milliner's hoax?

Your taste, methought, simply hibernated;

But what did I get when for spring I waited?

That hat.

 

A girl, of a girl is a wonderful thing,

And so I am happy to say is spring,

And you are what I adore the sight of;

That hat is what I adore you in spite of--

Take it off and let's jump on it!

from Good Intentions, p.39                                                                                       (Google Image)



Post-Easter poems--old and new

from the back yard: what I call Yellow Rose of Texas

 

Porch swing

after swinging

around the yard taking

pictures of violets, iris,

and Greye.

3.30.'16

~~

 

Stump-bed

iris: slender
purple girls too late for

this year's Easter parade. Still, they

showed up.

3.30.'16
~~

 

Sideways

in the porch swing

in shorts & flipflops, I

luxuriate in the thunder

and rain.

 

But when

lightning flashes

close, I hightail it in

to the safety of four walls and

a roof.

[2015]

~~

 

last day of March--

the wintered-over houseplants

blowing in the wind

[2002]

from along the pasture fence, 2005

~~

Finally, it's actually the season of spring

photo by Carolyn Hoggard

 

We are Marching. . . .

 

The oom-pah rhythm of a St. Pat’s band

ignites the listeners’ hands and heads and feet

till not a soul is still, and all must stand

and clap and sing and dance to snare drum’s beat.

 

Not so our March this year. It lagged behind

in winter’s chill. We moaned like bagpipes out

of tune and drummers out of step. Snowblind

we watched from windows-- full of pout and doubt

 

that spring would ever come. On St. Pat’s Day,

or thereabouts, expected, longed-for warm

returned like pipers back in sync, the splay

of drummers’ feet back to their rhythmed charm.

                                   We clap our hands and rake those last-year’s leaves

away from rows of daffodils, re-arch

the trellises that fell in snow. Our peeves

forgotten. Fanfares now: it’s really Spring!!

 

c PL 2016 (written in 2015)
~~ 

 

BRR!!

Too cool--

at fifty-four

degrees--to sit outside.

I don a jacket & a warm

neckscarf,

 

cover

my legs (a throw

does the job) and return

to my preferred spring reading spot:

porch swing.

c PL 2016



Limericks for the Irish

DAN

One morning, a tenor in prayer
Heard God say,"You said you'd be there
            To sing 'Soon and ... Soon.'"
             He rushed; got in tune,
Ran in with two minutes to spare.
[for Dan Allbritton, written in 2002]
~~

THIRTEEN BLACKBIRDS

There once was a congress of crows.
Resembling a carpet, they rose,
     Flew into a tree,
     Spied roadkill debris,
Disbanded to squirrel sloppy joes.
[HM in PSOkla. '01; 1st at NPD, Ar. '02; 2nd, NPD '09]
~~

ELECTION, 2012

There once was a man with allure,
Who knew his election was sure
     But with the vote tallies,
     Despite red-state rallies,
It turns out his votes were the fewer.
~~

A NEW STYLE?

There was a young lady pace-setter,
Whose punishment was the "A" letter.
     Would Hester repent?
     At least she'd invent
The fad of the team letter sweater!
[written in 1995]
~~

SIR ROGER

Our thanks to you, red-coated sprite,
For surprising the Maggies who write,
     By treating this bunch
     To a limo and lunch.
By vote, we elected you Knight.
[to Roger Carter, HS, husband of one of the late Steel Magnolias, written in 2002]

Marching through March: poems

WARY

Checking

each other out:

the old cat from inside,

the young one from the windowsill--

both mute.

THE PEN CLUB PREZ

He wrote

his way through law

school with purple ink found

for a buck a bottle. He still

has some.

(from a Jay Grelan column, 3/8/2011)

 

 

Though I

knew better, I

mixed undies with blue jeans.

My washday song now goes, "How gray

thou art."



 



Houses
on two lakes. Still,
he didn't like fishing,
nor did he have any other
hobbies.
(from a teacher/preacher's featured obit, AD-G, 2005)

THIS COULD BE TODAY

Rival

candidates:how

much human dignity

is each willing to sacrifice

to win?

(P. Greenberg on '06 GOP (AR) primary)