100%(1)100% fanden dieses Dokument nützlich (1 Abstimmung)
448 Ansichten160 Seiten
If words from in your heart can come to life, Then you've performed an artist's work again. The copyright of each poem in this collection is owned by its author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without prior written permission.
If words from in your heart can come to life, Then you've performed an artist's work again. The copyright of each poem in this collection is owned by its author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without prior written permission.
If words from in your heart can come to life, Then you've performed an artist's work again. The copyright of each poem in this collection is owned by its author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without prior written permission.
And dance across the pages like a song, If you can make a person stop and think, Or make somebody weigh up right and wrong, If words you write can soothe a broken soul, Or cause a laugh from somebody in pain, Or make a friend reflect upon their ways, Then youve performed an artists work again.
If children laugh or parents shed a tear From words that you have written on a page, A lover feel so proud of who they are, Or strangers rant in hot debate and rage, If someone else is moved by words you write, If you can cause a heart rate to increase, If every poem comes from in your heart -- Then all deserve the title Masterpiece.
-- Graeme King
The Muse, Passing Etching, 2006 Jonathan Day
ISBN 0-9737006-1-0
Rhyme and Reason
Modern Formal Poetry
An Anthology Compiled and Edited by Neil Harding McAlister
Illustrated by Jonathan Day
Rhyme and Reason Modern Formal Poetry
Published by:
McAlister, Neil Harding 11 Island View Court Port Perry, Ontario, Canada L9L 1R6
www.durham.net/~neilmac/travelerstales.htm
Digital set-up by Arzina Merali and Jean Taylor
Titles published by McAlister, Neil Harding:
New Classic Poems: Contemporary Verse That Rhymes, 2005. Rhyme and Reason: Modern Formal Poetry, 2006.
2006 Neil Harding McAlister. All rights reserved. The copyright of each poem in this collection is owned by its author. By written agreement, poets have assumed personal responsibility for the original authorship and clear copyright ownership of the works that bear their names. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including digital information storage and retrieval devices and systems, without prior written permission of the publisher and the copyright owner(s), except that brief passages may be quoted, with attribution, for reviews or for scholarly purposes.
Published and printed in Canada.
ISBN 0-9737006-1-0 4
Preface
Our first collection of rhyming, metrical poems New Classic Poems: Contemporary Verse That Rhymes -- was so well received by participating authors and other aficionados of formal poetry that a call for submissions for a second volume was sent to poets of the Publishers acquaintance. It was also advertised on the Internet via our own web site and with kind assistance from several other sites that post items of interest to writers. Response was immediate and sustained, once more demonstrating that an active community of writers continues to work within this traditional literary genre -- one generally neglected by the publishing mainstream. This new collection contains the best of several hundred submissions received during half a year. Formal poetry is an art requiring so much effort from its creators that most contemporary poets opt for the less technically demanding mtier of free verse instead. Rhyming, metrical poetry demands more than casual effort from its readers as well. Anyone who approaches it with the notion that the predictable jingles of popular songs are poetry will soon be delighted to discover a far more intricate, entertaining and fascinating universe of words revealed when they encounter the wit of a Peter Austin or an epic such as Dick Hayess Trebizond. However, the abundant rewards of formal poetry must be earned, because serious poems can never serve as the intellectual equivalent of elevator music. Unlike trite pop song lyrics, poetry requires thoughtful engagement by its readers. This collection contains some previously-published works. It also brings many excellent poems into public circulation for the first time. Contributing authors live in Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States of America, Australia and Germany. Therefore, both English and American spelling is found in this book, depending on the origin of the authors. Several established and honored poets have kindly lent their work to this volume; while other no less accomplished, but previously unpublished, writers appear in print for the first time in these pages. The poets biographies are included at the end of the book. Several people deserve special acknowledgement. Love to my wife, Dr. Nazlin McAlister, and to our children Zara and James, for serving as sounding boards for reams of poetry that were received while this anthology was being compiled; and for tolerating Dads frequent absence at the computer keyboard in the service of his unusual hobby. Many thanks to my sister-in-law Arzina Merali, and to her associate Jean Taylor, for their technical expertise, creating the digital files for the printer. Jonathan Days art brightens the pages of this volume; and the title Rhyme and Reason was his suggestion. Dr. Keith Holyoak donated his scholarly insights for the Foreword; and Angela Burns proof-read the entire manuscript and generously offered very helpful editorial assistance.
N. H. McA.
April, 2006
5
Contents
Index of Poems 7
What Should a Poem be Like? 11
Food for Thought 17
Seasons 37
By Land and Sea 59
Realms of Myth 73
Pot Pourri 99
His and Hers 113
Leave em Laughing 131
About the Poets 148
Index of First Lines 157
6
Index of Poems
Masterpiece, Graeme King 1
Food for Thought 17
Enemy, Gregory Christiano 18 Nothing, Gregory Christiano 18 An Invocation for our Opening Night, Michael Milligan 19 On the Battlefield, Gregory Christiano 20 Diogenes, Neil Harding McAlister 21 A Death in the City, Gregory Christiano 22 Oh Shakespeare! Michael Milligan 23 Fire Bringer, Michael Milligan 24 On Visiting a Graveyard, Peter G. Gilchrist 24 Hypocrisy, Neil Harding McAlister 25 Justification, Angela Burns 26 Rebuilding, Anna Evans 27 Secret Death, Jeannine Schiavoni 28 Envy, Neil Harding McAlister 29 Silent Voices, Richard E. Buenger 30 The Con of Cons, Aaron Wilkinson 32 The Field of the Cloth of Gold, Catherine Edmunds 33 Skip, Neil Harding McAlister 34 In the Office, Sally Cook 35 Tithe of the Black Sheep, LaVonda Krout 36 When Time is Kind, Vincent W. Williams 36
Seasons 37
Voyageur, Neil Harding McAlister 38 Spring, Michael Milligan 39 Forty-Something, Peter G. Gilchrist 40 Rain in the Desert, Neil Harding McAlister 40 The Winter House, Jeannine Schiavoni 41 Spring in Mist and Music, Jeannine Schiavoni 42 Canadian Winter, Peter Austin 43 Wordless Whispers, Eric Linden 44 The Spotted Doe, T.S. Kerrigan 45 Spring Cleaning, Neil Harding McAlister 46 The Lal-Jomi, Anna Evans 47 Infidel at Tea, Eric Linden 48 Spring Revue, Angela Burns 48 Autumn Recital, Angela Burns 48 Tears of a Clown, S. Parlato 49 Winters End, John Grey 49 7
Dancing Feet, Peggy Fletcher 50 Spring Thaw, Debbie Okun Hill 50 Winter Woes, Aaron Wilkinson 51 Are We There Yet? Steven Manchester 52 All Hail the Noble Hog, Sally Cook 53 Ancient Oak, Jan Harris 54 As Children Play Near Weathered Stones, Gerry Spoor 54 Black and White World, Dawn Sinclair 55 I Paid My Dues, Dawn Sinclair 56 A Fathers Tired Refrains, Gerry Spoor 58 The Triumph of Words Over Music, Simon Leigh 58
By Land and Sea 59
Lighthouse, Angela Burns 60 The Gentle Pirate, Gregory Christiano 60 Natures Revenge, Susan Eckenrode 61 The Too Wise Sailor, Michael Milligan 62 Song of the Locomotive, Gregory Christiano 63 Wildhorse Camp, Peter G. Gilchrist 64 Downunderstanding, Joanne Underwood 65 Road Kill, Neil Harding McAlister 66 Sunset, Bar Harbor, Lee Evans 67 If Hurricane and Tempest Die, Richard E. Buenger 68 Vomiting Jonah, Laura Heidy 69 The Jump, Carl Reinholt 70 Bravado, Peter G. Gilchrist 71 Thoughts of Home, Neil Harding McAlister 72
Realms of Myth 73
The Dragon, Michael Milligan 74 The Night Willow, Michael Milligan 79 Urban Legends, Susan Eckenrode 79 Prairie Whispers, Sally Ann Roberts 80 The Weekday Song, Lee Evans 81 Trebizond (A Ballad), Dick Hayes 82 Ascension 75, Louis John Costanza 92 Night Visitor, Sally Ann Roberts 93 Grandpa and the Leprechaun, Sally Ann Roberts 94 The Lonely Piper, Cynthia K. Deatherage 95 Lost, Patricia Louise Gamache 96 The Earls Ride, Cynthia K. Deatherage 97 Talking to Olympus, Graeme King 98
Pot Pourri 99
On the Rush, Peter G. Gilchrist 100 Judiciously, Peter G. Gilchrist 101 Vestiges, Richard E. Buenger 101 Zoo Animals, James K. McAlister 102 8
Requiem for a Minor Shakespearean Actor, T.S. Kerrigan 103 Cyber Date, Graeme King 104 A Mothers Day, Mary McIntosh 105 Inventors, Graeme King 106 The Sergeants Warning, Joseph S. Salemi 107 Iambic Glut, Joseph S. Salemi 107 Bruce and David, Michael S. Bennett 108 Painting Is Not Recreation, Jonathan Day 109 Flower Cures, Angela Burns 110 Poets Point, Angela Burns 111 Seven Deadly Sins, Neil Harding McAlister 111 The Museum of Thrift, Angela Burns 112 Crossing Over, Patricia Louise Gamache 112
His and Hers 113
Two Views Behind the Scenes, Susan Eckenrode 114 Losing Touch, MFK Buckley 114 Satin-Blue, Irene Livingston 116 A Caf in Paris, Zara McAlister 117 Pamela Ann, Eric Linden 118 June Bride, MFK Buckley 118 The Honeymoon, Eric Linden 119 A Friends Eye View, Susan Eckenrode 119 Summer Knights, Irene Livingston 120 Upon Meeting an Old Love, Mary E. Moore 121 Backwards Through Wet Grass, Anna Evans 122 Lines Written During Pentecost, T.S. Kerrigan 123 Silver Moonbeam, Graeme King 123 Loves Labours Lost, Dick Hayes 124 Midnight Sighs, smzang 125 Rebirth, Anne Maarit Ghan 125 Aubade, T.S. Kerrigan 126 Kindling, Max Gutmann 126 Ars Brevis, T.S. Kerrigan 127 Lines on a Modern Serenade, E. Russell Smith 127 The Private Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen, Keith Holyoak 128 We Need to Talk, Peter G. Gilchrist 129 Enough Said, MFK Buckley 129 Ode to Mrs. Anne Seymour Damer 1749-1828, Daphne Rock 130
Leave em Laughing 131
Blackie, Peter Austin 132 The Cooking of Sybil U., Joanne Underwood 133 Airport Angst, Neil Harding McAlister 134 A Knights Work, Susan Eckenrode 135 A Clerihew for Paris, Ellen Birkett Morris 136 A Couplet for Norma, Ellen Birkett Morris 136 Birthday Present, Simon Leigh 136 Logical Progress, Angela Burns 137 The Charmer, Mary E. Moore 137 9
My Computer, Peter Austin 138 The Mirror, Richard E. Buenger 139 A Dollar Per Admission, Peter Austin 140 Sock Despair, Mary E. Moore 141 Washday Woe, Neil Harding McAlister 141 Give Over! Peter Austin 142 A Question of Authenticity, Joseph S. Salemi 143 The Way Things Go, Sally Cook 144 Animal Nonsense, Richard E. Buenger 145 The Violin Teachers Lament, Catherine Edmunds 146 To Sally, Vincent W. Williams 147 Insomniacs Lament, Margaret Fieland 147 10 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like?
What Should a Poem be Like?
Keith Holyoak
e may lament the lack of popular interest in poetry, but before asking why it is out of favor, ask: why do people bother with poetry at all? Poetry originates in oral traditions that predate historical record in songs, chants and rhythmic stories handed down. Rhythm made it more memorable than prose. Should this matter to us, amidst the unceasing technological revolution of this new millennium? Oral traditions have faded and poetry has been swamped in a rising sea of prose. We are entertained by technological art forms inconceivable to remote ancestors who gathered around their fires at night to listen to spoken songs. Spoken or written, a poem remains such a simple thing one speakers words addressed to our listening ear. Why bother? Some nostalgia for a lost simplicity, perhaps? Our prehistoric ancestors had other simple traditions that might evoke nostalgia. Yet few people today care to seek their dinner in the forests with slingshots and spears, or to make clothes from the skins of wild animals. But somehow, even after the Stone Age has evolved into the electronic age, we seek poetry. Why? There are two basic reasons. Poetry is in essence the fusion of sound and symbol; and each taps into something fundamental to human beings. When we understand how poetry affects us, we can understand what a poem should be.
Symbols in Poetry
irst, consider the symbolic element. Symbolic refers to the use of language to convey meanings and emotions that go beyond immediate or literal words. For example, moon literally refers to the natural satellite of Earth; but it may also symbolize romantic love, ethereal beauty, a feminine principle contrasted with a male principle symbolized by the sun, or all of these with other possibilities. The symbolic uses of language go well beyond the associations of individual words. An extended passage, taken as a whole, may describe people or situations to promote the specific yet indicate the general. By using symbol-laden words, analogies, metaphors, blended concepts, allusions and subtle suggestions, a poem can trigger emotions not easily expressed in words abstract ideas, empathy, experience. A poem may speak what cannot be spoken what cannot be conveyed as directly as prose. I believe, as did Yeats and others, that the symbolism of poetry shares its roots with religious impulse, and is so deeply embedded in human character that we have the poet and his shadow the priest (Yeats, 1903, p. 246). Of course, not all poems have religious themes, or any connection to formal religion. Rather, the natural themes of poetry are issues that also feed
W F 11 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like? the religious impulse the meaning of life and death, good and evil, an individuals place in the universe, relationships among people, between people and the natural world, states of consciousness, and the relationship between the body and the mind and spirit. We attempt to speak of God of whom nothing can be said with poetry. Symbols describe what is hidden. They connect with our senses and emotions about those intangible but achingly-important concerns that may reduce prose to remote abstraction, at best, or nonsense, at worst. Nothing in modern civilization not science, technology, politics, materialism, or economic systems has diminished the human religious impulse. And so the poetic impulse persists as well.
Sound in Poetry
he other fundamental element of poetry is sound the sound of the human voice. Whether a poem is recited aloud to an audience, or simply read silently to oneself, we respond emotionally to the pattern of sound. The meter of poetry is a purified and intensified form of the natural rhythms of everyday speech. Spoken English tends towards an iambic pattern with alternating weak-strong stresses. English poetry naturally gravitates toward this basic meter, and varies to mimic the natural rhythmic variations of its iambic origin. Poetry manipulates the sound units of words, which in English are the initial onsets followed by the rest of the word, which yields rhyme. Rhyming, a poetic device present in languages as diverse as English and Chinese, isolates and repeats a natural sub-unit of a word in a new context. Why do rhythm and rhyme contribute so much to the pleasure and power of poetry? Meter, the repeating pattern of major beats within diverse but related rhythms, is readily learned by infants as young as seven months. Listening to metrical music helps elderly dementia patients recall decades-old facts about their lives. Pulses of energy underlie the natural fascination we feel watching the waves of the ocean. Meter finds expression in many human movements walking, dancing, sex, heart beats, and most importantly, in breathing. Breathing is inherently linked to the production of speech, which connects in turn to emotions. The rhythm of speech differs, depending whether we sigh with sadness, exult in joy, or lash out in anger. Lullaby or battle cry poetic rhythms mimic breathing patterns that accompany speech. And rhyme? We have an implicit understanding that the meanings of words are, by and large, independent of their sounds. Cars and trucks share more meaning than cars and cats, even though cars sounds more like cats. So we feel a pleasant sense of surprise when similar sounds are unexpectedly linked as in a lullaby/ a battle cry. Or
Cross the sky and fall from heaven, Thats the way we make a seven
a memorable rhyme to help a child learn to write numerals. Dylan Thomas could make the most commonplace of rhymes reverberate, and impose powerful connections between contrasting meanings:
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Rhymes link meanings through similarities in sound. Rhymes in a metric pattern reinforce meaning by providing closure to the ends of individual lines, while stitching several lines together. When the resulting pattern of meter and rhyme is repeated in the form of stanzas, the effect is rhythmic waves of speech; a pattern repeated with variations. The sound of a poem highlights the basic sound patterns of everyday speech, yet is unlike the pattern a person would use. This paradox is a source of pleasure. One evening when my son was twelve he discovered Edgar Allan Poes The Raven, and came running into the living room to read it aloud to me. The final stanza is:
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, And the lamplight oer him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: T 12 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like? And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be liftednevermore!
My sons delight in the poem was triggered by his recognition of an amazing coincidence. The poets sentences flowed along as a stream of rhythm and rhyme so improbable beforehand, so inevitable once heard. It seemed like magic to him. The pleasure generated by sound patterns in poetry complements emotions elicited by its sound and meaning. Poetry can be joyful, but it can also express sadness, despair, anger, horror. The negative emotions are as much a part of us as the positive ones; so we may paradoxically enjoy the eternal note of sadness of which Matthew Arnold spoke in Dover Beach:
Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow; and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
The Fusion of Sound and Symbol
he full impact of poetry comes neither from symbol nor sound alone, but from the fusion of the two elements into a seamless whole. A poem should be a symbolic meaning embodied in a natural pattern of sound. Symbol and sound are held together by emotion; both can make people feel, and they interact to intensify feelings. Yeats described this interaction in his essay on The Symbolism of Poetry:
All sounds, all colours, all forms, either because of their pre-ordained energies or because of long association, evoke indefinable and yet precise emotions, or, as I prefer to think, call down among us certain disembodied powers, whose footsteps over our hearts we call emotions; and when sound, and colour, and form are in a musical relation to one another, they become as it were one sound, one colour, one form and evoke an emotion that is made out of their distinct evocations and yet is one emotion (1903, p. 243).
Yeats also stressed the importance of rhythm in creating a mental state that is especially responsive to symbols:
The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation, by hushing us with an alluring monotony, while it holds us waking by variety, to keep us in that state of perhaps real trance, in which the mind liberated from the pressure of the will is unfolded in symbols (1903, p. 247).
A poem should be sound and symbol, fused into unity. The sound of a poem should not simply express its meanings and emotions; but embody those meanings and emotions literally breathe life into them.
What Went Wrong?
e have a problem. The ties between poetry and fundamental aspects of human psychology are real. Yet by and large, poetry has not always honored the fusion of symbol and sound. What happened? Despite exceptions, Twentieth Century English-language poetry will likely be remembered for its free verse. (For an engaging and scholarly account of the rise of free verse, see Timothy Steeles Missing Measures.) Free verse is identifiable by its avoidance of regular meter, rhyme, and stanza forms. It can achieve interesting effects, but the unstructured style makes it difficult to convey regular sound patterns and symbols. Despite striking images and emotional content, it does not have rhythmic, repeating sound patterns (although some free-verse poems, exemplified by Ginsbergs Howl, make effective use of biblical cadences). Some Twentieth Century poets went further, and declared that a poem is nothing but text, and allowed typographical details and spacing of characters on the page to replace traditional forms. The result is the loss of sound-and-symbol fusion.
T W 13 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like? What led to this departure from the traditional fusion? Free verse was a reaction against Victorian romantic poetry of the Nineteenth Century, with its centuries-old traditions of regular meter, rhyme, and stanza forms. By the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the time for pastoral idylls and imperial paeans had ended. Victorian poetic forms, and their themes, were rejected.
eanwhile, in North America, the advent of free verse was underway with the powerful example of Walt Whitman. His self-celebration fitted the radical individualism and rising power of the United States, as it replaced England to become the power center of the English-speaking world. As this political shift occurred, it also became the cultural focus. Free verse began as a celebration of the individual: America stood for change, renewal, personal freedom; so the staid forms of the past were abandoned. Experimentation also took place in western Europe, and in art and literature; free verse was explored along with surrealist painting, atonal music, and other attempts to break free from stultifying artistic conventions. The concerns of the Twentieth Century seemed to engender free verse global wars, genocide, Cold War, a myriad conflicts that flared and flourished then faded like the flu epidemics. After the specter of nuclear war came Islamic terrorism and subsequent American aggression overseas. Western nations were radically changed by social forces urbanization, science and technology, feminism, and changing patterns of immigration. It was a century of uncertainty, loss of faith. In America, the individual was glorified, yet often left rootless and confused, cut off from any real community. Fractured lines of poetry seemed to mimic the human state. Although the reasons for the supremacy of free verse, then, are understandable, the limitations of the style, now, make it less novel. Lacking sound patterns and symbol fusion, unstructured verse can fail to deliver emotional or lasting impact. School teachers notice that their young students expect poems to rhyme and have to be taught that modern, serious poetry has broken free of rhyme, meter and the rest. Perhaps, after suitable instruction, children will learn how to appreciate poetry that doesnt conform to their untutored expectations. My son (the one who liked The Raven) learned about free verse in his English class and shared his critical assessment of examples in his textbook: These poems suck! This kind of reaction often means that what is being taught contradicts with what the learner brings to the classroom. It may be necessary to overturn attitudes and beliefs. But poetry need not conform to a poetic reality inconsistent with human psychology. Poetic forms are supposed to tap human emotional responses. Human psychology is what determines if a poem is a success or failure. The definition of modernity will forever shift with the times, but our emotional responses to the fusion of symbols with rhythmic speech do not change. We still have religious impulse, still hear words the same way, and still breathe as we ever did. Natural human poetry speaks to the human psyche.
What Next?
here is no simple prescription for the poetry of this new century. Whatever else it accomplished, the poetry of the last century killed some forms beyond resurrection. We must experiment and find a new sound- symbol fusion and write poetry that fits our own times. We have some ingredients to use in our experiments. The last century was a salutary time out for structured poetry. Time and cultural changes may have eroded old associations between poetic forms and themes, but those forms now carry less baggage. Take just one example. A simple 4-line rhyme scheme is a b b a. This scheme was used by Tennyson is his long elegy for a dead friend, In Memoriam:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. (a) And waves that sway themselves in rest, (b) And dead calm in that noble breast (b) Which heaves but with the heaving deep. (a)
Tennysons poem created such a strong association, that the a b b a scheme was sometimes known as an In Memoriam stanza. M T 14 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like? This discouraged use of this basic sound pattern, as if Tennyson had patented it. In our time, for better or worse, hardly anyone outside college English departments has read In Memoriam, and its association is irrelevant. Yet, if we listen to verses in this pattern, we can sense why Tennyson used it in his elegy. The a b b a rhyme scheme sounds and feels like an embrace the outer rhyme wrapping itself around the two inner lines, which in turn draw close to each other. This is a sound pattern that reinforces a poem expressing tenderness or intimacy; it could be a love poem instead of an elegy (in fact, the oldest form of the sonnet includes the a b b a rhyme pattern). We can explore and rediscover old poetic forms. Some can be renewed, but we may also use these as building blocks to form new meter, rhyme and stanza patterns even for a single poem. The challenge is to compose structured poems that are as free and individualistic as free verse, making and breaking our own rules to fuse sound and symbol and intensify the emotional content. Poetry need not be limited to words on printed pages. The human voice, alone or accompanied by music, can enhance the emotional impact of a poem. Beyond the limited meter and themes of rap lyrics lie new possibilities for what we might call rep (real poetry) the metrical spoken word integrated with music, art, and animation, and projected through the full range of digital media.
inding the sound patterns for our centurys English poetry will be a challenge, but not as difficult as the search for symbols. Once, an English poet could take for granted that his readers would recognize symbolic meanings from Greek and Roman myths, the Judeo-Christian religion, or the landscape of the British Isles. Such presumptions are now risky. English is now far less Anglo. There is no unbroken cultural tradition, no universal shared religion. The English language left for America; then the rest of the world joined it. Our language and culture has figuratively and literally interbred with First Nations, French, Hispanic, African and Asian influences. The culture associated with English has been altered with some diminishment and loss, but revitalized with new elements. Conquests, colonies and computer connections have given the English- speaking world a global reach. It alters those cultures it touches, but is altered in turn. A strange brew indeed. Where in this brew, amid these overlapping cultural influences, is a poet to find universal, understandable symbols? Poetry reflects the tension between what is personal and what is collective, individuality and the shared human core, the urge for self-expression and the need to communicate. If symbols do not move the poet, the result is a dry intellectual exercise. If they do not move the listener or reader, the poem has surely failed. Poet and audience must share their symbols if they are to share a poem. Symbols derive power from their history, yet we are surrounded by novelties discarded before they can gain symbolic meaning. Paradoxically, as the pace of change accelerates, we are drawn back to the great natural, universal symbols that have figured in myths and religions. They are related to Yeats notion of a great mind beyond that of any individual, apparently derived in part from Carl Jungs similar idea of the collective unconscious:
It is not enough for the primitive man to see the sun rise and set; this external observation must at the same time be a psychic happening: the sun in its course must represent the fate of a god or hero who, in the last analysis, dwells nowhere except in the soul of man. All the mythologized processes of nature, such as summer and winter, the phases of the moon, the rainy seasons, and so forth, are in no sense allegories of these objective occurrences; rather, they are symbolic expressions of the inner, unconscious drama of the psyche which becomes accessible to mans consciousness by way of projection that is, mirrored in the events of nature. The projection is so fundamental that it has taken several thousand years of civilization to detach it in some measure from its outer object (Jung, 1959, p. 6).
Mystics, and some poets, claim symbols can be found by gaining conscious access, through dreams and meditation, to unconscious meanings: F 15 Rhyme and Reason What Should a Poem Be Like? Any one who has any experience of any mystical state of the soul knows how there float up in the mind profound symbols, whose meaning, if indeed they do not delude one into the dream that they are meaningless, one does not perhaps understand for years. Nor I think has any one, who has known that experience with any constancy, failed to find some day in some old book or on some old monument, a strange or intricate image, that has floated up before him, and grown perhaps dizzy with the sudden conviction that our little memories are but a part of some great memory that renews the world and mens thoughts age after age, and that our thoughts are not, as we suppose, the deep but a little foam upon the deep (Yeats, 1903, pp. 112-113).
Yeats method of searching out symbols was much more active than the above passage might suggest. Besides the mainstream myths of western civilization, he periodically immersed himself in Irish folklore, symbolist poets such as Shelley and Blake, Asian literature, and even occult societies and spiritualism. (The latter activities appalled fellow poet W. H. Auden, who expressed his shock that an Anglo-Irish gentleman could be so Southern Californian apparently a particularly stinging epithet, even then!) Sympathetic critics such as J. C. Ransom noted that symbols in Yeats poems are eclectic. He mined his spiritual, intellectual, political and romantic passions and extracted a few gems. Although some of his symbols are obscure to anyone unaware of his private meanings, in his best poems they build a communication bridge. In his own words:
Symbolism said things which could not be said so perfectly in any other way, and needed but a right instinct for its understanding (Yeats, 1903, p. 227).
Poetic symbols may be drawn from diverse personal and cultural sources. There are always new ones to explore. Each persons life can have symbolic meaning. Discovering our symbols and fusing them with poetic sounds is a risky and difficult enterprise fraught with challenges but so it has ever been. Yeats warned that theres no escaping Adams Curse:
To be born woman is to know Although they do not talk of it at school That we must labour to be beautiful. I said, `Its certain that no fine thing Since Adams fall but needs much labouring.
_____________________________________
References
Auden, W. H. (1948). Yeats as an example. Kenyon Review, X, 187-195. Reprinted in J. Hall & M. Steinmann (Eds.) (1950), The permanence of Yeats. New York: Macmillan.
Foster, N. A., & Valentine, E. R. (2001). The effect of auditory stimulation on autobiographical recall in dementia. Experimental Aging Research, 27, 215-228.
Hannon, E. E., & Johnson, S.P. (2005). Infants use meter to categorize rhythms and melodies: Implications for musical structure learning. Cognitive Psychology, 50, 354-377.
Jung, C. G. (1959). The archetypes and the collective unconscious (2nd edition). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Ransom, J. C. (1939). Yeats and his symbols. Kenyon Review, I, 309-322. Reprinted in J. Hall & M. Steinmann (Eds.) (1950), The permanence of Yeats. New York: Macmillan.
Rubin, D. C. (1995). Memory in oral traditions: The cognitive psychology of epic, ballads, and counting-out rhymes. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.
Steele, T. (1990). Missing measures: Modern poetry and the revolt against meter. Fayetteville, AK: University of Arkansas Press.
Yeats, W. B. (1903). Ideas of good and evil (1903). New York: Macmillan. (Quotations are from The Symbolism of Poetry, The Philosophy of Shelleys Poetry, and Symbolism in Painting; also see Magic.)
16 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought
17 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Enemy
Gregory Christiano
An ancient enemy have I, And either he or I must die; For he never leaves me, Never gives my soul relief, Never lets my sorrow cease, Never gives my spirit peace -
For my enemy is Grief!
Pale he is, and sad and stern, And wheneer he comes near Blue and dim the torches burn, Pale and shrunk the roses turn; While my heart that he has pierced Many a time with fiery lance, Beats and trembles at his glance:
Clad in burning steel is he, All my strength he can defy; For he never parts from me - And one of us must die!
Nothing
Gregory Christiano
I have nothing to think of and nothing to do; Ill sing a song about nothing to you. If nothing will please you, its nothing to me, The trouble is nothing, as you will agree. I can give you nothing in verse or in prose, For nothing, you know, cannot make many foes.
Nothing is good when theres nothing to pay; And nothing is heard when theres nothing to say. Wed have nothing to love where theres nothing to hate, Thered be nothing to dream of or dreams to await. Where theres nothing right, thered be nothing but wrong; So if nothing will please you, Ill move right along!
18 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought An Invocation for our Opening Night
Michael Milligan
What separated Shakespeare from the herd of scribes who only sought to sleep and feed? For bread alone they sold their sacred Word, then, died unknown like blots upon a screed.
For Genius thrives not in the faint of heart, but beats her timpani in bosoms bold- so, thunder-like she shook our Shakespeares Art for daring her his lightening strokes to mold.
He spoke not Truth too brightly, but beneath a softening Beauty, as a cloud might veil Apollo in a rainbow colored wreath, he dimmed his vision to a rhyming Braille. No eye has seen, nor ear has ever heard the glory of the world in his Word.
Therefore, tonight when we alight the stage with lustrous words to fire this darkened globe, let us recall the greatness of an age when Art through man gave God a mortal robe, and God made man immortal through his art by seeing in himself his Authors part.
When players speak into the darkened space with voices echoing their high Intent, the watchers meet their maker face to face, and for a while the veil of time is rent. May we enjoined upon our holy Cause play well enough to earn a gods applause.
19 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought On the Battlefield, or A Letter from Marguerite
Gregory Christiano
Here, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; Tis but another dead - All you can say is said.
Carry his body hence - Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over mens graves: So this mans eye is dim - Throw the earth over him.
What was white you touched, There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died - Message, or wish maybe - Smoothen it out and see.
Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled Only the tremulous Words of a child; Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops.
Look! She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His - her dead fathers - kiss; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet; That is all. Marguerite.
Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died! But no; Death will not have it so.
20 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Diogenes
Neil Harding McAlister
In a rusty, battered dumpster Out behind the City Hall, Lives a ragged sage whose worldly goods are few. This philosopher of refuse Never sees a shopping mall, For he rarely has the cash for something new:
He is clothed in motley cast-offs That the rich have put aside; He can make a meal of food they throw away. Through the bitter nights of winter On these mean streets hell reside, Eking out a lean existence day to day.
There are those who say hes crazy, Knowing he declines to go To a shelter run by local charity. But theyve never seen such places Where thugs roll you for your dough, And your bunk-mate is a wino with TB.
He feels safer in his alley, Whence he ventures out by day Begging change from any passers-by hell meet. He harangues them with wild lectures Til the cops can shoo away This uncouth professor from the gritty street.
When the politicians blather And such poverty decry, They all pledge to help the homeless if they can. Would they feel a bit embarrassed If he looked them in the eye Just to see if he could find an honest man?
21 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought A Death in the City
Gregory Christiano
Through the blue and frosty heavens Far-off stars were shining bright; Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow as lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one frozen night.
In one house was dim and darkened; Gloom and sickness and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chamber, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning - For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread.
The skill of that mighty City To save one little life was vain - One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mothers pain, And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again.
So she knelt there, still, beside him, She alone with strength to smile, Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmuring tender song and story Weary hours to beguile.
So came an angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child and, while he held him, To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.
While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning oer the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast. Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.
22 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought In the churchyard of that City Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair - And a humble grave beside it, - No one knew who rested there.
Oh Shakespeare!
Michael Milligan
Oh Shakespeare! Must I live forever blank upon the margins of your brimming verse, a shadow creature on the Stygian bank, who lacking living words, must bear the curse of mumbling phrases to the honored dead? Is this the legacy your lightning strokes have left? That I must leave my words unsaid for fear the thunder which your work invokes will make my whispers mockers of my tongue? Is there no spark left of your fiery muse to make a Phoenix rise and soar among the ages once again? I will infuse a muse within me greater than you knew- for you had all the world, but I have you.
23 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Fire Bringer
Michael Milligan
O that I were Prometheus on a stone! Not fettering laws of Zeuss bloody chain, nor carrion claws, nor threat of Sirens tone, were able to dissuade thy burning brain. Brave Spirit of revolt! What secret Word compelled thy lone assault of highest laws? Such unbound trust in thy daemonic bird, though gods would damn thee for thy holy Cause! They are prisoners of Olympus high, whose altars gold is stained with mortal gore. In vain they seek their ease in tyranny, who build their cage of greed forevermore. Though bound and fettered on a desolate crest, the daemon wings beat free within thy breast.
On Visiting a Graveyard
Peter G. Gilchrist
Grey as the ash from a toppled urn that spills to a granite floor, clouds wrap the slope in a satin shroud that drapes to a rocky shore.
Scattered like bones on a windswept beach and mute as a chiseled name headstones decay in the brittle grass and seagulls cry out in shame.
Crosses lay fractured in rampant brush that chokes the forgotten knoll, tended by none but a watchful crow as black as Cape Breton coal.
Loneliness lies like a well-worn shawl on shoulders of withered land. Ragged and homeless, she turns from town and buries herself in the sand.
Promise me this: When you summon me and call me from my canoe let it not be in North Sydney, Lord, lest I be forgotten too.
24 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Hypocrisy
Neil Harding McAlister
A rocky desert stretches far To distant mountains, brown and bare. A waif, abandoned in the dust, Wipes flies out of her matted hair. Her threadbare misery we see, A poignant vignette on TV, So aged beyond her seven years! The interviewer swallows tears.
In her short life shes known no life But death and war. Now all alone, This dolly never clutched a doll, Shes never had a loving home. A war-embittered TV host Asks this poor wretch what she wants most, And strains to hear what she has said. One plaintive word she whispers: Bread.
From half a world away we watch, Warm, fat voyeurs in safe, clean homes. Our indignation is a sham, Decrying pain thats not our own. Though we condemn with righteous rage Injustice in the modern age, Words without deeds shall always be Contemptible hypocrisy.
God damn our nations! Damn our flags! And damn religion, every creed! In pained disgust God turns His back On men inured to this childs need. Whatever pious words we say, Our empty words wont wipe away The tears of children, forced to dwell In our worlds bitter, man-made hell.
25 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Justification
Angela Burns
Smog alerts and acid rain The days of sunshine shrink again Donkey pumps and sour gas flares The sulfurous smell means money there
Jungles razed for cheap world beef Free trade the new, fix-all belief While garbage mountains still await The end of time to seal their fate
Beyond the boardrooms, tourist traps A countrys wealth is mined and tapped Towers rise in concrete waves While poor in millions die of AIDS
Nature throws disasters wide While all ignore the rising tide Its not our fault our leaders bleat While making pledges they wont keep
Corruption ruins good intentions While bigger crimes are never mentioned And down where world banks never see Another child, in death, is freed
Terrorists killing by the score The reasons, motives, both ignored Riots show the underside The faces of disenfranchised
The lack of oil may now exhaust That right to drive we all were taught For in this new world we have made The winners will not be its slaves
Theyll be the ones who took small steps To waken thought and lessen debts To use sufficient and no more To save the farmlands, woods and shores
Who saw a future bright and hale In energy-efficient sales With eyes faced forwards, they will soar Those in denial? Dinosaurs!
26 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Rebuilding
Anna Evans
The swollen-bellied spider must have spun her fibers rashly from the back of one chair to the lantern, aiming to connect her net across a vast swathe of my deck and spread her cobweb wide, a greedy ploy, but insect queens are easy to destroy.
I jerked the chair out, triggering a quake that rocked her palace, made her throne-room shake until she scuttled up to the brass rim by the wall. The wind then added its own spin, twisting the torn strands like Rapunzels hair until they blew in ribbons from the chair.
Patiently, like Penelope at her loom, the spider waited; I put down the broom. Spiders are more resolute than men; in silence she contrived her house again but with a wisdom that shed lacked before, she spooled to the casement of the sliding door.
Wed handle our disasters so much better if we watched spiders more. She lives; I let her.
27 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Secret Death
Jeannine Schiavoni
That night we sank inside our coats while dodging fierce December snow With others, huddled in a line, one hundred deep, to catch the show You struck a match to light your Kool, and when the wind snuffed out the flame I cupped my hands and held them there, until the fire took up its aim A foreigner shook off the cold, and spoke small, broken words to you And still the trains and subways passed, and then, a roaring bus or two ... Streetwise boys from downtown flats walked by in shorts and baseball tees Attempting to look hot despite the nervous shiver in their knees For something more (or less) to do, you mumbled, Christ, I hate them so ... And still the trains and subways passed, on time, with someplace warm to go If wed been sculptures made of ice, with I, an angel or a dove I swear, I would have flown away, to flee such earthly ills of love ... Befitting to our secret storms, long past Times Square and cheaters bed I walked in rain and sipped champagne in bliss, as fashioned in my head And to these halls I often came, in chauffer-driven limousines To watch ballet and dance til four and mingle with the Broadway scenes For something more (or less) to do, you put your arm around my waist You didnt like my gypsy dress, and looked me over, twice; straight-faced Right then, the doorman did announce that in a while hed let us through You lit another cigarette and smoke-rings in the air, you blew And truth poured forth with each exhale: the cold, the crowds, the wait, the show ... While still, the trains and subways passed, with someplace safe to come or go ... For something more (or less) to do, I watched commuters make their rounds The trains and subways hugging rails while lugging people up or down They seemed good souls, who come in peace, for just the cost of subway fare Their eyes peered outward, toward the streets, with others reading, unaware ... One car then stopped, and all went dark, much like a final curtain call Until the stage lights all lit up, bright white-in-snow and sparkle-fall The flakes began to swirl around ... and like a snow globe, did encase A merry scene of passersby who sat like dolls, in transit space Now from the platform, near the edge, I stepped upon the slippery rise And just as I began to fall, my life quick-flashed before my eyes I watched as time sprung up and swooned like ocean tides that ebb and flow Exploding in a burst of flames ... igniting what remained below And all that stood was shattered glass and bits of sand and crumpled stone, No pulse nor heartbeat to be found amid the scattered, fractured bone As slow-death holds its iron grip while weakening ones will to live A wasteland fills with nothingness with even less, to glean nor give For something somewhat odd to do, I often dream we live to die And through the in-betweens of time, each sigh is one, quick lullaby I came to learn more in those hours than ever I had known before How life is nothing but a house, with death adorning every door And as we flow from room to room in joy and triumph, or defeat Its there at every breath we draw, awaiting us to finally greet It hangs above us like a wreath, and knows well, who we truly are At times it hovers like a cloud, or hides while watching from afar
28 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought It comes disguised as wealth or love or blessings meant to calm ones fear No need to cower nor shy from death, its task serves not, to leave us here Then in a whirl of real-or-not, a wooden soldier reached for me All Aboard, the door slammed shut ... Southbound for sweet Eternity ... For something less (or more) to do, the car ascended up the track I left you fumbling for a match ... I smiled, and never once looked back ...
Envy
Neil Harding McAlister
The janitor who mops the floor Is cleaning near the Bosss door. He does this same old, boring chore On every business day. What hope is there for working slobs Who cannot mix with Board Room snobs? Hed give his arm to have their jobs And earn the Bosss pay! His wife would dress in furs and jewels; His kids would go to private schools. Hed wield a pen instead of tools, And learn white collar ways.
The CEO is working late. On his tired shoulders rests the fate Of each employee, small or great. His brow is creased with strife. His minds a storm of quotes and bids, Of profits, losses, charts and grids. He barely gets to see his kids Or wine and dine his wife. Behind his eyes a migraine pounds, Exacerbated by the sounds Of Stan the cleaners evening rounds. Hed kill for such a life!
29 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Silent Voices
Richard E. Buenger
Beneath the Celtic cross in morning chill The worship bell in belfry cage hangs still While tears of pigeon soil form frosted coat. Past souls alone recall its pealing note.
The bleached and fissured chapel door is cocked. Its iron bolt with rust is firmly locked. Old spider webs with dried and well-wrapped prey In lacy nets obstruct the entrance way.
Wind-wafted seedlings sprout as thriving guests With arrogance in leaky gutter nests. Small orphaned yellow buds contrast the stone In cracks and crevices where theyve been blown.
The stone wall fence with jagged guard on top Is bathed by languid, hesitating drop From overhanging solitary pine That bends to judge competing moss and vine
That conquer rock and window, step and wall, Cracked fallen tablet, once erect and tall. On crunching gravel path one may detect Both weed and water hole from long neglect,
But here no sleep is wakened by the sound Of foreign steps upon this hallowed ground. With down-turned tails the nearby grazing sheep Evade the vigilance that they might keep.
On broken slates doves cooing at roofs ridge And wagoned horse at lower crossing bridge Will pay no heed to those or these or me While framing this bucolic scenery.
Defeated soldiers, bowed, in broken rows Stand side-by-side in awkward, canted pose, Most leaning, bent, as if theyd come To listen quietly for voices, dumb.
Carved granites, dark with wet and weather-worn, Bear faint and faded messages, forlorn. On lichen-crusted slabs with love are stated; Adored, Devoted, Cherished, tersely dated
With birth and death then tragic tale of grief: A soldier son, at war, a life so brief; An ancient couple, both within a year; At birth, a babe, with mother resting near.
30 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Some Entered Into Rest, or Fell Asleep; A Sacred Memory, We All Do Weep; Some Called To Rest, Departed Full Of Years; Affectionate Remembrance, grief and tears!
Dried, broken stems in unattended urns Guard rain-eroded rocks besieged by ferns While worldly lords in sculptured marble rest In regal gown with folded arms on chest
Now crumbling in the overgrowing grass To show their impotence in death, Alas! Low moans and groans from ancient bones are stilled, Unfinished years and dreams still unfulfilled.
No songs are heard of hope and love and toil From broken boxes, filtered through the soil. Hello!, Hello!, my heart sends futile cry, Tell, are you angry that you had to die?
And can you sense the cold entombed so deep? Could there be dreams in your eternal sleep? Or is there only everlasting night, No thought, no sound, no touch, no voice, no sight?
If only someones cold and deafened ear Could sense a neighbors hopeless call and hear! Or if a numb and paralytic hand Could reach across to touch and understand!
When I, at last, return no burdened shoe Will press this path. No eye will view These crooked stones or read their sad, sad lines. Ill be un-sensed, escaped from mortal signs.
31 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought The Con o Cons f
Aaron Wilkinson
Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile. Ive plucked you from the rank and file To take a place in history. Your songs of battle make me smile. The councils done, our course is set, That now, good Arghun, hearken yet, Its time to carve my legacy In flesh with bloody ecstasy.
Before the west was pacified I fought against a mighty tide Of faithless fools and jealousy That forced my hand to fratricide. And since those days of living bare, Ive taken pains to take my share. My sole regret was having none To sing the work my blade had done.
When acts of vengeance made my name, The seed for all my present fame, I wanted men to bear its fruit So flew my flag and many came. They daily dwell in muck and mud And sing my skill for shedding blood. Ive bled them too. They love me still. By right their mouths are mine to fill.
Ambitions make me more than man. I loot and burn because I can. No mortared stone or timber wall Has ever harboured foes who ran. Gone soft in shelter, safe and warm, They shake before the coming storm And soon the world will call me Lord Or fall beneath my swelling horde.
The afterglow of rout is sweet As honeyed wine. Each tribe we greet With steel is offered certain death Or pledge my flag with no deceit. With deep salaams and prayers of thanks Mohammedans have swelled our ranks. Betrayers meet with swift dispatch, A smartly severed head to catch.
32 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought As nature bids me stand erect The captured women genuflect For all my earthly gifts are great. They bare themselves to show respect. But needs demand a real contempt For humankind. For so Ive dreamt; Well turn towards the rising day And boldly conquer gold Cathay.
I see the doubt behind your eyes But fear no more, your Khan is wise. We strike because the time is ripe. Let yellow scholars criticize We fighting men, enduring pain While non-combatants cast disdain. Just take some consolation thus: Their livelihoods depend on us.
So long as men are ruled by kings Theyll bend to breed distasteful things Pretending everything is grand While knowing why the caged bird sings. My acts will likely touch a nerve. Its better far to rule than serve Unless the folk youre standing on Have sense enough to see the con.
The Field of the Cloth of Gold
Catherine Edmunds
The year is 1520. Rival kings, Each one a paragon of monarchy, Agree to meet near Calais. Henry brings Pavilions, for banquets; each marquee Is sewn with threads of gold within its silk. Their rivalry is strong, so Francis shows His wealth, his skills in jousting he must milk This chance to show his mettle ere he goes. The Field of Cloth of Gold they each proclaim Shows theyre the best. A dazzling scene, Im sure, But Ive seen wondrous gold; not quite the same Ive walked midst flowers, far more sweet and pure, For swathes of daffodils are brighter yet Than royal efforts when these two kings met. 33 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Skip
Neil Harding McAlister
In grateful memory of Harry Skip Parker
Up at the clubhouse every Wednesday night He taught Sea Scouts to play life by the rules. With deference and awe we called him Skip -- The Captain of our former one-room school.
His landlocked swabs professed a salty myth: We called the door a hatch, the floor our deck. On weekends with the good, old Fifty-Fifth Our whale boat to a man-made lake wed trek.
We heaved on its big oars and hoisted sail, While at the tiller, uncomplaining Skip Upon his ever-present pipe inhaled, And piloted our clumsy, little ship.
Did we once think hed better things to do Than spend his spare time sailing with us kids? His own son was a member of our crew; We simply took for granted all he did.
Men said hed been a hero in the War -- Spoke vaguely of brave deeds with hushed respect. But we knew better than to ask him more: We took for modesty his meek affect.
Its only now, when we ourselves have sons, We understand why humble he appeared: The terrible things he must have seen and done Were tales unfit for teenage boys to hear.
But if Skips Sea Scouts never sailed to war, And never learned to fire a naval gun, And watched our families thrive on peaceful shores -- We live to thank our mentors. He was one.
34 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought In The Office
Sally Cook
All offices are similar; it seems -- A sadness permeates each cubicle. Conglomerations of dashed hopes and dreams Combine to fill the air, and workers full Of untapped misery act out the flow Of sadness and frustration that they feel As days pass by; unfinished, dusty, slow. Their dreams lie folded, boxed; no longer real; Stored in a sequence, stacked on stainless steel That will not rust, although perhaps it should. An acid air drifts in it is so real One sees it flowing, smoking, burning wood And thoughts, and flesh, and hopes, and minds and love; While all move up by push and pull and shove.
They narrow their perspective, cheat, make deals, And sell their time on earth to get along In triplicate, and have their secret meals Where they chew on the false. They see the wrong; Still, knowing this, continue, carefully To climb the dreary stair of dull command, Keeping their place in line. And so we see A beaten, downcast, sneaky little band Where infidelity and grievance reign. It matters very little what they do, But everyone is careful, and disdain Is always heaped upon the honest few, And so it goes; no matter what or why. The work is meaningless, the task a lie.
35 Rhyme and Reason Food for Thought Tithe of the Black Sheep
LaVonda Krout
Kindly gods do not subsist on offerings from such as I, as all my importuning they resist a vast and frozen silence in reply.
When other hearts lie still and calm and render due benevolence lacking such, I cradle in my palm one thats beaten, beats with violence.
At least a lesser god should bless my proffered gift, a heart thats cursed, and bearing guilt, forgive me . . . more or less for giving back what I was given first.
When Time is Kind
Vincent W. Williams
When Time is kind and makes of me its own-- No reach of motion, thought or word may chide-- O, I shall drink the art of thee alone, And in that art, contented, eer abide.
Each next eternity gives new respect-- Enjoys perfection of some measured skill-- Then, night and day shall trinkets-rare collect, And put a face on purpose and self-will.
And for the finite while of my demise, When ceremony of my life be said: While art is rendered, I may still be wise to its sweet beauty, yet although Im dead.
Then do not waste thy grieving tears on me, For I shall make new art where ere I be.
36 Rhyme and Reason Seasons
37 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Voyageur
Neil Harding McAlister
Our gleaming, new canoes glide off from shore, Bright paddles flashing in the morning sun. Young hearts burst full of hope for whats in store: The voyage of our lives has just begun.
The yellow lilies bloom in tranquil ponds. Green leaves adorn the trees along the stream Where, hiding in the languid water fronds, The bashful shoals of darting fishes teem.
So dip and swing! So dip and swing! And joyous is the song our paddles sing!
We cannot know what waits around each bend -- Wild rapids or a crashing waterfall -- But we shall carry on til journeys end. Whatever trials await, well meet them all!
When friendly winds push gently at our back We surge ahead with confidence and hope; But when fierce rainstorms slash across our track We clench our teeth and pray that we can cope.
Now dip and swing, now dip and swing. Determined is the song our paddles sing.
Though campsites by the shore look snug and green We must move on; we cant stay in one place. Each new lake is a sight weve never seen, Each new portage a challenge we must face.
Our pretty boats will soon display the scars Of cruel rocks that lurk beneath the stream; If we survive were bound to travel far, Each scrape a souvenir of where weve been.
Then dip and swing, then dip and swing. Of battles lost and won our paddles sing.
The trees along the banks are turning bare. The lilies fade, and water weeds are brown. The fish have fled, and in the chilly air Float silently the autumn thistledown.
The strength of youth gives way to cares of age. Each paddle stroke becomes a painful test. Against the coming winters night we rage, For there are miles to go before we rest.
Its dip and swing, and dip and swing Though feeble grows the song our paddles sing. 38 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Some travelers contend this trip is all, While others strive toward some mythic goal. Unlucky ones are swamped by vicious squalls, And weaklings drift in craft they cant control.
Until this voyage ends we must be brave, Wherever it may be that we may reach. Until at last we slip beneath the waves, Or fetch up on some distant, shining beach,
We dip and swing, and dip and swing Til time will still the song our paddles sing.
Spring
Michael Milligan
When lilacs lick the April morning air with purple tongues, adrip with balmy sweat, reciting sonnets to the billows fair, whose sprinkling kisses on the mead beget a generation of shining marigold and buds of Viols to court each passing cloud and airborne bees arising from the cold impregnate blooms like newlyweds avowed, remember me when you awake these eves and these few lines devoted to your grace; When wintry doubt with bitter cold deceives recall the Spring I find within your face. As Lover Sun beams warmth upon his Earth, let bright black ink invoke your Spring rebirth.
Let this vision of your Beauty yield a bounty as the sun upon the field and these words of mine as gentle rains to buds, bring vital sap into your veins. May our loving conversation linger like the humble farmers steady finger which breaks the stubborn sod upon his boots allowing seeds and sprouts to take their roots into the yielding Earth.
39 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Forty-Something
Peter G. Gilchrist
A man sets goals, and struggles to achieve what few can duplicate: to be the best. I looked aloft and let myself believe that I was meant to climb Mount Everest.
I studied hard, prepared as best I could, and trained with mentors skilled beyond compare. I wasnt satisfied with being good. I strove to be the best, and didnt care about the cost. And yes, it cost me dear. It cost my wife, and cost my children too. They did without so much to get me here. But here I stand. I have arrived. Who knew the view from way up here could be this bleak?
It seems I may have scaled the wrong damn peak!
Rain in the Desert
Neil Harding McAlister
Dark clouds oppress the Valley of the Sun. As water drips off cactus in the heat The golfers pack their gear, their plans undone, And to the clubhouse sullenly retreat. The cracked earth now the gift of rain receives. Arroyos brim with torrents seldom seen. The ocotillo shine with bright, new leaves, And shades of brown transform to verdant green. Why curse our luck, like golfers in the rain, When we dont get what we expect to find? The rare surprise we may not see again Brings joy and wonder to an open mind. The rains that wash the deserts dusty face Reveal a hidden beauty in its place.
40 Rhyme and Reason Seasons The Winter House (An old man bids farewell)
Jeannine Schiavoni
... Olden houses seem to know When time yields no more seasons More merciful to let them go And ask them not, for reasons ...
Hearth roars forth its final fire ... Flames in shadow, rise and fall Silhouette peaks hot and high upon the crumbling, Winter wall Rotting shutters slam about ... un-hinged by scathing Northeast wind For nothing keeps the dying out, nor keeps the living safely in ...
Does not this Winter sadly weep when first finds death beneath its trees? As what is old succumbs to sleep, when recognizing self, in these Now paled and dimmed by loss and languish, Spring seems painful, to recall The old man shakes his head in anguish ... Not so much a life, at all ...
His ragged sweaters, thread-bare vests ...stand out among her satin gowns Like misfits dressed in Sunday best, who mingle with fine folks in town His hunter greens and flannel plaids fill false, the loneliness of space Her aprons hang like graying ghosts, on hooks, beside the fireplace ...
Where there, he keeps her photo near for random breaths of warmth to give Her wedding smile fades year by year, along with faith, and will to live From season start, to bitter end, he could not bear to separate From things that bring her back again, toward gentler times to contemplate
Now gone, the sound of childrens feet, once thunderous; through the upstairs hall Farewell to sighs and lullabies ... Not so much a home, at all And yet, he does not feel alone, as flames, like doves --- still stretch and soar By mornings light, they will have flown, and Winter shall be cold, no more ...
Weathered hands that once brought flowers, hold nothing, save his pipe and prayer Forlorn, from past and present hours Smoke and Sanctus fill the air ...
41 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Spring In Mist And Music
Jeannine Schiavoni
Six weeks or less, the doctor warned ... Touch and go ... give or take ... Shell need these pills to help her sleep, and those, for pain, when shes awake ... Left in the room where children wait, a scruffy boy in un-tied shoes Did tap his feet, and block his ears, as if to keep away the news Beyond the door, he dared not peek, where sat his mother, frail and still For yesterday, in secret-speak, hed first heard she had taken ill The silence hovered, thick and stark, yet through, he heard his father weep Like cries that creep up in the dark, to keep away a restful sleep Now, how should we prepare the boy? What shall we do when she is gone? The doctor sighed, Theres only care, but prayer may help you carry on...
Outside, the blazing August sun could not, ones cold heart, penetrate As Boy strolled numbly, steps behind ... with life and death to contemplate Still, Father greeted passersby, as if an ordinary day While Boy could only pray for rain, to wash the doctors words away Now home, the rooms seemed not the same, for life as hed once known it, fled Replacing dreams with silent screams, as what all fear, hung overhead Exclaimed the boy, with fractured heart and little comfort to her, give... I wish that I was never born ... No reason now, to even live! But Mother answered with her all, Theres hope and song in everything. Six weeks may bring us into Fall, but Ill be here still, when its Spring ...
Yet, whom could beg to understand? For such a claim, would ring no sense Still, Bach flowed from her baby grand, as if un-touched by days events And Father kissed her on her cheek, and wandered out to tend the lawn The night fell open in a storm, and brought no stars to wish upon Their days seemed normal, at a glance --- with precious hours to plan and live As if a magic second chance could come to those with much to give And now and then, all dreadful thoughts would often slip his busy mind For Father never spoke of it, and visitors were always kind By summers end the garden thrived, where buried seed had taken root And what had stayed, somehow survived the taste of Augusts bitter fruit ...
Soon, time became the calendar and clock ...but Mother did not go October came, and cold winds preyed, and still, she stayed through Winters snow She woke, as every day, shed done --- yet, not as one, on death to wait By day, her music filled the house ... At night she sat up writing, late Her guests arrived to say hello, or share, perhaps one last good-bye And often she would fare so well, that what was told, had seemed a lie For Mother hung the art she made, and tucked her poems and songs away --- Along with things meant for The Boy, that would be understood, one day Daily tending to her tasks, she stayed for hours, out from her bed She chose no more, the store-bought cakes, but sought to bake her own, instead ...
42 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Said she to Boy there, at her side, where Near-Spring violets graced the tree: By and by youll understand to use your hands to gather me ... We cannot spend nor squander time, to mourn the loss of passing things The oak would never crush a bud, for one last glimpse of early Spring... Youll learn that life continues on --- as heart and hope ... in poem or song So when the storms bring forth these flowers, remember ... and be strong ... Then overnight, there rose a sad, white moon in Aprils starry sky As Boy sat by her bed and hummed a final, farewell lullaby And when all gathered by her grave, and Parson spoke of prayer and pain I tapped my shiny, Sunday shoes ... to quell the screams of Easters rain ...
Canadian Winter
Peter Austin
Chilling as a play by Pinter; Windier than Moby Dick; Welcome to Canadian winter: Come on in, and sign off sick!
Spare a thought, please, for the Newfie: Yet again, his pipes have burst; Philosophic as a sufi, Though its June the twenty-first,
And for months the smug Victorian Has been watching shoots appear, Warm as any hyperborean (Underneath his rainproof gear.)
Spare a thought for southern cities, Streets awash in saline shit, Full of would-be Walter Mittys, Sledding in Iqaluit,
Where the absence of Apollo, Thirty days without an end, With a fortnight more to follow, Drives the locals round the bend.
Chilling as a play by Pinter; Dickens would have called it bleak; How to take Canadian winter? Take a plane to Martinique.
43 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Wordless Whispers
Eric Linden
Once again new dawn awakens pushing darkness to one side, soft gray light on silent slippers walks on pathways, dignified. Birds begin their early chirping, carefree broadcasts greet the day; squirrels shout warnings, loudly scolding some intruder, some mle. Slowly life comes to the forest, to the hemlocks, spruce, and pines, to the oaks and ageless cedars, to the aspens and the vines. In a place thats well protected, down a basalt-lined ravine, two mule deer rise where they rested, two small fawns stand in between.
High up in the coastal mountains guarded by colossal trees lies a boulder half-way hidden under tangled canopies. Branches sway and gently rustle as the winds meander through, whisper accents hushed, susurrant, lulling words the old ones knew. Ferns have grown along the pathway, overtaking, closing in till the trail is almost covered back to nature once again. Now the pathways seldom traveled, gone the tribesmen and their gear, gone the nomad who would wander southward, northward, with the deer.
Grand in size, the mighty boulder stands much higher than three men, in circumference, much greater hand to hand, takes more than ten. Theres an undercut beneath it, room to shelter from the rain, even signs of old-time campfires, stones and ashes still remain. Ochre paintings on the boulder mark accounts of bygone days like the glories of a hunter who came home to songs of praise; others point into the future, some event thats yet to come, like a prophecy or omen, like a summons of the drum.
44 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Long forgotten now are pictures and their tales are lost in time as the trails keep growing over where few ancients make the climb. Mostly woodsmen scale high mountains, cutting forests with machines, leaving clearcuts when they harvest every hilltop and ravine. Flowers burst in bright profusion all around the tattered wood that lies scattered in confusion where a mighty forest stood. Grasses grow to greet fresh sunlight, making fodder for mule deer, bear and elk, while little rodents skitter through this changed frontier. Planted seedlings soon develop into saplings, strong and tall, and a forest, new and younger answers still the ancients call.
The Spotted Doe
T.S. Kerrigan
They wander down in search of food each year When summer turns the higher meadows brown, Those ragged herds of starving spotted deer. One August day, arriving home from town, I saw a deer outside my place, a doe. I grabbed my rifle, worked the bolt, and thought, I bet shes eaten everything I grow. I trained my weapon, nearly fired a shot, Then watched her darting gracefully away, A creature far too glorious to harm. This doe would live to steal another day. I slung the loaded rifle round my arm. My neighbor saw, expressing disbelief That beauty should give license to a thief.
45 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Spring Cleaning
Neil Harding McAlister
Spring cleaning time! Emerged from winters slump Weve trucked a load of refuse to the dump -- Old things once valued, bought with hard-earned cash, Mementos of our lives, devolved to trash.
The treasures tykes unwrapped one Christmas morn With shrieks of glee, are disused and forlorn. Bent rackets, a deflated basketball, A battered box of battered Barbie dolls,
A chipped, old conch shell from some tropic isle, A beat-up, floral couch long out of style, A bicycle, a lamp, a plastic Jeep, Lie broken and discarded in a heap.
Once prized possessions, now computer junk, Land in the trash pile with a sullen thunk. There goes that printer and if truths to tell, The darned thing never did work very well.
A bust of Elvis with a busted nose Begs, Dont be cruel! -- but to the landfill goes. A fond reminder of their childhood past, Our kids old booster seat gets chucked out last.
A hunk of scrap is much more than it seems. Here in the bone-yard of our worn-out dreams The crunch of boots on shards of broken glass Reminds us that, tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.
46 Rhyme and Reason Seasons The Lal-Jomi
Anna Evans
Love, before the children thinned your hair and thickened me, remember where wed eat, the nights the Cambridge Arms had rung out their last orders? How youd wink: you want to share a curry? and wed stagger down the street to our old Indian restaurant, right there
beyond the dry cleaners and just before the place you bought me roses, among all those shops (the kind where opening the door would ring a bell). How, once a week or more, the Lal-Jomi would call us and wed fall through its wide entrance arched like old Lahore?
The waiter, whom we counted as a friend, would lead us to a curtained booth and smile. (Our grins implied his shift was near its end; we tipped well and we didnt need to spend long with the menu). First wed split a pile of fiery pappadoms; he would unbend
and put the dips and chutneys out for free, with wine if we were still inclined to drink. Youd ask for Shikh Kebab, Tikka for me. (We fed each other bits in privacy). Wed order so much food back then! I think we never ate it all. Cant you still see
the plate warmers which groaned with meat and rice, hear the sitar music that would play, or taste the coriander, pungent spice burning on our tongues like the advice we swapped in drunken voices? Yet next day we would say nothing more than: it was nice.
Oh love, remember when the meal was done how we would press the hot towels to our faces, suck oranges, spit out the pips for fun, and split, so keen for bed wed almost run? These days we dine in ritzy four star places but love, you know I really miss that one.
47 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Infidel at Tea
Eric Linden
As seasons change, and autumn comes ablaze to signal summers end, its raging fires turn to ashes cooled. Another year expires; the jolly month of June has had its days. Autumn brings on wanderlust, a maze of dead-end trails. A harvest of desires begins to roll on new, inflated tires but moonlit nights are clouded with a haze.
A gypsy turns the teacup in her hands and contemplates the message left inside shes seen this tale before: the leaves dont lie. Small, scattered dots are stars in foreign lands; she sees the ships go sailing with the tide; she knows his fate which he cannot deny.
Spring Revue
Angela Burns
Curtains of rain slide apart to expose A daffodil fanfare for tree blossom snows Hyacinth solos join aconite choirs While slim catkins dance to emerald fires
The grass stretches forth in riffs to the sway Of slim golden willows in soft furry gray The scents of bright promise are piped to the sky While endless encores thrill each eager eye
Autumn Recital
Angela Burns
Reflections dance on a glistening stage Knots of rain-somber birches enclose Mist-sparkling sedge rustling autumn repose And scatters of gold in a shimmering blaze.
Wind harps pluck softly the scents of the rain Notes of sea, marsh and bark, sodden stone Bright sheets of sky write their paean alone While thrums of slate cloud cast a shadowed refrain. 48 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Tears of a Clown
S. Parlato
Behind his makeup, look and you will find a clown whos not as happy as he seems. The thought of what-if dances through his mind and slithers through his sleeping, waking dreams. Hes tired of unicycles, tents, balloons. In fact, the role of joyful pantaloon has left him feeling less than genial. Hes done to death by playing silly fool.
A little boy pries open daddys trunk, the sad, discarded vestige of his youth. He only knew a father in a funk and has no inclination of the truth. He dons his fathers bright red nose and wig, declares, Ill make em laugh, when I get big!
Winters End
John Grey
As March winds sear through field and town, Snow cedes itself to gravity, Collapses from both roof and tree. Sheds all of its white heavy gown, Ice daggers snap and tumble down, And with each rise of a degree, The winters grip releases me A little more, resigns its crown.
Another winter at the end, Is but a shadow of its worst, Another outlook on the mend That once thought itself doomed, accursed, This stage of life, I see the trend, Depressions mount, depressions burst.
49 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Dancing Feet
Peggy Fletcher
Girls and boys still dance to music keeping time to rhythmic beat shorter skirts and longer hairstyles make no change in dancing feet.
Clinging to their hour of pleasure shake away the old despair lingering near the edge of reason spectres are not welcomed there.
Ghosts of all who went before them hover on their laughing faces other girls and other boys other times and other places.
Girls and boys still dance to music finding love in different beats generation gaps to follow make no change in dancing feet.
Spring Thaw
Debbie Okun Hill
When snowman sags, slips, spills to lake His head spins dizzy fever ache Loud soggy slurps, down swirling drain Twig twisting arm entwined in pain Two black coal eyes begin to shake A carrot nose, unlucky break Wool scarf unwinds, hung up on stake In gutter, lost, alone in lane When snowman sags
Oh where art thou, white mounds of flake? Melted moments, a big mistake A drowning pool, rush hour rain A wilting tear, a fading stain A burst of sun dries puddles wake When snowman sags
50 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Winter Woes
Aaron Wilkinson
The frantic pace of summer ends When autumn months make absent friends. We bid farewell to warming trends As arctic winds begin to blow. Then wintertime and moving slow.
The sidewalks stretch in icy wrecks So walkings hell, but what the heck. Some folks will fall and break their necks. To hospital in pain theyll go Cause wintertimes for moving slow.
While blizzards fall in winding sheets The crowded buses crawl the streets And touchy riders guard their seats. Were tired so long as tensions grow Cause wintertimes for moving slow.
And drivings not a better bet. Most drivers heads have room to let. The roads are glass, they all forget. And more than one will need a tow Cause wintertimes for moving slow.
Some others need to roll the night Through windshields showing endless white Or flashing blue and yellow lights As ploughs upset the traffic flow Cause wintertimes for moving slow.
Then groundhogs cast about for spring. What wonders will the sunshine bring? And still outside the Lions king. By March the groundhogs eating crow Cause wintertime is moving slow.
Id like to reach a sunny clime Where no ones heard of wintertime And write a dreadful winter rhyme To share what I have come to know: To hell with every flake of snow.
51 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Are We There Yet?
Steven Manchester
I drove on at a steady pace. Behind me came a voice, Believing life was one long race, and fate a simple choice.
Are we there yet? was his theme. He twisted in his seat. I felt the sorrow he would learn- the trials he had to meet.
A few more miles...a little while. I knew the trip was long. But in the mirror beamed a smile: My word could not be wrong.
We talked and laughed, we shared the ride- In time, he took the wheel. Through years we traveled side-by-side, To think, to hope and feel.
I turned to him, with my tired voice, Are we there yet? was my plea. He grinned and said, Thats Gods own choice. At last, my boy could see.
52 Rhyme and Reason Seasons All Hail The Noble Hog
Sally Cook
Marmota monax was his name In Latin times; and his sole claim To fame is telling us the length Of winter; and his greatest strength Is burrowing, and gobbling food, (By grabbing it and being rude).
An anorexic animal, He goes to sleep and loses all The extra weight that he has gained, Then wakes in Feb., when snow has waned To tell us when the spring will come Now who can say this fellows dumb?
When born, he is both blind and hairless. His parents are what wed call careless, And kick him out at eight weeks old Into the world, alone and cold. Though he may whistle, hiss or growl Sometimes Im sure he gives a howl.
Aside from his varietal speech, Red, black or brown, it seems that each Ground hog, though chunky with short tail Can never have been said to fail To tell us from his little hill Of whats to come. We laud him still.
53 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Ancient Oak
Jan Harris
Astride the nook where branch and trunk embrace, a fleet of children sailed to pilgrim shores and lovers lingered in your shade, to trace the paths which laced two parted lives once more.
Drawn by moons glow, a cloud of moths arose, as if your bark erupted into flight, and dawn brought colonies of greys, who stole fat acorns to sustain their winter nights.
A road now binds your roots, cements your soil, and life is trapped within the speeding lights. Exhaust fumes make the stifled air taste stale.
To toast the route of progress, old trees fall as space is cleared for climbing frames and slides, where children play in line behind the rails.
As Children Play Near Weathered Stones
Gerry Spoor
Ill never wonder when Im dead No dreams envisioned in my head No words described upon my lips No feelings on cold fingertips
Cant hear the thunder underground Where silence is the only sound Where lay the truth of lies inside Where I cant see what darkness hides
Indifferently, Ill then decay As quietly as each old day While winter whispers through my bones and children play near weathered stones
54 Rhyme and Reason Seasons Black And White World
Dawn Sinclair
Let us go back to the black and white world and pretend it was better than now, to our youth and beyond, to the poverty bond we can visit if memories allow.
See the shoes on our feet stuffed with yesterdays news and our one suit of clothes, drab and drear. With no jewels to bedeck save the scum round the neck, we had nothingand that includes fear.
See the obstinate chins and the diamond bright eyes face the black and white world with a dare. We knew none could uncover, nor slyly discover those secrets of our great despair.
See the place where we livedwas it ever in colour, was the paint ever glossy and new? where we hung by the feet in full view of the street from a rail, with defiance as glue.
See the gutters that yielded a treasure-trove rare of ball-bearings and other such gems. How we stooped, unaware of the seams we might tear, in our dresses without any hems.
See the rosy-cheek children who looked down their noses yet longed with green envy to play with the black and white urchins, so craftily searching for some way to make the rich pay.
And we didyou remember?we tapped every resource, we understood nothing of shame We would blackmail or flatter, it didnt much matter so long as they couldnt prove blame.
We were quick, we were slick, and we didnt mind danger In fact, it enhanced all the thrills. We took chances so lightly and squeezed through so tightly you would think we expected some spills.
But we didntremember?.we thought nothing of it, Invincible down to the last. Dont you think its a pity that children so gritty should grow up and hide from the past?
55 Rhyme and Reason Seasons I Paid My Dues
Dawn Sinclair
In spring when I was just a girl Adjusting to this cruel world I paid my dues
Too soon my skin wore callused gown, I learned to act, I learned to frown While weaving silk from thistledown I paid my dues
I thought Id entered into hell Manacled soul in haunted shell And no-one dried the tears that fell When I was bade to never tell. I paid my dues
In summer I was no sweet maid Who lightly laughed and gently played But braver now and unafraid My shield defending every raid Though innocence was torn and frayed I paid my dues
So bold was I - and brash Ill bet With eyes of jade and heart of jet. I never made a teachers pet But darkened strangers often met Who paid for me in coins of sweat. I grinned at their discomfort, yet I paid my dues
In autumn, life had made of me The woman of my destiny. No longer desperate to be free, Nor spend my days upon my knees, I built my nest contentedly Yet craved for something secretly Uncertain as a memory. I paid my dues
Too few, my options one by one Had withered in the autumn sun And all the fantasies Id spun Had blown to dust as theyd begun. Too many things were left undone, Too many roads Id left to run So even in the autumn sun, When time was short and almost done, I paid my dues
56 Rhyme and Reason Seasons In winter, at the summing end, I talk with God like any friend, My eyes are dim, I cannot bend Nor can I broken bridges mend. No energy can I expend To clean the slate or to offend And it becomes a growing trend To smile as through my days I wend. Yet, still through habit I pretend, I pay my dues
As Earth prepares her dress of snow Im at the stage of my last show Where seeds of resignation grow So, softly, death comes tippy-toe To take its uncomplaining foe. And, though I walk with footsteps slow, I am undaunted, for I know That heavens realm can hold no woe Compared with anything below. And when they ask me, I will show I paid my dues.
57 Rhyme and Reason Seasons A Fathers Tired Refrains
Gerry Spoor
I hear the music played today, then wonder why they bother. Plead with my kid to turn it down, like my departed Father. Its funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same: Two generations cant compare the notes theyve both sustained.
Perhaps its in the air they breathe, or junk food theyve been eating -- But I declare, the sounds I hear resemble children beating On pots, and pans, or toilet lids, mistreating proper function, Those instruments placed in their hands Abused without compunction.
It could be human hearings changed, deranged by mass delusions From institutions now in league to prompt our youths confusion. Its funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same. I guess its part of growing up with Fathers tired refrains.
The Triumph of Words Over Music
Simon Leigh
Once upon a more skilful time Lived poets who spoke in fluent rhyme (And later there were quite a few Who could write words and music too) But soon the more impatient bard Found rhyme and rhythm far too hard So, as his thoughts grew vague or worse He generated half-rhymed verse To three guitar chords: total crap But white kids bought his gangsta rap. So drop the tune and sample drums, And something dreadlocked this way comes That makes the oldies clench in rage As loud complaining hits the stage.
58 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea
59 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Lighthouse
Angela Burns
On barren rocks stroked by the tide Or thrashed by tortured squalls A tower looms; atop its walls A giant eye resides
When darkness hides the sentinel And sharp-fanged rocks are masked White fire will fill the beveled glass And flare across the swells
The Gentle Pirate
Gregory Christiano
Loose, loose every sail to the breeze, The course of the vessel improve: Ive done with the toil of the seas; Ye sailors, Im bound to my love.
Hoist, hoist every sail to the breeze, Come, shipmates, and join in the song, Lets drink, while the barge cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.
No glory I covet, no riches I want, Ambition is nothing to me, But one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant - For breakfast a good cup of tea.
Ive crossed the wide waters, Ive trod the lone strand, Ive triumphed in battle, Ive lighted the brand; Ive borne the loud thunder of death oer the foam, Fame, riches, neer found them - yet still found a home.
Trust not too much your own opinion, When your vessels under weigh, Let good advice still bear dominion, Thats a compass will not stray.
If unassaild by squall or shower, Wafted by gentle gales, Lets not lose the favoring hour, While success attends our sails.
60 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea O well do I remember that cold dreary land Where the northern light, In the winters night Shone bright on its snowy strand.
Ive crossed the wide waters, Ive trod the lone strand, Ive triumphed in battle, Ive lighted the brand; Ive borne the loud thunder of death oer the foam, Fame, riches, neer found them - yet still found a home.
For grog is our larboard and starboard, Our main-mast, our mizzen, our log, On shore, or at sea, or when harbord, The mariners compass is grog.
Bright are the beams of the morning sky, And sweet the dew the red blossoms sip; But brighter the glances of dear womans eye- And sweet is the dew on her lip.
Oh! life is a river and man is the boat, That over its surface is destined to float, And joy is a cargo so easily stored, That he is a fool who takes sorrow on board.
Ive crossed the wide waters, Ive trod the lone strand, Ive triumphed in battle, Ive lighted the brand; Ive borne the loud thunder of death oer the foam, Fame, riches neer found them - yet still found a home.
Natures Revenge
Susan Eckenrode
How futile is his proudest boast, as waves obliterate the coast in vengeful war against the shore with fury never known before.
The looming clouds erupt to heave a wall of rain without reprieve, while surging seas still clash and roar with fury never known before.
The waters of the earth declare the fate mankind cannot repair. Too late, his eyes now cant ignore such fury, never known before.
How futile is his proudest boast midst fury never known before. 61 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea The Too Wise Sailor
Michael Milligan
I cry aloud to warn the crew: The cruelty of the ocean blue! Which for a time allows the ship to stay afloat within its grip.
But when the storm brews bitter brine, the old oak hull gives way to time. The sea knows not of rights or wrongs and wrongly swallows sailors songs.
The Captain is a proud old fool who disagrees with natures rule. He breaks mens wills to get his ways, though his Will will end mens days.
He steers us straight towards our doom, and then retires to his room, to write a book to make his name the object of eternal fame.
The helmsmans fighting with the mate, debating who has greater state, unaware the storm embraces high and low despite their cases.
I search for sailors to rebel and steer us clear the mouth of hell; but all the men they cannot think -- their brains devoted to their drink.
I, alone, stand at the helm and watch the ocean overwhelm our little ship with crashing waves as sirens call us to our graves.
I cry, despite the irony that salt tears soon are all Ill be. The crews asleep and unaware, and I, alone, was born to care.
62 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Song of the Locomotive
Gregory Christiano
Away, away, I burst! Who will follow me? who? I have quenched my burning thirst, And Im off! - Whiz, whistle, whew!
With my glowing heart of fire, And my never tiring arm, And my whispering magic wire, With its space-destroying charm,
From the city I sweep along, Like an arrow swift and true; And before the eyes of the dazzled throng I sing out - Whiz, whistle, whew!
The peer from his old gray towers - His forefathers proud domain - Looked down on my new born powers With lordly and high disdain: - But he started to see my breath His ancestral oaks bedew; And I greeted his ear, his window beneath, With a piercing whiz, whistle, whew!
When I came to a crowded town They said I must stand outside; - But from high on their roofs I looked down, And they stared at my giant stride; Then, hiding with cunning art, I tunneled in darkness through, And came rushing up in the citys heart, With a fierce whiz, whistle, whew!
Tis good that I pass along; From the smoke of the city I bear A pale and oerwearied throng To the fields and the fresh sweet air. T is good; for my path is fraught With boons for the country too - I waken mens spirits to life and thought With my stirring whiz, whistle, whew!
I fly like the tempests wing - Yet the timid have naught to fear; A great but a gentle thing - All men might just check my career. Away, away, away! Who will not follow me? who? Worker or prince the shrill summons obey Of my proud whiz, whistle, whew!
63 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Wildhorse Camp
Peter G. Gilchrist
When Im worn by obligations and run down by expectations and the deadlines have etched fissures in my face, when my yin and yang are screamin like intoxicated demons and my patience disappears without a trace;
When I cant recall the last time I enjoyed a simple pastime and the space around my soul is getting cramped then its time to kick the traces and break out to wilder places like the mountains up around the Wildhorse Camp.
Adams standing there to meet me and the dogs run out to greet me and Diane displays that smile that shames the sun and the cookhouse chimneys smoking, you can just hear Kerri joking and theres Merv whos busy polishing his gun.
Smells like Shel is cooking something that has got my tummy rumbling and K2 is saddling up by the corral. She is waiting for a rider to come out and ride beside her and shes saddled up a horse for me as well.
Then theres Bear, that great enigma who survives without the stigma of a label you can easily apply; A collage of friendly faces in the prettiest of places where the mountains pucker up to kiss the sky.
Theres a clearing I remember from my visit last September that cascades down Wildhorse mountain, near the top. You can ride along the treeline and the horses make a beeline for the place theyve come to know youre going to stop.
Now the horses all get tethered and on foot you scale the weathered old escarpment that escapes to brilliant blue. You traverse the ragged edges of some pretty narrow ledges and your knees begin to tremble at the view.
There is nothing quite as stunning as the Rocky Mountains running from beneath the blue horizon in the south, right across your line of vision, its as if the ground has risen in amusement at the gaping of your mouth.
As you settle on the summit you can watch your worries plummet to the verdant velvet carpet spread below. You can feel your burden lighten and the future starts to brighten and the bedlam rushing through you starts to slow.
On the downward ride you wonder what became of all the thunder that was working up the storm inside your head and your horses rocking motion is a tonic, or a potion, for that part of you youd given up for dead.
64 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea After supper, when youre gazing at the bonfire that is blazing and the Yukon candle reaches for a star, you can feel the peace within you and its then that you begin to let it whisper through the strings of your guitar.
Soon youre singing, and the next thing Bear is picking up a six string and the only thing to do is harmonize while he sings about the old days, the importance of the old ways and the things you cant discover with your eyes.
Magic happens in the mountains. You discover little fountains of the truth that bubble up at every turn. If you give that sparkling water to your son and to your daughter theres no telling what the two of them might learn.
Heres a little piece of knowledge you wont get in any college and Ill leave it up to you to guess the source: the most effective healing plan to fix the inside of a man is to put him on the outside of a horse.
Downunderstanding
Joanne Underwood
You drove all day and well into the night, Past snaking trains and wired poles, grain bins All placed in rows, reflecting winters light. You talked of Aussie rules and footy wins And sang along to music from that land Strange words like jumbuck, swag and billy-boil Then told me tales of surfing down the sand And playing in the nearby oceans roil. Do you recall the note you left, age four When going off to "Asalea", that name You wrote not knowing how to spell your Oz? I cried at thinking youd walk out the door Yet marveled inwardly at your brave game And loving you is all there ever was.
65 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Road Kill
Neil Harding McAlister
(Temagami, Ontario, Canada. September 2004.)
It takes a hard-nosed kind of man To drive trucks in this northern land. Im not the sentimental type. I do my job as best I can. The long way round is not for me: Just draw a line from A to B. High-milers take the scenic route, But pavements mostly what I see.
Past rocks, by frozen lakes serene, Down corridors of evergreen, Theres danger in the scenery. You dare not sightsee, dare not dream. A friend of mine was killed last year When, late one night, he hit a deer. Did inattention cost his life? To stay alive, best live with fear.
The sun was shining overhead One day last fall, when far ahead I saw some movement on the road A rabbit, hurt but not quite dead Lay thrashing in the other lane, A mangled lump of sickening pain, His hind legs squashed into a pulp. He wasnt going to run again.
In younger days I used to fight At Mackeys Gym on Friday nights. Ive seen my share of blood and puke While punching out some suckers lights. Out hunting, I dont really care When I have shot a moose or bear; But it was more than I could stand To see that rabbit suffer there.
That was a road I often take: I knew a turnout by a lake. I pulled my rig off to the side. As, gearing down, I hit the brake, The diesels angry, rattling sound Rang through the forest all around. The big truck thundered to a stop. I paused -- then doubled back my ground,
66 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Retracing fifteen clicks Id come. Some dirty business left undone By someone else, now far away, Lay bleeding in the morning sun. I found that bunny presently -- And not a pretty sight to see. I floored the pedal, turned the wheel, And stopped the creatures misery.
We win some; but at last well lose. Too bad a trucker cannot choose If he will slowly fade away Or end up in tomorrows news. But Id hope, if life struck me down And left me crippled on the ground, Thered come a crushing, knockout blow To end this fighters final round.
High-miler is a truckers term for a driver who takes a longer, more scenic route instead of the shortest, most direct route to a destination.
Clicks is Canadian slang for kilometers.
Sunset, Bar Harbor
Lee Evans
Now piping down the setting of the sun, The man in kilts and leather jacket stands By Frenchmans Bay upon a floating dock, Facing the birth of evening; his black hair Tied back; his face averted from the crowd That gathers on the quay. He concentrates Upon the music flowing like sea tides Through all the ears within his sphere of sound; Through all the islands, all the granite tors That overlook Bar Harbor and beyond. The sun descends behind a hill, and casts Its shivering light beams upon a shaft Across the waters to the pipers feet, And bathes with glory all his Orphic form.
67 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea If Hurricane and Tempest Die
Richard E. Buenger
In halcyon hospitality The doldrums suffer calm In evanescent peacefulness, An after-storming balm.
From nowhere gentle ripplings rise To caress the ebbing tide. Then turning with the waxing wind To deeper sea they ride.
Unbound, uncurbed by shoal or shore Waves billow, roll, and swell. Seduced by passing gusts and gales Each surge must surge propel.
Crossing, capping waves all spume A frothy foam and spray. Soon liquid mountains burst from gorge In gargantuan display.
This force so fierce from nowhere, now Unleashed explodes, convulses. The very wind that fathered it Reverses, routs, repulses.
As every awesome full climax Precipitously falls So sea and wind both defervesce; Tranquility enthralls.
If hurricane and tempest die What little chance have weakling, I?
68 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Vomiting Jonah
(from an engraving by Breughel)
Laura Heidy
Come Children, hear the ocean sigh as seaweed turns to grass - The rivers all run blood tonight the waters made of glass.
Come see the soaring snakes and snails, winged fish in desperate flight - A silent pair of ragged claws goes scuttling out of sight.
Come meet the mermaids, pale as sand, who groom their tails with care, while hermit-crabs and sea-urchins are dangling from their hair.
Come greet the sailors home from sea, the hunters, brave and few. Tonight theyll dine on carrion - Well not know who is who.
Come watch the islands disappear at the turning of the tide. The world ends in flame or flood - unless the prophets lied.
Come Children, view the earths retreat. Observe the oceans swell. The belly of the whale has burst - Greet Jonah - back from hell.
69 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea The Jump
Carl Reinholt
The noisy crowd fell silent, And tension filled the air. Their hero, Bill, had one more jump. This time, how would he fare?
In past days hed come through it No matter how things looked; But hed already missed two tries. Perhaps his goose was cooked.
The competition, tough. The other jumpers, strong. Today Bill seemed not at his best. Would he stay Champ for long?
They watched him as he poised. Determined was his stance. The crowd could feel his manly strength. Oh yes! He had a chance!
He lunged toward the bar; The crowd was silent still. It wasnt easy to keep mum While thinking, Cmon Bill!
They all knew as he jumped That he could surely take it. Up, up he went, and up some more But he couldnt bloody make it.
70 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Bravado
Peter G. Gilchrist
Its funny how bravado bolts as quickly as your hull rotates; the plumage of assurance molts as confidence evaporates.
You watch familiar planes invert and only just have time to think that maybe this is going to hurt as you get swallowed in the drink.
Theres nothing calm about a spill, one gets all jumbled up inside. There are some folks who like the thrill, but me it used to hurt my pride!
I wasnt scared of broken bones, my body bends before it breaks, what prompted my embarrassed groans was knowing I had made mistakes.
The worst was when I chanced to err in situations so benign that no-one else would stumble there, and no-ones boat upset but mine.
I had to learn a strategy to save myself from self-disgrace and made a huge discovery that put my ego in its place.
I chose to not portage a run that once seemed much too much for me and found that water others shun is where Im most enthralled to be.
The errors made in monster waves seem less mistakes than strokes of chance and every churning drop one braves seems less a fight and more a dance,
so now, when I and my canoe traverse a run by different routes, I tell myself I always knew no living man could tame these chutes.
71 Rhyme and Reason By Land and Sea Thoughts of Home Neil Harding McAlister
O, when I left Scotland long years ago All the hills were covered with snow, And the sunshine sparkled bright on the loch Still and deep in the glen below. I was then but a young lad And a young man has to roam. And I did not know how soon I would miss My wee croft and my Scottish home.
Where the eagle soars oer high mountain crags And the glen sweeps down to the sea, Where the heather paints the fair purple hills, Lies the hearth that is dear to me -- Where fire light shines on faces Of the loved ones I have known, And the skirl of pipes rides wild on the wind With a song of my Highland home.
Now this brave New World holds much for a lad. Tis a fine and promising land Where a man may earn his fortune and fame By the labor of his own hands. Ive worked hard and Ive prospered, But Id trade all that I own Just to see once more the bright, bonnie glen That still shines in my thoughts of home. 72 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth
73 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth The Dragon
Michael Milligan
When shadows creep across the churchyard lawn and Phoebus sets against a bruised sky, the witch horns screech their lonely owl-like cry, and mayhem rises with the Lunar Dawn.
The cords of spider silk array the air with silvery rails for fairy folk to ride. The gossamer wind which witches use to glide directs them all into the dragons lair.
This is the night at last when he awakes from eons slumber deep within the Earth. The magma womb which opened at his birth seeps lava blood around him as he quakes.
The prophecy! declares the laurel sage, When Man forgets the limits of his birth, in profanation rapes his Mother, Earth- A fire in the skies shall close the Age!
On wings of fire erupting from the ground an arrow flaming mounts into the sky while shrieking banshees echoing his cry retreat with terror from the piercing sound.
The iron hidden in the molten core of Earthly bowels is no more darkly firm than scales and bony sinews of the worm- a flying scourge of breathing iron ore!
Though firm and pointed as a mountain spire the dragons crest is fluid as a wave of retribution churned in Neptunes cave- a boiling hurricane of liquid fire!
His eyes, abysms, shining night above a bleary land like blackened rising suns illuminate the shadow world which runs in banishment away from lightening Love.
The demon heart burns with the cancerous hate of kindling fear flared from a smoldering doubt, consumed within, consuming all without- Satanic emptiness insatiate.
A child sleeping soundly without care from premonition wakes with bloodshot eye to see his nightmare gallop cross the sky- Leviathan-like swimming ocean air.
74 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Asleep, awake, or in the time betwixt the prophet child in dreams no peace can find to quell the image burned upon his mind- his vision with apocalypses fixed.
And who can say if human visions cause the universe to manifest as fate, or merely presage heavenly mandate, and mans will impotent to Godly laws?
But maybe all we see or dream we see is no more than the musings of a boy who molding quantum precepts like a toy unlocks Pandora with a spectral key.
If so, the human mutual mind mutates the absolute into a looking glass, and as a ladys make up hides the crass, the primping ordered mind Chaos collates.
Retracting wings and diving like a dart, he plummets Lucifer-like towards a town, where gentle yeomen dressed in simple brown are bathed in red before theyre ripped apart.
Not seeing babe, nor dame, nor bearded age, the demon eye is equal in its spite, consuming and consumed by appetite- its fuel and extirpation, one same rage.
Laid low, the town, and smoldering in flames, to dust and ash the people are returned, Oblivion breathes oer coal black corpses burned, a eulogy of naught for smoking names.
And still the Hunger spreads its dragon wings, towards the city where the Ivory Towers stand like beacons guiding shipwrecked Thought to land, or songs a child gainst the Silence sings.
The Kings blood-eyes resemble dragon fire for bleeding with his lecherous eye and hand the people and the mother bosom land, suckling heartlands to anemic mire.
He blames his crimes upon a phantom foe transmuting wrongs into a righteous cause. Divine right fueled by military laws turns Justices voice into the tyrants blow.
The peoples shame too purple to repent cataracts the eye of justice blind. Revealing Arts to ignorance supined anesthetize with spectacles ferment.
75 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Surrounded by their musky tomes of words the Kings advisers peer through bending glass- transmuting ink to Mind, like host for Mass- the knowledge which about existence girds.
But as with staring long into a light a phantom shadow steals across the eyes, the pride of knowing clouds their pupils wise- seduced by day, forgetful of the night.
No premise can be found amidst their books, No proof that distant smoke is coming Doom, and so, within their paper padded room, they calculate and wait with furtive looks.
The city walls are high and thick with all the ingenuities of mans surmise. The ballast gates, the citys iron prize enshroud the keep within an iron pall.
Upon the wall the banners flits foretell a wind beginning faint but growing fierce, the Halcyon breeze turned blast begins to pierce the shuttered windows round the tower bell.
With windy finger wet and sleeting arm the storm unbolts the watch tower houses latch- the nimble gale removing from their catch the bell ropes, whipping, clanging the alarm.
A watchman sturdy staring towards the East begins to see a speck of light approach- against Nights breast, a fire opal broach that gorgon women wear to Hades feast.
The simple soldier stands in disbelief. Unwilling to accept, he shuts his eye against the nightmare sculpted on the sky, But closed or open, finds he no relief.
He cries a silent warning to the guard. Too late the course of fiery fate to cease, too soon to pull the dying breath in peace, He mutely leaps and crashes to the yard.
A trumpet barks the barrack corps awake. The royal guard puts on their scarlet vests which proudly bear their war worn golden crests- an eagle talon fettering a snake.
The generals rough and bearded gruffly bray the veteran ranks into a single force of archers, pikemen, cavaliers on horse to bind with knitted strength the looming fray.
76 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth So keen and trained the yeoman archers eyes, so strong and stable are their hands which hold the tensing strings within the wooden fold while molding Will towards their sighted prize.
A swarm of arrows piercing naught but air by royal marksmen knocked and set to pin, deflected by the dragons armored skin, bite harmless as a horsefly to a mare.
The ranks of bowman watch in pale dismay as all their efforts fall in wooden rain transforming saving bale to damning bane impaling them upon the bleeding clay.
The chivalraic knights their swords upraise to challenge under customary codes the dragons breech of customary modes, as if mute Death would quibble oer a phrase.
Their molten armor fuses with their skin as mute death sculpts in frozen screams a frieze of burning effigy which seems a monument to Valors hollow din.
Within the keep the maskers unaware enjoy the crepe decorum of a ball- a chaste affair by drink turned Bacchanal, the decadent couples coupling on the stair.
The poring billows from the dragons maw enshroud the revelry in choking smoke while candied dandies thinking it a joke applaud the fashion of my ladys bra.
Gild Pomp drunk with raving ecstasy attends its living funerary rites. The silken biers the dragons breath ignites into a last flamboyant obsequy.
Atop the turret poking through the smog the golden scepter clenched by rheumed hands reflects the hammer blows of thundering brands- the clarion bolts announcing Gog-Magog.
The old grey locks of withered royalty beneath the undecaying jeweled crown transform the king into a motley clown attesting Squire Times disloyalty.
His army razed and braising in the mist the king capitulates ordained law unto the dragons tongue-floored grindstone jaw where royal grain is ground to rabble grist.
77 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Despite the rank which pedigree invests with differentiating rules of class from prince to pauper- one buffet en masse, the Drakes egalitarian Maw digests.
The breath of state, the puff of courtly art, the hot blown breeze of lawyers argument, the acrid squall of priestly testament- inhaled, transmuted to a dragons fart.
The castle walls, the town and keep within, lay strewn about- a fallen house of cards, an ages fruit in moments spoiled to shards as virtues rife disgraced by single sin.
The dragon hovers oer the zeroed ground within the mushroom cloud of smutty smoke, as refugees, their fetish gods invoke with hopeless prayers resounding ruins round.
The flowering mind of human kind, the height of natures art refined, the garden soul of cultivated ages, sagely whole, awaits like light of coming dawn at night.
The weedy rot of human thought, the low of beastly craft untaught, the creeping maw of deprivated ages, rages flaw, embraces darkness with a dying glow.
Between the close and birthing of an age, where walks the one to lead the fretting throng through shadowed valleys fearlessly along the narrow path untrod? Where walks the Sage?
78 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth The Night Willow
Michael Milligan
The shadow of the willow by the moon grows longer through the night and seems to eat the thing of which it is an image. Soon naught will remain but darkness and the beat of midnight winds upon its unseen limbs. Invisible, the leaves have left their hue and rustle wildly as the moonlight dims concealing all their ecstasies from view. What was cocooned in daylight sheds its bark and spreads its winged leaves. I stand beneath this dancing demon, naked in the dark, as leaves enveil me in a Lethen wreath. Oh world revealed in darkness! Now I feel the day is but a shadow of the Real.
Urban Legends
Susan Eckenrode
Remember when as kids wed sit around a campfire and tell scary tales all night? Those same old urban legends can be found today -- and heres a fave to fuel their fright.
A couple, parked one night in Lovers Lane, are hot and heavy into making out; they havent heard The Claw escaped again, and wonder what the sirens are about.
Jills startled by a scratching sound and stares outside at eyes of evil glaring back. Jacks struggling with his jeans, still unawares, when Jill screams Burn some rubber; floor it, Jack!
Once home they shake in horrified alarm; hooked on the handle hangs a severed arm.
79 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Prairie Whispers
Sally Ann Roberts
From pounding hooves of ancient beasts in long lost sands of time, When bison roamed and Hopi danced in this, this natural clime.
From pounding beats of ancient drums when sounding `cross the plains, The thunder crashed and lightening flashed which brought the summer rains.
Winds whipped slowly through the grass which waved a soft good-bye, As if to say farewell to thee with one long lasting sigh.
Then visions fade into the night gone are the prairie shifters, And what remains are dust and bones and lonely prairie whispers.
80 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth The Weekday Song
Lee Evans
The hunchback hobbled homeward At twilight one fine day, And spied a band of fairies A-dancing in his way On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Come dance with us, O hunchback! They shouted from their ring. Come sing the Song of Weekdays Permitted us to sing On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
The hunchback joined their circle, And hand in hand he danced, The fairy queen his partner, Exalting in a trance On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
The fays were so delighted The hunchback danced so well , They took the hump that stooped him And blessed him with a spell On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Though crooked he had joined in, He parted from them straight; And no one recognized him When he came home so late On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
The night was young; the fairies Commenced again their reel, All in the merry moonlight, In all their joy revealed On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Along then came a tailor, A bold and handsome man Who stepped up to the dancers, And pushed into their band On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
He gave the queen a sly wink, And rudely wrapped his arm About her fairy shoulders, And chanted with the charm Of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
81 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth And so this foolish person Cavorted with the fays, Until he added Thursday, Friday, and Saturday To Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Then everything got ugly. The fairies held him down And clapped the hump upon him The hunchback had disowned On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Now you who hear this story It may be are forewarned: The Humble are made perfect, The Vain become deformed, On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Trebizond 1 (A Ballad)
Dick Hayes
Hard where the ocean beats the sand, dismounting at the Seamans Inn dusty from roads, our little band pushed through into the crush within: on many a shoulder clapped our hand and raised our voice above the din:- Forget a run of contraband, upon our oath - an honest bond! We can afford a fine reward, wholl carry us to Trebizond?
A strange conspiracy we saw, the more we cried, the more they drank: though lustily, we cried the more, here one declined, another shrank, sweeping his tankard to the floor and down within a stupor sank. We pushed and elbowed to the door still casting round - but deep despond had taken hold; no promised gold could passage pay for Trebizond.
82 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Taking to horse as soon as out, our mood was dark and path unlit, though saddle sore we wheeled about, only to halt and trim the bit as clear and ringing came a shout Young lords attend! from where you sit I stand in shadow, you in doubt but banish care, your proffered bond must interest me, a fealty binds me to those of Trebizond.
We turned and let the reins go slack a finger in hypnotic flight flapped at the Pharos 2 ruined stack: When first the morning steals the night! follow the ancient broken track, youll find a mute frequents the site, climb down, breathe Master and draw back: watch as he runs, and then respond, spur on the steed! for he can lead to those who ship for Trebizond.
Then he was gone - that sudden guest and raising baggage as a screen, both from the biting wind that pressed and lurking thieves that lay unseen. As bold impostors dispossessed, we talked and dreamed of what had been: how we had laughed and mocked the rest, who praised the feat, but seemed too fond of easy days and courtly ways, to hazard thus for Trebizond.
Attending us that weary night a sea squall rose and round us blew. til summoned up by earliest light, from coat and cloth we wiped the dew: rejecting any thought of flight, anxious to make the rendezvous: determining with main and might, wed watch this unknown vagabond: if he betray his carcass flay upon the road to Trebizond.
83 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth But it was so, as had been said: a silent guide before us flew; through tangled Olive grove he fled, where shafts of morning twisted through, round narrow cleft and cliff we sped. At length a summer seascape grew - out into brilliant light he led. Before us lay a beached dromond. 3 his hand he smote towards the boat, and might this sail to Trebizond?
With speed we dared the open ground, and mingling with the salt sea air came resin fume and rasping sound of men careening, but despair, for twenty rogues came circling round to cut retreat off from the rear: ( meanwhile our mute was nowhere found ) With sweeping sword we swiftly donned a fierce feint to force constraint or suffer there for Trebizond.
But even as we backed - a line high from the bulwark of the ship banged down the side into the brine. A man laughed loudly, hand on hip, These gallant lads are guests of mine! swing up!, each knot will help your grip: for I have waiting flesh and wine, prepared that you may toast the bond we shall agree:- for certainly, we leave this day for Trebizond.
We paused, but knew the die was cast and clambered with a slight disdain up to the deck regrouping fast as masters of our own demesne. Relax young sirs, these moments past one word from me and you were slain: but judge the planking and the mast are not as reed and tinder wand the surgeon hand with iron band assembles ships of Trebizond.
84 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth We parleyed there with gold at stake and what munitions lay aboard But wait, he said, For prudence sake to prove my faith, then my reward shall be decided when you make the city gates, and then record, though perjured men a promise break my word has ever been my bond: but sense the floor we list no more and so young Lords - to Trebizond!
Slowly a tattered leather square with jerk and flap began to slope up the lone mast - and riding there caught in a web of holding rope trembled in the freshening air, and more than once he Bid us hope rebuking an unspoken fear that lingered on: Ill not abscond for you should know that I must go most urgently to Trebizond.
We bore upon a rising tide made buoyant with expectancy, but where the ocean opened wide, torn from the shelter of the lee, the bowsprit 4 reared, the woodwork sighed: the expanse of a running sea rolled the great belly side to side and all behind we thought beyond as blind with spray we groped for day and cursed the quest for Trebizond.
Such doleful straight we never knew gripping the rails as best we could, capsized by seas that round us threw cold water, bales and loosened wood: yet slow the constant shock and skew eased toward evening - then we stood before the captain and his crew, and with great effort garrisoned a little strength and so at length questioned with him of Trebizond!
85 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Suspicious? - yes, your looks betray that silent guide was I your lord who also stood to point your way. - Up from a curious purse of cord he palmed a cameo of clay. The half, intaglio 5 is stored: and every stranger must display his half and both must correspond; these trials wait at every gate for those approaching Trebizond!
The uninvited, and the breed of fraud and cheat, in loaded chains without appeal, is decreed to sudden death - and this explains the apathy last night - I feed this matter round, for so it gains me space to gather those in need, ( such as yourselves ) who would respond unto the call that comes to all, who hear of fabled Trebizond.
No more was said - we lay content and thought the ship the best afloat and dared to kindle merriment. Once, in a fog, another boat had ghosted past, and as it went: the slave drum beat its muffled note, the groaning oars malevolent, told well their tale of bitter bond. In truth were we though seeming free, but captives bound for Trebizond?
New coasts that came were bleak and bare with plunging cliff and smoking reef. To catch the helmsman unaware insidious currents played the thief, drawing the beam into a snare swirling the backbone from beneath to slide the still unknowing near. Almost too late he would respond and break the spell that rose and fell, steering us still for Trebizond.
86 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth With lowered sail we pass the strait by locals called the Dardenelles 6 , where watchful heights in silence wait to waken with a thousand bells the sleeping soldiers in the gate: A Sultan in that city dwells as merciless as he is great- by creep and stealth, well ship beyond the Golden Horn 7 until the dawn, then out and run for Trebizond.
Only the lapping oars conveyed our presence on a breathless night, as through the central harbour made under the smouldering oil light, where triple Deckers creaked and swayed, as grating chains turned slack or tight: and no one spoke, though each had prayed. At last we sensed the crew respond with faster stroke and now they spoke of safety and of Trebizond!
Then every mariner made haste for soon the blush of dawn would break. We struck the sail and turned and faced the sunrise and as luck would make a zephyr 8 rose and with us raced leaving the peril in our wake. And round us schools of Dolphin chased as on we voyaged far beyond pursuit that lies in wicked eyes through unknown seas to Trebizond.
Our sunsets burnt upon the brow of endless ocean left and right - - always Orion and the Plough our faithful compass of the night while sea surge feathered at the prow in liquid jewels dark and bright- - fingers we dipped, hung from the bow in idle pastime of despond till low and grey with breaking day we reached the coast of Trebizond.
87 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth There misty blue and opal trees, ran down to drifts of lemon sand, and air that smelt of wine and ease with quiet creeks - so near to hand. Our lateen 9 stole a calling breeze which drew us closer to the land, through ever clearer, gentler seas that glittered bright as diamond the sailors cried: The wind and tide, shall aid us on to Trebizond.
Two angry looking juts of stone reared to our right and in between, through piled granite bare as bone a narrow passage could be seen. We set the head and in were blown, by walls of shaggy matted green to re-emerge and with a groan the keel struck and our dromond would move no more. This secret shore, they said, Is close to Trebizond.
With panniers and loaded pack, our party at a steady crawl wound slowly up a red earth track; and halting as a sentinel, we lingered long - and gazing back from high above, the ship had all but dwindled to a speck of black, and wistful, we felt strangely fond of sea and tide, then side by side we struck the path for Trebizond.
So sheer the coast by which we crept where goats had trodden, so must we. Then, unannounced, our leader swept inland and left the shining sea and down into a vale stepped; where trellised vines bent languidly and blackest grapes a curfew kept, so dense the growth of branch and frond. We lodge tonight. By morning light we shall ascend to Trebizond!
88 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Though all were tired, yet he turned to urge us on without disguise, for scarlet evening round us burned and dusk proclaimed the days demise. In that strange half light we discerned a roving gleam now lit his eyes, and understood ( though little learned were we in signs that correspond from soul to soul ) he sensed his goal the citadel of Trebizond!
Through shrub and thicket rich with scent, he took us to an open rise. We saw at first a battlement, and gazed ahead with mute surprise for leagues of vaulting towers spent their startling grandeur on our eyes, and far above, the clouds were rent where some dark presence reached beyond and shimmered there in lucent air The Keep, he cried, Of Trebizond!
As troubled men, we stood enslaved! and watched that fearful splendour fade, a vision on our hearts engraved. Then, on we trudged through deep and glade and out upon a cart-way paved with rutted grass - the more afraid, despite the perils we had braved. Just as a hapless vagabond extends a hand, soon we would stand and entrance seek at Trebizond.
The road now bent and crouched beside an antique wall and like a thief slipped into gates that opened wide to painted scenes of ancient fief; where guest and garland, bird and bride were living still in bas relief, but every shadow drew aside where marble columns flecked with blond, upheld a frieze with seeming ease and all the art of Trebizond.
89 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Our leader cupped his hands to sound and soon the echo of his call brought servant teams to fluster round; pent up with gladness - out the hall a troop of armed retainers wound (we sensed our leader known by all) To each he sprang with welcome bound - and visibly his manner donned a regal hue and all his crew were hailed as Lords of Trebizond.
They bought a cloak of blue and red, such heavy cloth he lent to fold about his arm - and on his head, emblazoned with a cross of gold, a mitre placed. In anxious dread we made obeisance on that cold hard foreign floor. Arise, he said, And be released from every bond by word of law for ever more - I am a King of Trebizond.
What we had missed we always knew too full of self concern to close upon the half crumb of a clue in look and mien. Like men that doze and curse themselves, as dullards rue the name of fool, we there arose sought in his eye the anger due; yet all his gaze was full and fond, as brothers won he called us son and citizen of Trebizond.
As Free born men, he bid us dine: clapped for a bitter lemonade, rich meats enwrapped in fragrant vine and thousand flavoured marinade. Then steeped in oils and piquant wine an olive crop - and by it laid fruits of the sea in baths of brine. Yet as we ate we sensed beyond, in waiting height and hidden light the mystery of Trebizond.
90 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Adjourning to an inner court, where tethered dogs with fitful growl lay dreaming of late battles fought and wild beasts that nightly prowl; where braziers rose up and caught the flit and rush of bat and owl, our captain King gave his report. He counseled long against despond and paced the floor, For many more, he said, Would turn for Trebizond.
Late in the night when cold stars spill across the skies and day has died, we woke to see him pacing still and walked till daybreak at his side. He only said, A deeper ill disturbs my mind. Enough! We ride, our royal seat set on a hill is splendid as a diamond surpassing Rome the shining dome is commonplace in Trebizond.
And of its provenance and fame the scribe and teacher of the book shall in due time confess the claim of my descendants, that forsook both hearth and home and so they came through trials, terrors, and they took to mark their settlement a name, now legendary, that far beyond its local shore a charm would draw the desolate to Trebizond.
The day woke fair, a day wed sought for we had traveled long and far and if a last indulgent thought arose - it was an evening star; for we had done with Northern port, the endless steppe and strain of war. And as we rode, the city caught the warmth of ivory and blonde that newly born attends each dawn of those who come to Trebizond.
1 Trebizond is a port on the Black Sea coast of Turkey. Its heyday was between 1204 and 1461, when it was a center of Greek and Byzantine learning, fabulously wealthy, and a last refuge of Hellenistic culture in Asia minor. It capitulated to the Ottoman Empire some eight years after the fall of Constantinople (present day Istanbul.) 2 A Roman lighthouse. 3 A simple Mediterranean sailing craft with a single mast. 4 A wooden spar protruding from the bow to give support to the main sail. 91 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth 5 A concave (scooped out) shape, the opposite of the better-known term Cameo. 6 Dardanelles (also Bosporus): the straight dividing the Black Sea from the Mediterranean. 7 The Golden Horn. The estuary that divides the city of Istanbul, which at sunset glows gold, and which is shaped like a horn. Hence its name. 8 A light breeze. Greek God of the gentle west wind. 9 A single sheet sail.
Ascension 75
Louis John Costanza
The winged horse in waiting flies from star to star, from peak to peak. Bellerophon had known his strength but lost his life to Heaven seek. Now I with crystals in my eyes and moonbeams woven into reins, in silence spring upon the mount before my fleeting courage wanes. Chimaera resurrected now with lions head and dragons tail would keep me from the goal I seek and let the dregs of time prevail. But neither she with mocking lies nor Zeus, his gadflys deadly sting, shall throw me off my skyward course, to Pegasus I tightly cling. Olympus looms above me now, its portals beckon end to strife, And passing through I know at last, Life ends in Death, Death ends in Life.
Bellerophon was a gifted equestrian from Corinth. Riding the winged horse, Pegasus, he battled and killed the monster Chimaera. On a later ride, however, he attempted to scale Mt. Olympus. Zeus, the supreme Deity, was enraged at this arrogance and sent a gadfly to sting the horse. Pegasus reared and Bellerophon was hurled to his death. 92 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Night Visitor
Sally Ann Roberts
As the telltale heart was beating, I had caught myself repeating, At the rhythms that were fleeting, When I walked across the floor.
It was then I heard the rapping, And the constant tap, tap, tapping, Like dry naked bones were clapping, When I opened up the door.
A ghost just stood there staring, With its eyes so big and glaring, There was no way of preparing, What was standing in my sight.
Was it there to take me souling In the wind so cold and blowing, Neath the moon so full and glowing, On this crisp October night?
In the moments that were slipping, I could feel my heart skip-skipping, Through the knob that I was gripping, I was frightened to the core.
Then there came the eerie laughter, And I knew what it was after, When its shouts had shook the rafter, TRICK OR TREAT and nothing more.
93 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Grandpa and the Leprechaun
Sally Ann Roberts
She sits upon her Grandpas knee, her eyes so big and round. She listens most intently to his every word and sound. The same old tale he told to me when I was but a child -- A tale thats unbelievable. Could it have been so wild?
Now listen close, he told her while speaking soft and low, There is a place beyond the hill where magic mushrooms grow. One evening I went walking beyond the garden path. I spied a little, naked man who was taking a nature bath.
He did not see me standing there beside his bag of gold Until I picked it up to run, feeling young and bold. Stop!! he shouted Stop, thief, stop! He flew across the lawn, Oh no! I laughed Im being chased by a naked Leprechaun!
" Give me back my gold! My gold! My gold! he kept a-cryin While all the while I had to laugh at his body parts a-flyin Give me back my gold! he gasped, Three wishes you will get. Anything your heart desires! he claimed, still dripping wet.
But I said, Little Peoples golds worth more than that, Im sure, So I will keep this bag with me, cause I know that its pure. NO! NO! NO! NO! the small man screamed, dont take me gold! he hissed. Its mine, its mine, the wee man cried, and shook a threatening fist.
94 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth At once the little beggar, as quick as quick could be, He snatched the bag out of my hand and ran away in glee. But what he didnt know was this: there was a little tear Beneath the edge, an unstitched seam he didnt know was there.
It was just only small enough to let three pieces fall. While sprinting onward very quick he noticed not at all. Then Grandpa reached inside his shirt the tale was true, he told. `Cause there - right there within his hand -- three pieces of bright gold!
The Lonely Piper
Cynthia K. Deatherage
Listen . . . it lies soft upon the air. Faintly, faintly, silver measures fall, And breathe, then rising, gently linger there A whispering dream, an elven magic rare.
Fair and yet with melancholy strain, The distant notes with yearning softly call. Therebeyond the mist-enshrouded plain A lonely piper plays his far refrain.
Again, the music moves across the moor, Sweeping, searching, holding night in thrall, Filling all who listen with its lore, Strangely known, though never heard before.
No morethe song grows hushed; the music fades, And stillness, rising , fills the air and all The yearning dims; the magic fails, unmade. A sigh. A breath. A stirring in the shade . . .
Listen . . .
95 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Lost
Patricia Louise Gamache
I watched the moon on purple hill I heard the silence in the still The golden shadows showered round Where moonbeams skated on the ground
I saw you step into the boat I watched you journey in the moat The squealing shriek of frightened bird Became the call Id never heard
I heard the click of oars on steel I knew the swiftness of the keel I pushed the brush aside to see Your body bent upon your knee
And as I watched you row away I knew Id wait another day I watched the ripples as they shone When next I looked your boat was gone
The evening mist was gray like mold The silent wind blew ever cold I saw the boat fly so alive Before it took that awesome dive
I ran along the darkened bank And silently my spirit sank I tried to find the dreaded spot And where I searched I found you not
96 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth The Earls Ride
Cynthia K. Deatherage
It was the hunting season when the Earl upon his horse Charged across old Malcolms land and trampled gate and gorse. The ancient herder grasped his reinsO sir, what shall I do? Yeve scattered all my flock and left but one poor, bleating ewe! Be gone, old man! the Earl cried out and lashed him in his pride, And there old Malcolm, bleeding, fell upon the ground--and died. And the Earl rode on and on and on, and the Earl rode ever on.
The Earl and troop came to a brook and paused to rest and drink, But as the Earl knelt down, he saw red blood upon the brink And felt a cold wind brush his face and heard a voice that cried, Theres blood upon the Earls hand, for by his hand I died! To horse! the Earl jumped up and said with face of bloodless hue. He gazed into the shadowed wood and spurred his mount on through. And the Earl rode on and on and on, and the Earl rode ever on.
Beneath the whispering woods he rode, beneath the moaning wind, Following a wounded buck around the brush-wood bend. And as he neared its heaving form, his arrow pierced its side, And as it fell it seemed to groan, For by his hand I died! Leave it dead! he cried and whipped his sweating horses flank And rode to leave behind those words from which his spirit shrank. And the Earl rode on and on and on, and the Earl rode ever on.
From out the woods onto a hill, the Earl and hunters came. He smiled; for with the shadows gone, he felt a lesser pain. But then across the open plain, a voice in echo cried: Ride on! For this your bloody deedfor by your hand I died! And from his lips, his own cursed soul in horror screamed his doom, And at the sound, his horse turned round and vanished in the gloom. And the Earl rides on and on and on, and the Earl rides ever on . . .
97 Rhyme and Reason Realms of Myth Talking to Olympus
Graeme King
Late last night I talked to Mount Olympus, Aphrodite came onto the line, Told me that the Muses were all sleeping, Maybe she could help me, I said: Fine!
Tell me how to write of love immortal, Love that lasts millennia and more. Silence was the answer then the dial tone, Sad, I let the phone drop to the floor.
Devastated, sitting in my arm chair, Then the room dissolved in beams of white, Scared, I held my breath as time suspended, Then a figure spoke out from the light:
This is he who wants to write the poem. That which tells the world of love from two; Love to climb all mountains, outshine rainbows, Such as only comes to precious few.
Muses crowded round and looked in wonder, Clio and Calliope so fair, Thalia, Erato, all my daydreams, Dancing, singing, floating through the air.
Finding strength, I stood and I addressed them: I have love to last through historys years, Words are there, but lo, I cannot write them, Help me write this ode to end my tears.
Through my brain the lilt of Muses laughter, Then the voice of Zeus from high above: Be content you found your inspiration, Dont be so intent to write of Love!
Words will fade on paper, wash from pavement, Poems are forgotten all too soon; Take your hearts true feelings, and release them, Grasp your love and take her to the moon!
98 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri
99 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri On the Rush
Peter G. Gilchrist
Outside the day was bleak and cold, and winter reigned supreme; but on the indoor soccer field the turf was brilliant green. In gold and black our players formed the home side on this day The visitors wore black and blue quite fitting, one could say.
Our keeper headed for the net as cool as one could ask, her confident demeanor showed her ready for the task. She pulled her hair from off her neck and tied it at the back, then turned to face the field of play and wait for the attack.
The black and blue burst quickly from the line as play began. They gained momentum early, passing crisply as they ran. They raced towards our goal, but our defenders forced them wide. Our keeper moved to challenge as I watched with nervous pride.
The pass came from the corner with immaculate control, And right in front their striker launched a missile at our goal. She leapt in celebration of what seemed a certain score, but through the crease our keeper flew and swiftly slammed the door.
The black and blue attacker wasnt sure what she had seen. She stared, with mouth wide open, at the goal that should have been. A roar burst from the bleachers and the building swelled with sound. My eyes welled up with pride as that young keeper stood her ground.
The visitors were hungry for that all-important goal. They passed, and shot, and shot again, but could not find a hole. She challenged on the break-aways, and always won the ball. They shot from every angle but our keeper stopped them all.
At half-time Coach agreed to put another girl in goal and put our keeper out in front to play the strikers role. The players battled hard. They tried their best to win, and yet with little time remaining neither team had found the net.
A blue defender stopped the ball, then sent it up the wing. It would have been a textbook pass, except for one small thing - our strikers fast! If nothing else, she gives each game her all and fifty-fifty simply means you just gave her the ball.
A cheetah on the rush, she broke from well behind the play. She stole the ball mid-journey, then she turned the other way. With twenty seconds left to play I saw her getting set; I saw her bring her left foot back and cock it at the net.
Before she pulled the trigger I exploded from my seat. There wasnt any question that the goalie had been beat. The winning goal was buried, and the parents all went wild. She turned and searched the stands for me and then my daughter smiled.
100 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Judiciously
Peter G. Gilchrist
The Court considers senior counsels pleas judiciously each morning right at ten, then student lawyers rise on trembling knees like Daniels stepping to the lions den.
These servants of the aristocracy must advocate positions with respect, indentured to the gerontocracy -- MLord, my client prays, and genuflect.
With fear careening round the oval track within his mind, a student stumbles through responses to a Judges keen attack. He gropes in vain for rules he thought he knew.
This wretched victim stands before the Court oblivious that Judges like their sport.
Vestiges
Richard E. Buenger
Unless I draw or sculpt or write My life is like a bird in flight Nor is there vestige anywhere From fish in stream or quiet lake Whose path is closed behind each wake.
What is that force that isnt there, That lifts a kite and messes hair, That tells its tale with rustled leaves. With puffs on ponds it gently weaves A network that will wane and fade As rapidly as its displayed.
Its captured in the bagpipes squeeze And beckoned forth by organ keys. Through lips and horn its song is freed As modified by valve or reed. What is the covert primal source Of this ubiquitous veiled force?
It has no form or age or weight For mortal minds to contemplate.
101 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Zoo Animals
James K. McAlister
Lets go to the Metro Zoo! You will meet a whole Whos Who Of the creatures of the Earth. You will get your moneys worth.
The lion roars inside his cage. He is really in a rage! Zebras are prisoners wearing stripes Behind tall fences made of pipes.
With the reptiles pause a while. Wink at smiling crocodiles. Visit parrots, feed them crackers. Watch your fingers! Theyre attackers!
Koalas love the Red Gum tree. Theyll climb up, I guarantee. Next go watch the kangaroo. A mob is what they call their crew.
Funny creatures are the camels: They are awkward, two-humped mammals. You can ride high on their backs. Their keeper will teach you some facts.
Giraffes are brown and yellow creatures They too have some special features -- Thin legs, small ears and long necks. On their backs some small birds peck.
Theres a whole crowd of flamingos Next door to Australian dingoes. The elephants trunk is like a hose. That is one extensive nose!
Leopards are cats of the night. Two or more will often fight! Orangutans, the social beasts, Share bananas for a feast.
Hear the penguins squawk and splash As around the pool they dash. Seals into the water slide. Silent, round their tank they glide.
Yaks dont come with any feathers: Their hide is soft, furry leather. Shy opossums, lazy clowns, Hang off tree limbs, upside down.
102 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri The most agile acrobats Are the African meerkats. We applaud their comic act As a big crowd they attract.
The mighty rhino is distinct. His horn may make him extinct. But here, protected at the zoo You can see -- and smell him phew!
Finally, theres a gift shop here. You can buy a souvenir. T shirts, toys and books are there, Or a fluffy grizzly bear.
There are many things to do At the Metro Toronto Zoo!
Requiem for a Minor Shakespearean Actor
T.S. Kerrigan
His Antony before the war The Guardian pronounced a bore. The Times declared his Prospero Was better twenty years ago. His histrionics playing Lear, His fellow actors couldnt hear. I see him now in grave repose In clothes his faithful dresser chose. What some have called his stony brow Is calm and understated now. Those flailing arms, for once at rest, Impart the somber subtext best. Though never one to grace the stage With comic wit, heroic rage, Hell fill the walk-off part today, The final role all actors play. Too bad he lacks the wherewithal to take a final curtain call.
103 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Cyber Date
Graeme King
Well now Im on the Internet, Im up til late at night, My parents shout at me, but figs to that. I paid for this computer every meg and gigabyte, Besides, I just discovered how to chat!
I chat with chicks from everywhere, they all think that Im cool, I tell them bout the hot rod that I race, And God forbid they found out I was really still at school, With pimples on my adolescent face.
I know my grades are suffering, I promise that Ill swot, I know that I should study just a bit, But I just found a chat site where the girls are mega hot And they believe I look like Bradley Pitt.
They ask me for a photo but I say that I am shy, I send them funny cartoon pics instead, I chat like Im a handsome, sexy, wealthy new-age guy, I wonder what emoticon says bed?
Im meeting one this afternoon, my virgin cyber date, She said shed see me, four oclock, the mall; So here I am at half past three, Im quite prepared to wait, Im lounging at the door of Toyz 4 All.
Its four oclock! Well, where is she? She said shed have a flower, Am I the victim of a chat room joke? Theres only that guy whos been watching me for half an hour, A rose, a smile, a fifty-year old bloke!
104 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri A Mothers Day
Mary McIntosh
I climbed the stairs with heavy heart, The day had finally passed, To tuck the children into bed And say goodnight, at last.
The washer overflowed today. Our cat had kittens, four. My son came home from school with mumps. I wondered how much more?
The cake I baked fell oh so flat While I helped Bobby read. My daughter scribbled on the walls. One kitten wouldnt feed.
And then while cleaning under beds I found a fish twas dead, That Sam had caught so lovingly, And saved, I guess, for Ted.
But as I left my daughters room, The youngest of the crew, She looked at me through sleepy eyes, And said, Mom, I love you.
I came back down the stairs with joy. Things didnt matter now. The trials and petty differences, Were all erased somehow.
Perhaps when time to climb those Stairs, The Good Lord, with a smile, Will say to mothers everywhere, Come in and rest awhile.
105 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Inventors
Graeme King
The wheel affords mobility to peasants and nobility the shining light of historys inventions; did some astute Neanderthal watch rounded rocks rotate and fall and figure things of friction, shapes and tensions?
If only Thomas Edison had studied hard in medicine the common cold would hold no dread for millions; if Alex Bell and Gutenberg had met than surely MS Word would not have netted Gates those megasquillions.
If Colt, Nobel and Remington had teamed up down in Bloomington and made a gun that killed a race completely, then modern worlds harmonium would never need plutonium the Curies could have killed disease discreetly.
We thank Yale for security. Whilst living in obscurity he gambled on how paranoid the nation. Now criminals felonious will find themselves erroneous unless they have a cryptic combination.
Was Doubleday pragmatical? or simply on sabbatical to come up with a game of bats and pitchers; then Baird with due intensity could see the viewing density it they could see it now theyd be in stitches!
Marconi, Otis, Davenport all dreamt outside the normal thought yet all had their detractors and decriers; be open-minded, that is clear and soar into the stratosphere invent something theres seven billion buyers!
106 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri The Sergeants Warning
Joseph S. Salemi
When tossing grenades, you must follow some rules; Neglect even one and youre toast You treat these devices like playthings for fools And youll exit the field as a ghost.
First take out the pin with a single swift yank Dont hesitate, dawdle, or linger. The bomblet is not a respecter of rank So use your most powerful finger.
The levers released in a spring-driven flip That makes a most audible plinking; That sound is your cue, so be sure of your grip On your nerves, and your wits, and your thinking.
Count slowly to four, and then fling from your hand (Long arcs give your throws an advantage). Dont wait to observe where the damned thing may land Drop down and lie flat as a bandage!
With luck youll hit something or someone. Who knows? You might even pick up a medal. But staying alive when a pineapple blows Is something for which I would settle.
Iambic Glut
Joseph S. Salemi
The sonnet has its uses, though I doubt That one out of five hundred passes muster. Theres quite a number we could do without: Prosaic exercises, lacking lustre.
Ive had my fill of lovesick, whining pap; Vague exhalations, breathing floral scent; Id much prefer a poet shut his trap When tempted to a moments monument.
A flood of rapt epiphanies and moans, Ecstatic psalms of triumph or resistance, Combined with joyous shrieks and plangent groans Blare in our ears with imbecile insistence.
Id like a sonnetnones been written yet As sleek and lethal as a bayonet.
107 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Bruce and David
Michael S. Bennett
Because he is the older of the two, And therefore exercises some control Upon his brothers innocent demands, The shirtless, sun-tanned Bruce, age four, whose hands And eyes reveal the complex of his soul, Examines solitarily the new
And not-yet-ridden tricycle. What sights And feels of chrome and paint, of polished spokes, Of imitation leather seat, of tires Deep-patterned tread; what mystery requires Such adoration in his heart, invokes Assaults upon his mind, creates delights
Of just imagined pleasures? David waits Some time away, as if he knows he must Not interrupt a moment so unique; And were he now to move, or worse, to speak, Hed shatter newly-founded sibling trust. So he looks for the signs that designate
Admission to his brothers world. But Bruce, Although he understands that twos reach four, Cannot make David realize that time Will mutilate these moments of sublime Involvement (does he know himself?), that more Must come from mind, not heart, no senses loose
To resurrect the order. Thus this thing: That for one minute longer Bruce withholds The sign, til David will not acquiesce; And ritual, though not left meaningless, Adopts a different liturgy as bold And happy brothers mount the bike to sing
Their wheeling down the street. As David locks His hands around his brothers pounding chest, Bruce pedals harder, eyes excitements pool, The impulse of the blood their basic fuel; And children learn that fastest means the best Until they turn the corner, see the blocks
That David left upon the walk. A scream, As if a hawk descending for the kill Had suddenly forgotten how to fly, Rips air when Bruce finds he cannot rely On concepts that he once believed were skill And balances that help maintain a dream
108 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri In moments before waking. So their mirth, When metal tilts, when rubber cannot grasp, When hands and eyes grow paralyzed and blind And gravity takes over from the mind, Becomes a desperate cry, and then a gasp: Spilled boys confuse the surface of the earth
For just a moment. Bruce, as if to say That human mastery of metal must Assert itself in action, grabs the seat, Sinks teeth into the grips, swings gym-shoed feet At spoke and tire, pounds frame to show hes just, Then jumps upon the seat and rides away,
While David sits and cries. He cannot strike Because he cannot comprehend the mode That splashed him to the ground like April rain. And Bruce cannot be bothered to explain This basic principle of four years code: The need to get back up and ride the bike.
Painting is not Recreation
Jonathan Day
I seek the strongest image I can find to fill the empty canvas waiting there. I welcome all rough discord in my mind, each shadowy contender, with no care for conflicts cost, if there be victory, if, when at last I charge my brush with paint, one mighty thought has gained the mastery, and rules my hands next moves without restraint. But someday I will paint the final stroke. And none will know then of this bumptious start, when craft has shaped the lines and hues, and smoke has long since cleared to show, beyond my art, what has been done. That day it will be clear if Beauty, or mere Truth, was sovereign here.
109 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Flower Cures
Angela Burns
Feverfew protects unseen And Sage will give in kind Bay for strength and Borage spleen Let sleep be yours from Thyme
Bittersweet will tell the Truth Rosemary bid recall Marigold will comfort youth And Flax be best for all
Violet gives modesty And Tulip brings one fame Peach denotes longevity Hydrangea, thanks again
Hyacinth Im sorry too But Fern for fascination Dandelion for wish come true Poppy consolation
Magnolia is sweetness Azalea take care Crocus for some cheerfulness Carnation, Wish me there
Pine for hope, Ivy friends Yarrow health and healing Rose for love that never ends While Mint is warmth of feeling
Apple asks your state your mind Viscaria, dance again? Sweet Pea is thanks for lovely time Goodbye with Cyclamen
110 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri Poets Point
Angela Burns
I watch my world through poets eyes And write words I believe Give my impressions or surmise To those who care to read
I struggle for the honest rhyme Condense to keep it sharp And try to keep the whole sublime When flaws crack it apart
I write for recreation first And for myself alone Then keep them close as misers purse And heavier than stone
But soon they pull to get away And I must let them go And give the world what I have made In subtle rhyming prose
So if a reader claims to see What careful words declaim Then I am fortunate indeed And will write poems again
Seven Deadly Sins
Neil Harding McAlister
A poet who is cursed with sinful pride, Whose lust for fame he cant suppress or hide, Must be a glutton for the work required To gain the prize his greedy heart desired.
I envy more prolific writers all, While angry that my output is so small. Though I cant walk the walk, I talk the talk, By claiming that my sloth is writers block.
111 Rhyme and Reason Pot Pourri The Museum of Thrift
Angela Burns
Come join me at the thrift store, where rank on rank youll see So many things we loved to hoard, in the last century Bulbous, huge ceramic lamps, wood-burning gone wild Beanbag chairs and velvet art, ashtrays brightly-tiled Braised, curved metal sculptures embedded with a clock Lime green couches, leather flasks, and look at that pet rock!
Huge brass rounds tell hammered tales, a funky blacklight strobe Endless mugs and china plates from all around the globe Coffee tables, poly-coated, carved from burls of wood Kissing dolls and Betty Boop .... forget? If we just could! Eight track tapes that we cant play -- what memories they shed! Bombing down the highway blasting Eagles, Stones and Led!
Even play was simpler then, and this youll see as well Leather ice skates, hula hoops and Silly Putty shells Bags of marbles, glass and bright, hoarded, played and dared Metal toys and GI Joes, and tiny kitchen ware Knitting spools and button sewers - some of TV fame, Craft kits that were never done, and may not be again
Yes, a Thrift has many things, memories most of all Piled on one another -- a museum of recall The stuff was great, and this you know -- its still around today Solid work and made to last ... but what is that you say? Its ugly, useless, doesnt "rock", completely out of style! Well, what is hot today, my friend, will be here in a while!
Crossing Over
Patricia Louise Gamache
We cross our bridges day-by-day Finding friends along the way Touched by those we hoped would stay Loving others as we may Seeking joy but finding sorrow Endless hope we try to borrow All the dreams we can conceive Then burn our bridges when we leave
112 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers
113 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Two Views Behind The Scenes
Susan Eckenrode
Hers:
Amazing how well make-up hides his age, from frantic fans who watch him prance and preen. Just like him to pretend he hasnt seen me sitting in the front row, center stage. Hell pirouette, while I, cool and serene, sit sipping honeyed tea with bitter rage. Tonight, I will escape that gilded cage hes built to keep me like some coddled queen.
His:
Its curtain call, but shes already gone; without a doubt, shes dashed off to my room to wait behind the scenes for my return. Shell fall into my arms and stay till dawn -- all mine-- this pretty posy in full bloom, whose passion just for me will always burn.
Losing Touch
MFK Buckley
1.
Let me be sorry, let me take the blame; if youll allow the chance, Ill stand the blows. The air between us hurts -- its not the same, our give and take has ebbed and lost its flow. A change in daily patterns doesnt mean a thing as long as we remain as friends. But silences grow longer than theyve been, its time to talk before connections end. Dont be surprised to find I understand whatever it may be you have to say, your dreams are yours to follow. If I can, I hope to help, if youll allow a way. The thing I miss, so you know what Im after is hearing what youre up to and the laughter.
114 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers 2.
I cannot tell you how I know, I do -- but every time we talk theres more unsaid. It seems to me of what I know of you your silence is the only thing I dread. Perhaps I have misspoken, said too much, or let you down, or maybe I mistook a meaning by mistake. Were out of touch and friends like us dont have a rulebook. So talk to me, Ill listen like before. If anything is wrong, dont let it go. I wont intrude, you have an open door. I count youre in my corner, so you know. Theres nothing we cant speak about, I swear; it matters to me knowing youre still there.
3.
Its something I cant put my finger on the absence of your calls can be explained except a hollow feeling like youre gone, so asking you cant hurt if nothings gained. I recognize the space and time you need; encroaching isnt something I intend but issues left too long can choke like weeds. Dont break me -- like a willow, I can bend. Im not a stranger to your moods, and life seems better through the lenses that weve shared and hearing from you blunts my losses; strife becomes a laughing matter if youre there. Please know that I dont mean to ask too much but I dont like to be so out of touch.
115 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Satin-Blue (Circa 1950)
Irene Livingston
The dress is long and satiny and blue. So elegant, though half-price at a sale. Ive ironed out the wrinkles, smoothed the frail thin fabric till its glowing, lustrous, new.
My father heads the household, wields the rod, and school holds no recess from his keen eye, hes on the staff. And thus the boys all shy away like nervous colts, quicksilver shod.
Amazing Im invited to this dance by Charley Jones, of bold, seductive smile, hot-coffee eyes that race my heart, meanwhile Ive only just begun to bloom, enhance
my bit of beauty, now that Im allowed, to paint my face, as Dad would say, with those red lipsticks, powder, blush. Oh, Im a rose, no longer pale wallflower of the crowd.
But Charleys beenhas played in regions where I wouldnt know enough for even dreams. Well, fathers chaperone tonight, it seems. I check around. I guess hes gone for air.
Now Louis Armstrongs warmth begins to pour like chocolate syrup, drums just touched, caressed, I found my thrill and Charleys bodys pressed against my own, we take up little floor.
Then, Higher than the moon well go; well see and Charley hums and breathes beside my ear. Oh, come and climb the hill with me, my dear his warm, dark-wool arousal nudging me.
Half time. He murmurs, Lets go on outside. Fresh air. Okay. We find his car and fall together in the back. Lips search, hands crawl, till, breathing, breathing; he begins to ride
the satin dress; he grinds atop me, moans, still kissing, kissing; I hold on and drown in after-shave and passion smell; my gown is ravished in between. He sighs and groans.
We stagger from the car, blue dress a sea of wrinkles that I smooth and smooth but still the sea lies rough. Oh No! My father will be sure to know and everyone will see! 116 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers
We creep back in, in dread of rant and fuss, to dim-lit grotto; try to be discreet; cave-people gyrate, to the thumping beat of jive, enthralled, oblivious to us.
I check around the crowded, rocking hall. My fathers laughing, lit by corner lamp, with Annie May. Oh. Annie May, the tramp. He doesnt even see me here at all.
A Caf in Paris
Zara McAlister
She works as a model For Ralph Lauren, With long, dark hair And perfect skin.
A big show in Paris, A small caf -- Croissants, baguettes, Musique, berets.
Exhausted from jet lag, She looks a mess, Not fit to wear A designer dress!
117 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Pamela Ann
Eric Linden
We spoke our last good-bye in Winnipeg and parted never once did I look back to watch you drive away. You thought Id beg, but I stood strong oh no, I wouldnt crack.
It hurt like hell, yes, that much Ill admit, to lose what once was us, our harmony. My mountains called me home; its where I fit, unlike the prairie grasslands, cant you see?
I bore the emptiness quite well; I did okay. You had to call and torture me once more just like before Im still your easy prey. Somehow the key got stuck inside our door.
A fact of life that I must ever bear my love for you, Ill take it everywhere.
June Bride
MFK Buckley
The photos in our album havent changed, although I feel like strangers have stood in. Its dangerous in recalling, now estranged, the way things were, or could, or might have been. Its long past accusations or regrets, I saved myself but in the process failed to recognize I had no safety net and fell; what hell ensued is half the tale. That photo captive wedding day portrayed a moment from the madness that became our life as man and wife. That tragic play is over now though some things stay the same: the girl you married loved you, always will, but not enough to grant a double bill.
118 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers The Honeymoon
Eric Linden
Ours was the world; you tossed them your bouquet and off we went new life had just begun as man and wife with promises of fun Niagara Falls, our perfect getaway. We watched the moon by night and stars by day, those in our eyes more brilliant than the sun! The sparks of love would never be undone that was our plan, we swore we wouldnt stray.
Bouquets of roses wilt, and so with time our promises saw twilight come and go until at last like roses, they died too. That distant sound, its like a church bell chime; I hear it clearly still I am your beau although the rose has shed its morning dew.
A Friends Eye View
Susan Eckenrode
That honeymoon in June was over soon; before the ink was dry, from what I hear. There are some men who wander out of fear relating over time may spoil the tune and interfere with songs they want to croon. I saw him when he flashed a sideways leer at Mary Jane, your maid of honor, Dear. I know just where to stick his silver spoon.
You stuck it out for years. You really tried; you love him still; in his way, he loves you but arent you glad you grew to rule your heart? Yes, starting life anew was hard; you cried a million tears on learning how untrue he is and was...as always from the start.
119 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Summer Knights
Irene Livingston
He sprawls before the television set: The game, the big ones on; it makes his day. As one hand grips his beer, the other one goes raking through his hair thats streaked with gray,
that hair that now stands comically erect. I may as well give up on talk for now. Ive known this well, for lo these many years. I must amuse myself. What matters how?
I leave and grab my jacket, holler back, Im going for a walk. And sweet night air delights my face. The moon is full. I stroll and gaze until its splendid, wily stare
persuades my brain; my thoughts go yearning down a little-traveled, dim-lit street of time, and cruise for loves that maybe could have been. Oh, I remember you. You set my chime
to ringing. You were younger and somehow bone-sweeter than my man could ever get, your supple body, taffy-tan, and eyes two drops of chocolate, light enough to let
the sex gleam through. And amber summer days you chucked your shirt on any plea. Those smoke- blue pubs: the moment he was gone youd say, Its gonna happen. You and me. No joke.
I knew it likely wouldnt, but the thought would titillate, a tickling finger there. One sweat-moist August night, as hormones raged, you grabbed a guy and flipped him through the air,
to land face down, his blood like drops of red testosterone, on that gunmetal street, for calling you a phony, taboo word around that place. And horror froze my feet;
but to my guilty shock, my senses thrilled. Now looking down that faded long divide, I see your cocky boy-smile. Oh, you were a colt I never rode. You were a slide
I never dared go down. You were ice cream I never licked, and bubble gum, though free, I never got to blow. A thin regret now takes me by the heart and walks with me.
120 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers
Im back on my own street; a chilly moon escorts me to the door, its pale face mocks. I walk into the kitchen. Hes laid out hot tea and fancy cookies from a box.
He looks up with that sudden flashflood smile; he comes to me and takes my jacket, lays a warm arm round my shoulders, kisses me a kiss that I recall from other days.
I look into his eyes and see that love is resting there, a love that still can take my heart, can still get crazy. Then Ill be the one to claw his hair; I still can make
it stand erect. I feel the truth of plaid- wool-shirted body, knowing way down deep: this tender mans a rare gold coin I had the luck to find, possessed the sense to keep.
Upon Meeting An Old Love
Mary E. Moore
I recognize the face I knew so well and cherished, more than fifty years ago, when futures promise no one could foretell and he had been my first, official beau. Reserved, we trade in facts to bridge the years; compare careers and families, choices, cost. We tease and laugh a bit, allaying fears that we are really strangers - love all lost. At length, we cast aside the masquerade, begin to speak of what we hold as true. With souls and psyches bare, the decades fade and fresh emotions, based on old, debut. When he departs, I tell myself, in truth, his lips, so sweet on mine, are those of youth.
121 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers
Backwards Through Wet Grass for Anthony Hecht
Anna Evans
This Jersey fall, the unrelenting rain has turned the front yards wild, their long, green hair to otters root-slick pelts. Today, again I step out into gray, breathe loamy air and catch a scent of home, a British field I camped in once - a weekend trip to study frogs. By day we kept our bodies sealed in waterproofs, our feet twice-socked in muddy boots. At night we hid in tents, played games of Crazy Eights beneath the pitter-pat of rain, now drumming our roll call of names, now scrabbling on the canvas like a rat. We were fourteen all hormones huddled damp and close, a nest of rabbits, screened from sight by tent flaps, while our teachers hipflask camp was pitched a hundred yards away. One night, alone with me, Rob Murphy raised his hand and touched my cheek. I shivered like a doe for her first buck. He twined a loosened strand of my dark hair around his thumb. I know I twisted with it. He removed my glasses - no one had ever done that - and he said that I was pretty. Afterwards, in classes I would stare at the back of his blond head and dream of nameless acts. He nearly kissed me, but our friends returned. The moment drained away like runnels in the evening mist, and came to nothing. Here, now it has rained so much, that field, that clumsy, gentle boy come back to me, and I remember this: the thrumming rain, the unexpected joy I knew at fourteen, for his almost-kiss.
122 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers
Lines Written During Pentecost
T.S. Kerrigan
That April, morning etched our room with light- I cant forget that morning - bleary-eyed, I told you all I dreamt about that night, My turning, all those hours, from side to side.
I cant forget that morning, bleary-eyed, It all comes back, that dream of souls half dead, My turning, all those hours, from side to side, That silent, sad procession in my head.
It all comes back, that dream of souls half dead. Theres something else Ive tried but cant explain, That silent, sad procession in my head, We bore somehow their share of earthly pain,
Theres something else -- Ive tried but cant explain. Youll read these lines someday and then youll know, We bore somehow their share of earthly pain, I knew it then and never told you so.
Youll read these lines someday and then youll know, I saw us both among those lost that night, I knew it then and never told you so, That April, morning etched our room with light.
Silver Moonbeam
Graeme King
Shining ever, hope of love eternal, Indescribable this silver glazing, Legend of all tales and odes nocturnal, Varied only by the seasons phasing; Evening phosphorescence, I salute thee, Rain your grace upon this soul unworthy, Magnify your magic, spread Nox beauty Over these sad eyes, that love may stir me. Ornament of Heaven, I implore you: Number me among your servants trusted; Bending knee, I bear my soul before you, Ease my pain and loose this heart encrusted. Answer me, I pray in genuflection Moonbeam, grant me loves true resurrection. 123 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Loves Labours Lost
Dick Hayes
Trainee on a software project Tims addicted, rather shy. Sally, slim and oh so perfect, breaks a heart when dancing by.
Lamb that never dressed as mutton, top and trouser chink reveal, half an inch of belly button with a ring and silver seal.
Cocktail bars and film locations, red eye photos passed around, always seems to start vacations running when she hits the ground!
Round the office, keyboards chatter cursors blinking, stupidly, Tim has blocked the constant clatter from his world of binary.
Through the If and Then conditions love will surely forge a road, careful to encrypt intentions lest another break the code.
But the bliss and inner trouble when she brings his monthly pay, yearns to ask, but at the double mumbles Hi and shrinks away.
Just to walk abroad together, hand in hand and heart to heart, doesnt dare enquire whether Sally understands her part.
Queen to match his quiet hero beauty held in awe by all, soon to be a happy zero snuggled to his decimal.
Tims delight is undiminished. Should we warn, discourage, lest Sally isnt quite as finished as her trouser suits suggest?
124 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Midnight Sighs
smzang
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs that lie within the midnight wind, that tease and taunt and tantalize, turn every moment into Zen.
Even the ocean seems to know how sweet the sound of whispered sighs, as waters ebb and waters flow in tones that soothe and tranquilize.
The willows make their own replies as graceful limbs embrace the breeze, How sweet the sound of whispered sighs, a truth known even to the trees.
The years have passed so quickly. Yet, its when they slow we realize that lifes for love and not regret, How sweet the sound of whispered sighs.
Rebirth
Anne Maarit Ghan
My mind swims in you It took a daring dive into Your deepest mysteries
Rhythmic, rocking trance Waves and naked skin in dance To ancient melodies
Floating on your waves Exhaling exultation saves This daughter of the earth
Carried by your stream Like waking up into a dream A magical rebirth 125 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Aubade
T.S. Kerrigan
With both our spouses still asleep indoors, We leisurely retrace our steps last night Beneath conspiring oaks and sycamores, Like kids, our arms entwined in early light. Where daffodils emerge beneath the green Of pines we find our special bench, grown shy Before this changing early morning scene Who seemed so bold beneath a darker sky. Intrusive dawn reminds us of our lives. Unconsciously, our hands unclasp, we chart The precious time weve wasted, what survives, And all our years together, years apart, Then walk on back, recalling vanished things, The heedless squandering of all those springs.
Kindling
Max Gutmann
The day his girlfriends father let him cut The kindling was the cracking of a crust, A heavy volume falling open at A pleasant page. He felt the guard relax At last: it takes some trust To hand a man an ax.
They foraged for straight grain, which wouldnt knot The blade, but give hospitably, a quick Clean breach, if he could hit the angle right. The older man first watched, and then went in. Alone, he chopped each stick To almost pencil-thin,
Absorbed in seeking out that magic split, Delicious every time that it occurred, A touch of luck rewarding skill and sweat, Though earned, still only half-anticipated, Like just the sought-for word, Or love reciprocated.
126 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Ars Brevis
T.S. Kerrigan
The reading done they left at four; She thinking they were bound for bed, While ego made him read some more.
I fall for poets thats my curse, She blurted out. Who else would lure A girl upstairs to read his verse.
He glanced up from the dog-eared page, And put his notes and book aside, Astonished by such antic rage.
True poets seek the stars from birth, Not love and grief (see Holderlin), The things that bind mankind to earth.
She fixed him with a steel gray stare. I came to feel, not hear, she said, While taking down her long black hair.
He watched, bemused, in fading light, To see her shed her under things. He read his verse no more that night.
Lines on a Modern Serenade
E. Russell Smith
on listening to A Little Serenade for String Orchestra, Op. 12. Lars-Erik Larsson
Only from a suitor worldly wise could such a cryptic serenade arise, and discord offered with sufficient vigour be mistaken for artistic rigour. Dissonance, if played with great finesse, might win a lovely ladys soft caress. Cacophony, with adequate precision could, with fortune, change her disposition.
True, the urban lovesick swain today waives courtly protocol to make his play. His raucous strategy is one solution: disco decibels and noise pollution. Courtship must give harmony its place, or put at mortal risk the human race. 127 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers The Private Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen
Keith Holyoak
Daughter, close the blinds! cried Mrs. Chen One springtime morning when she began to die In earnest. Puzzled, Dienlin asked her, Why Do you lie so late in bed today, and when Will you come downstairs? Look at the world outside Below the mansions high on the slopes, the towers Of commerce gleamright now, from one of ours Father watches his laden freighters glide Through the harbor. Come and watch them too, Drifting like seabirds beneath the dragon-green Mountains that crown the peninsula. Ive seen Those ghost ships sailIve held the world in view So long, sighed Mrs. Chen, but love has fled, So draw the blinds down tight on my death bed.
A springtime rain never Felt so fresh and warm As the time that young mans Voice first made me quiver, Caught me up in his storm Of dreams and bold plans.
Shes old, the doctors said, so old and frail. They went away. Day after day Dienlin Washed her, combed her hair, set her hairpin, Carefully polished her every fingernail. Early each morning Mr. Chen dressed up In suit and tie, then sat in her corner chair And watched over them. He sometimes said a prayer. All day he watched, and only would sip a cup Of tea that Dienlin brought him. Finally His daughter pleaded, Father, come speak to mother! She grows so weakthere may not be another Chance. Too late, he said, she cant hear me. Next morning at dawn, after his wife had died, Mr. Chen still sat in her corner chair, and cried.
Two wild orchids pinned In her long black braids Glistened in the springtime rain I was so jealous of the wind Furtively stroking that maids Skin, again and again.
128 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers We Need to Talk
Peter G. Gilchrist
I t seems I'm not communicating well.
L et's try again. It's not that I can't say O ut loud those words. It's just that I am not V ociferous, I guess. But every day, E ach splendid, awe-inspiring day you share
Y our self with me, my heart explodes in shards O f colour so intense that I am just U nable to express myself in words.
Enough Said
MFK Buckley
Venus:
From time to time it can occur to me the ways that I would love you if I could. But nothing comes from nothing ventured; we cannot embrace the notion that we would. Discretion doesnt mean its not been good but what I think about us, proven true, would feel like ivory inlaid timber wood. I often watch you wondering if you can somehow feel the ways that I would love you too.
Mars:
I often wonder what you see in me assuming you too, feel in ways that could, if you allowed such notions, guarantee wed face down nations and in time, we would. Thats not to say it hasnt all been good except if what I think I feel is true; wed light up like dry splintered kindle wood. I, sometimes, catch you watching me like you have long considered ways that you would love me too.
129 Rhyme and Reason His and Hers Ode to Mrs Anne Seymour Damer 1749-1828
Daphne Rock
Anne Seymour Damer was the daughter of Field Marshall Henry Seymour Conway and Caroline, Countess of Aylesbury.
That Quality might dare to take a Trade Must give reproach. Not Mallet, no, nor Spade Should find repose in hands both soft and white -- Which leads us to my lady Damers plight.
Accursed with eyes for contour formed from stone, She sought to make a sculptors skill her own, Not as a little art to pass the hours Between embroidery and gathring Flowers,
But as some great proceeding. Chisel, rasp Hardened the self-effacing, titled clasp. The Great Cerrachi taught her, tho he knew Her work could never seek the public view.
Poor Anne! to be denied by sex and birth A recognition of her sculptor worth. A common girl might better hope to start With Mallet, Rasp and Chisel, though her art
Would lack refinement. Yet whod choose blue blood If that entailed denial of the good God gave for turning cold stone warm and live? Cerrachi did his best, aimed to contrive
Annes likeness as The Muse of Sculpture*, bearing Her own work in her arms (thus greatly daring Fashions disdain.) Her Art and true Creation The Genius of the Thames (twas some sensation
To put on show a hint of treachery To Class and Culture); but ambiguously, He gives her hands of soft, un-calloused skin, And keeps her secret marble safe within.
* The Muse of Sculpture: Giuseppe Cerrachi 1751-1801
130 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing
131 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing Blackie
Peter Austin
Blackie was missing, and Jane in a state. Oh, said her daddy, hes often out late, Prowling, or howling, or hunting for prey. No, Papa, not for two nights and a day!
Later, a neighbour came ringing the bell. Gee, Mr Jones, this aint simple to tell: See, Im reversing - real slow, in the truck - Guess he ran under it - goshawful luck.
Blubbing redoubled - blue devils, despair! Well, said her daddy, we cant leave him there. She with a bucket, and he with a spade, Trudged up the hill, in a dismal parade.
There, they discovered him - oozing, inert, Blighted with bluebottles, tire-tracks and dirt. - Next one, well neuter, and pollard his tail, Daddy thought, spading him into the pail.
See the cortege, on funereal feet, Silently, soberly, move down the street, Jane in the lead (how demurely she cries!) Daddy lop-sided, with sweat in his eyes.
Well, in a nutshell, and cutting it short, He dug a hole, of the mortuary sort, neath the magnolia (herald of spring), She made a cross, out of pickets and string;
Then, with solemnity, under the sod, Jane on kazoo, playing Nearer my God, Felix was buried, or Cleo, or Zeke. Blackie came home, you see, later that week.
132 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing The Cooking of Sybil U.
Joanne Underwood
There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook; With British flair that isnt there, she doesnt use a book; Her French cuisine, quite new on the scene, is full of crme et beurre; But it cant compare to her British fare which causes quite a stir.
Now Sybil U., between me and you, is not the worlds best chef; And why she tries more than fish and fries is anybodys guess. She boils and bakes (and those are steaks!) and gobs on margarine; Her Yorkshire pudds (to give you the goods) are the greasiest I have seen.
Well, Sybil U. decided to do what others before her had done: She enrolled in a course, it was perforce so she wouldnt weigh a ton. She learned to make, for her husbands sake, some items known as French; And all her dishes, against his wishes, in sauces she would drench.
Shed dice and mince while he would wince and quietly set the table And then hed choose a bottle of booze with an accent on the label. While she served up, hed lift his cup and toast his Devon wife: Hed call out Cheers and through his tears hed see his flashing life.
The time had come, I packed a TUM and set out for a meal. My husband said, in voice of dread, Perhaps it will be veal. We ventured out, each filled with doubt and thinking, Oh, why me? The dinner bell rang, she assembled the gang and served us KFC!
There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook; With British flair that isnt there, she doesnt use a book; Her French cuisine, quite new on the scene, is full of crme et beurre; But it cant compare to her British fare, which causes quite a stir.
(With apologies to Robert Service!)
133 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing Airport Angst
Neil Harding McAlister
(With more apologies to Robert Service.)
In the halcyon days of air travel All the clients were treated like kings, As below them the miles would unravel While they soared on their magical wings. Nowadays we get far less attention, And they herd us like so many sheep, Without even the slightest pretension That our loyaltys something to keep.
First contend with the traffic congestion; Then get lost in the parking lot maze, Where youll get not one helpful suggestion From attendants who walk in a daze. At the check-in youll line up forever As the queue crawls one inch at a time. Youre beginning to think maybe never Will you get to the front of the line.
And you worry youll miss your connection: In this line-up too long you have stayed; But youre sent in another direction When they tell you your plane is delayed. If your flight has been scrubbed by bad weather, You will sit in the lounge and youll fret Til you come to the end of your tether, And your travel plans you will regret.
Now, if waiting around makes you famished, And you hanker to eat something nice, Youll be lucky to find a stale sandwich Being offered at twice its fair price. Do they care if the customers choosey? Making moneys the name of their game. Youll be forced to pass through here next Tuesday So these vendors can rob you again.
If youre able to hear the announcement, You may get to the right boarding gate By deciphering the mumbling pronouncement -- But youre in for another long wait. A security guard wants to frisk you. With a rigor that duty transcends, Shell unpack half the things you brought with you, So that you can repack them again.
134 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing And assuming they dont lose your suitcase, It arrives looking much worse for wear. Your complaints will be scorned as a moot case: Why protest? for at least it got there! There is no point whatever in squawking, So our own sullen counsel we keep, Because flyings still faster than walking, Though ground service has slowed to a creep.
In the old days, the airlines once told us Getting there would be half of the fun. Now, with stern regulations they scold us: Were exhausted before weve begun. The frustrations with which we must reckon Make us wish we could stay away still; But my family and clients all beckon, And I have to go back and I will.
To the airport again we are trudging, Where pollution and noise fill the air. Though the service is bad and begrudging, Well get home, on a wing and a prayer!
A Knights Work
Susan Eckenrode
A pallid, panting page appeared and said, Intelligence reports the recent death of Sir Com Spect. He drew his final breath when Sir Com Vent relieved him of his head. The news sent Sir Com Stance into a rage, demanding retribution should be paid, at which, he drew his sword and honed the blade and glowered at the frightened, cringing page. Fear not: what goes around will come around. When Sir Com Stance gets riled, Sir Con C. Quence comes down.
135 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing A Clerihew for Paris
Ellen Birkett Morris
Paris Hilton Lacks the gravitas of Milton. Nonetheless shes famous, The fact of which should shame us.
A Couplet for Norma, My Dental Hygienist
Ellen Birkett Morris
Oh corn hull, spinach, other dross, Thank God for noble dental floss.
Birthday Present
Simon Leigh
If the Big Bang theory is true Im exactly the same age as you And the weirdness gets worse: The entire universe Had its birthday the first day she blew.
136 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing Logical Progress
Angela Burns
Consternation: Out again! Desperation: None remain! Explanation: Can it be? Revelation: Yes indeed! Consideration: What to do? Reiteration: Up to you! Determination: Find a way Calculation: Time today! Exoneration: Didnt know! Extirpation: There we go.... Renunciation: Not much fun! Consolation: Laundrys done!
The Charmer
Mary E. Moore
Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls, his do is not the dog-show-poodle-cut. He wears a mass of scruffy, copper curls that might adorn an ordinary mutt.
When he and I are on our daily walk strangers speak but, sadly, not to me. "Hi there!" they say (as if they thought hed talk) while gazing downward just below my knee.
Their eyes meet his and distance disappears. He sidles close. Their fingers comb his hair to settle in the warmth behind his ears. For moments, no one cares that Im still there.
At times when this occurs, I do not know if jealousy or pride is what I feel. But in the end, its pride wins out, although I wish that I had half my dogs appeal.
137 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing My Computer
Peter Austin
Had a bug, in my computer; Turned her on, but couldnt boot her; Telephoned the trouble-shooter; Said hed come on by.
Came on by, a few hours later, Scowling like the Terminator; Asked to see the tabulator: This sounds good, thought I.
Well, I said, Ill brew some shanty. Came back - oh, my sainted auntie! - To behold this dilettante Stripping my PC.
Oh, my disassembled lover! He has plucked you, like a plover, Ripped your kishkes from their cover, Made, of you, debris!...
Well, to cut a longish story, My PC is ancient - hoary As an outdoor lavatory, Or a solid tire!
Only bought her last November - The eleventh, I remember - Now Im burning to an ember With unchanneled ire!
Stupid, useless, damned computer!... Tell you what! - Ill trouble-shoot her! Draw my foot back, and I boot her, Out the garden gate!
Now, with confidence Im oozing, For an abacus Im using - Cheaper, smaller, less confusing - Never out of date!
138 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing The Mirror
Richard E. Buenger
I looked at my face And my face looked at me. I said to my face, What is it you see?
The answer it gave Was nothing to say. I tried a quick wave In hopes it would play
I waved with my hand. It waved back at me. I started to stand. It stood up to see.
At last I got mad And stuck out my tongue. It thought that was bad And stuck out its tongue.
I turned out the light To scare it away. It went out of sight But returned the next day.
I know what it thinks Each time I pass by. It gives me back winks For each blink of my eye.
Its persistence beguiles, A notion we share. I can tell from its smiles That its happy in there.
139 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing A Dollar per Admission
Peter Austin
My daughter has a guinea pig, Two budgies and a fish. They all live in her bedroom, and I told her, Listen, Trish:
(Before it all went wrong, this was.) The pellets go to Rollo; You mustnt give the fish them, or The budgies: do you follow?
The fish food is for Finnegan; The seeds are for the birds. She looked at me and nodded, but She didnt heed my words.
The birds were turning furry, by The middle of the week; The guinea pig was finny, and The fish had grown a beak.
Lets go through this again, I said: The fish food is for Finn. She looked at me and nodded, but She didnt take it in.
By Saturday, the budgies were The shade of maple syrup, The fish was growing molars, and The pig had learned to chirrup.
My daughters off to college, as A trainee dietician; Its paid for by the critters, at A dollar per admission.
140 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing Sock Despair
Mary E. Moore
So where on earth could a missing sock go? It was gone though the dryer seemed bare. I peered way up high and felt way down low; no stray was hidden there.
The thought crossed my mind it had joined with a pair to form a mnage trois, but no sock of mine would dare an affair, its upbringing far too bourgeois.
Perhaps it had simply looked years ahead, judged the future to be problematical, and set off on foot to where the road led determined to take a sockbatical.
Just how it had left and in what strange way it returned, I find hard to write. For it went undetected until that day my mother-in-law stayed the night.
To make up her bed, we shook out a sheet, then suffered a dreadful shock. In the water glass where shed placed her teeth, ker-plop ... was the missing sock!
Washday Woe
Neil Harding McAlister
When I unlatch the dryers door, How cruelly it mocks! For gone is something that I wore, Just lately purchased from the store: Im doomed to ponder evermore The fate of unmatched socks.
141 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing Give Over!
Peter Austin
Begging mail, intrusive calls From too-familiar minions, Poppy-selling, in the malls, By fans of Laurence Binyons; Troubled teens and meals-on-wheels Upon the conscience drubbing, Christmas Seals and Easter Seals And save the seals from clubbing.
Buy, for AIDS research, a rose, For lupus, a gardenia, Tulips, from the friends of those Whore fighting schizophrenia; Cats-paws, for our fall campaign To wipe out vivisection, Lupins for the whooping crane (The whooping cough, correction!)
Save the ocelot, the swan, The catamount, the otter, Fund a bloody dance-a-thon To save the turkey-trotter; Buy a square of wetland, on The threatened Isle of Thanet, Save the roc, the mastodon, The leprechaun, the planet! ...
STOP! Im not a major bank, An endless source of income! Siphoning me, like a tank, Is neither fair nor dinkum! This, that climbs about my knees, Is payments due, not clover; You begat them, if you please, So knock it off ... Give over!
Laurence Binyon wrote the much-quoted-from Poems for the Fallen (September 1914). Dinkum is Australian slang for honest.
142 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing A Question of Authenticity
Joseph S. Salemi
How can you tell who painted the Mona Lisa? Most people--including critics--look at the little brass plaque on the lower frame.
--Attributed to Toulouse-Lautrec
Da Vinci painted La Gioconda Many times. And so I wonder Is the piece that hangs in Paris Genuine? It might embarrass Tourists or the Louvres director If one raised the triple specter Of deception, fraud, and scandal. You act just like a modern Vandal When you debunk cherished notions-- It can provoke extreme emotions. Of course, youd be hard-pressed to prove That something in the sacred Louvre Was bogus, counterfeit, or fake. Youd have to show, beyond mistake, An absolutely total hoax, And after that, cajole and coax Some publisher to put in print Your stark conclusions. Take a hint: The highbrow connoisseurs of art Would hate you from the very heart; And what about the stink and stench Youd stir up in the rabid French By treading on la belle mystique? In one hot fit of Gallic pique Theyd seize your passport and your visa For sullying the Mona Lisa, And youd be hustled to the border By some ministerial order.
143 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing The Way Things Go
Sally Cook
The other day our furnace died - It was quite old, and clanked. We called the plumber, then we sighed, Spent all the dough we banked To make sure that this winter we Would stay warm in the cold. The toaster oven kicked off too -- It wasnt very old.
Our washer had a quick demise. It choked, then left us quickly. Just one more miserable surprise -- It wasnt even sickly! Guess what? The new ones even worse. How can this be, I wonder? It thumps and bangs and shakes the house, And rends our peace asunder.
They say the awful things that come Are sent to us in threes; But we must be especially dumb -- For cats who dont get fleas Cannot get worms, (or so we thought), And now one cats infected. Those high-priced purple pills we bought He grouchily rejected.
I think theyre made of precious stones, And then they are gold plated. Well soon be only skin and bones Before this lucks abated! Please, Mercury, eclipse of moon Retract your awful beams. Get moving, will you, do it soon! Oh, cant you hear our screams?
144 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing
Animal Nonsense
Richard E. Buenger
The goldfish life is sad, alas. Its spent within a bowl of glass. What makes him give a great big grin Are funny faces looking in.
Tell me, truly, if you please, Why does every dog have fleas? What an awesome thing, he said, If fleas had dogs on them instead.
I wonder why the household fly, Every time hes spotted, Not doing anybody harm Is always getting swatted. Perhaps alone quite secretly He did bad things we couldnt see.
A single ant is harmless. Hes nothing to behold. But have picnic on the lawn Hes there a thousand-fold.
The snake who doesnt chew her food But eats it whole for dinner, Not only is she very rude, We always see whats in her.
The centipede, dont you suppose Must have 500 little toes And 50 pairs of tiny shoes Im sure hell never ever use He doesnt have the hands, you see, To tie the laces properly.
A turtle labors very hard And never slows his pace. He takes an hour to walk a yard And never wins a race. Hes stuck inside his hard round shell. How he scratches he wont tell! 145 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing The Violin Teachers Lament
Catherine Edmunds
To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease; To leave me quaking, fearing every note, Is all my pupils manage. Stop it, please?
I wonder; is it really worth the fees They pay? Why must they grab me by the throat To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease?
Theres Jo, who had potential; but now shes As bad as all the others learn by rote Is all my pupils manage. Stop it, please?
Id like to take such pupils, like to seize Their violins, and sink them in a moat To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease
Amongst the fish, where icy waters freeze Their fingers off. But knowing how to float Is all my pupils manage. Stop it, please?
So do I mean it? Do I merely tease? Or shall I say, Ive had it - get your coat. To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease Is all my pupils manage. Stop it, please?
146 Rhyme and Reason Leave em Laughing To Sally
Vincent W. Williams
I pen these lines to Sally now whose looks are past compare; If fair is foul and foul is vile, then Sallys looks are fair.
I fain devour her saucy face with wonder, awe and question; I do the same with pizza pie; and then get indigestion.
She has luxuriant long black hair that goes clear down her back; Would that she had some on her head; I do deplore that lack...
Her rare, outstanding nose turns up, and puts me in a fever; It then turns down and to the side, a marked over-achiever.
Her matchless beauty turns my head, and let me make it clear: Ive seen a lot of uglier guys, but not for many a year.
I simply cant describe my doting on her sweet expression; I cant describe what is not there, and still employ discretion.
So, Sally comes in first for looks, east, west and south and north; She comes in second, AND in third, so I shall sally forth.
Insomniacs Lament
Margaret Fieland
Its midnight now, its time to go to bed but I still have some things to do instead: three loads of laundry Ill put in the wash, then Ill go to the kitchen for a nosh: a bagel and some cream cheese, just a smidge, and while Im there Ill go clean out the frig.
Then after that Ill go clean off the grill, then bag up all those things for the Goodwill: the clothes I found while cleaning out my car plus all the books left from the church bazaar.
When thats all done Ill climb into the tub to take a nice hot bath. But heres the rub: I know its really time to say goodnight, climb into bed and turn off that damn light!
147 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets
About the Poets
Peter Austin lives with his wife and three daughters in Toronto, Canada, where he teaches English at Seneca College. His verse has been published in magazines and anthologies in Canada, the USA, the UK, New Zealand and South Africa. A collection called I am Janus is in the works. He also writes plays; and his musical adaptation of The Wind in the Willows has been produced in Montreal, in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and Vancouver. Canadian Winter was published in Nuthouse in 2004.
Michael S. Bennett, Ph.D., J.D., says that he is by occupation Professor of English at two metropolitan Atlanta colleges in the USA; and also, as Shelley said of all poets, an unacknowledged legislator of the world. He avers that he has been writing poetry since my sophomore year in high school, sometime during the Punic Wars. Prof. Bennett generally prefers to write contemplative lyrics in blank verse with occasional forays into rhyming, narrative poetry, sonnets and quatrains. With several previous poetry publications to his credit, he describes himself as a bon vivant, raconteur, Renaissance Man, troll, novice at chess, reasonable golfer, former saloon piano player and stand-up comic. Current interests include playing various musical instrument; reading new poets; teaching, breeding and raising chow- chows; and amateur gourmet cooking. MFK Buckley writes, My maternal grandfather recited and read poetry aloud to us as we were growing up. When I was 18 he introduced me to The Collected Sonnets of Edna St Vincent Millay, and the sonnet became my most enduring love affair. My earliest poems were dictated to my mother who has devotedly kept them for almost 50 years. The most significant contribution to my creative and technical development as a poet occurred in 2004 with my entry into cyber poetry communities. The discipline of drafting and revising metrical poetry is invaluable to my writing as a trainer and consultant. My work with entrepreneurs has always been my second great love. Recent work celebrates the moon and seasonal landscapes of rural life on Lake Eries north shore. While I enjoy such influences, the complex nuances that exist between men and women continue to intrigue me. After two years of daily writing, I have planned a period for revision and submissions. This represents my first publication.
Richard E. Buenger, M.D., was born in Chicago, USA in 1922. He was Professor and Chairman of the Dept. of Diagnostic Radiology and Nuclear Medicine at Rush Presbyterian St. Lukes Medical Center in Chicago; and former President of the Radiological Society of North America. Dr. Buenger says: I have always loved music and words. Since I cannot sing and do not play an instrument, I sublimated my creative urges into poetry that has rhyme and meter. I have, until now, been a closet writer with no audience except my grandchildren for the nonsense poems that I love to compose. I am a member of The Society of The Fifth Line, which meets annually to exchange limericks my other love of word usage. Writing poetry helps me sort my thoughts, find new words to express my feelings, and lets me sing songs to myself.
Angela Burns, whose poetry is well represented in this collection and in our previous one, New Classic Poems, lives on Vancouver Island, in British Columbia, Canada. She is a freelance writer, editor and publisher whose work proof- reading this manuscript was invaluable. She says, Having spent my first half century pursuing media-related professions with varying amounts of success, I am spending my next half century encouraging that business to come to me. I work at home, walk often, and live simply and happily 148 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets in the most beautiful place I know. I keep an antique, folding Raleigh bicycle to remind me that nine-tenths of exercise, like much else in this life, is willpower. The remaining one tenth is the joy that makes it worthwhile. Her poetry appears regularly in newspapers on Vancouver Island. Ms. Burnss other interests include photography, fabric arts, managing Internet services and reading. She is a member of the Federation of BC Writers and is a contributor as well as the editor and publisher of Verve Selected Writings by Valley Women of Words.
Gregory J. Christiano was born in 1947 in Manhattan, NY. His parents settled in the Bronx, giving him the experience and benefit of city life, which is reflected in much of his writing. Published in various magazines, anthologies and journals, his dreams, aspirations and beliefs are expressed through his poetry, stories, essays, editorials, books and movie reviews. He has also written a two-act play and four novellas. His first book, A Night on Mystic Mountain, a collection of poems and short stories, was released in 2005. His second, Conversations From the Past, will be ready for the bookshelves by the end of 2006. Gregory has won many awards for his writing. Among his interests is collecting antique maps, prints, newspapers and ephemera. He now resides in New Jersey, USA, with his wife and three children.
Sally Cook, American artist and poet, lives a reclusive country life with her husband, political cartoonist Bob Fisk, and cats. She has received several scholarships and awards for her writing and painting. Both disciplines nourish each other in Cooks work. Ideas which led her to create a series of portraits of Emily Dickinson have been explored in scholarly journals; her poems and essays are represented in many publications. A recent example is her review of Joseph S. Salemis Masquerade in The University Bookman. Cook keeps a sharp eye out for the psychological portrait. Her present work in both genres may be described as idiosyncratic, representational and colorful. An e-book of her poetry can be seen on the web site of The New Formalist.
Louis John Costanza has written poetry for many years. His work has been published in small anthologies. He is a retired educator who is married and the father of three grown children. Currently residing in South Carolina, USA, he has previously lived in the states of New Jersey and Florida. He writes free verse as well as rhyming, metrical poetry. His literary influences range from Homers Odyssey through Kerouacs On The Road. Jonathan Days original linocut illustrations unify the chapters of this book by their common theme. A self-described army brat, he was born in Austria in 1954, grew up in Alaska, and moved to Oregon in 1972. Day had a varied career, working as a janitor, construction worker, welder, art instructor, cook and baker (among other things) before graduating as an electrical engineer in 1995. He is currently pursuing a Ph.D. in Physics at Oregon State University. His hobbies include astronomy, zoology, reading and science of all sorts. This artists personal website is found at www.thedaydomain.net; and he can be reached via E-mail at the following address: jday74@comcast.net . He is married to ceramic artist Fay Jones Day.
Cynthia Deatherage, PhD., a former university instructor, holds a Doctorate from Purdue University, but it was during her studies at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville, under the guiding eye of Professor Lloyd Kropp, that her love of classical poetry officially emerged on paper. Narrative poetry is her favorite form of classical verse, framing a tale within the confines of rhyme and meter. Currently, Dr. Deatherage resides in Idaho with her husband, two young children, two adult cats, and one artificial Tribble.
Catherine Edmunds was born in Kent, England in 1959, and worked professionally as a violinist for two decades. She turned her hand to writing when disability cut short her musical career. January 2006 saw the publication of her first novel, The Sand in the Painting ISBN: 1-4241- 1168-4. Her poetry and prose have featured in the award winning e-zine, Madaleine, and a number of her poems will be published this year by Gator Springs Gazette. She writes in a wide range of styles, enjoying the discipline of traditional forms as well as the freedom of experimental verse. Catherine has three grown- up children and lives with her husband in north 149 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets east England, where she divides her time between writing, painting, and teaching the violin. Susan Eckenrode. A retired teacher and interior designer, this American poet began writing in 2002. She had no previous experience, but always a desire. She prefers rhymed and metered verse and likes to experiment with various forms. Her husband has recently retired from his second career and they are finally free to travel as the spirit moves them, to visit their daughters and 2 grandchildren, as well as extended family and friends who are scattered throughout the USA. Long hours on the road are prime times for polishing poetic inspirations, which come from many varied sources, such as nature (including human nature), family members and pets. Anna Evans is a former president of the Burlington County Poets of New Jersey, USA, and a founding member of the Quick and Dirty Poets. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals including The Formalist, The Edge City Review, Light Quarterly and Exit 13, as well as e-zines. Her recent prizes include the Jeanette Gottlieb Prize for Poetry, first prize in the Philadelphia Writers Conference, and Writers Digest Award for Best Rhyming Poem. She was a 2005 Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist in the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. She has taught childrens poetry workshops, and is enrolled in a college MFA program in creative writing. Ms. Evans is editor of the formal poetry e-zine The Barefoot Muse. Her first chapbook, Swimming, was published in March 2006 by Powerscore Press. You can visit her home page: home.comcast.net/~evnsanna/poems.htm. The Lal-Jomi was published in Exit 13, April 2005; and Backwards Through Wet Grass in the 74 th
Annual Writers Digest Writing Competition Collection. Lee Evans was born in Annapolis, Maryland, USA in 1950, and grew up in the area. After graduating from college in 1973, he held a variety of jobs such as landscape laborer, floral delivery man, and collection attendant for Goodwill Industries. At 40, he took a clerical position at the Maryland State Archives; and at that time he began writing poetry in earnest. Since then he has published about 60 poems in such magazines as Romantics Quarterly, Contemporary Rhyme, Carnelian, Waterways, and The Golden Lantern. He describes himself as a philosophical contemplative who expresses his meditations in poetry. He lives in Edgewater, Maryland, with his wife and two cats. The poem Sunset, Bar Harbor was inspired by an occurrence several years ago when my wife and I were vacationing in Maine. It was published in Romantics Quarterly. The Weekday Song is based upon an incident recorded in The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evans-Wentz. I was prompted to write it when the Romantics Quarterly journal put out a call for poems relating to the Fairy Kingdom.
Margaret Fieland is a computer software engineer, writer and amateur musician. She lives in Massachusetts with her partner and a large number of dogs. Her poetry has appeared in several anthologies including Christina Surdis Shattering Silence: Reclaiming the Voice of Social Awareness through Poetry and Art and Inkpot Presss InPrint. Two of her poems appeared in the first issue of Gentle Strength. She also says, I play the flute and the piccolo, and I belong to a band, the Freedom Trail Band of Boston (we have a website). Im also a book junkie (I try to restrain myself) and a way-back sci-fi fan: I bought my first sci-fi novel, Robert Heinleins Farmer in the Sky, for my 10th birthday.
Peggy Fletcher. Born in St. Johns, Newfoundland and proud of her east coast heritage, Ms. Fletcher now resides in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada, where she and her husband have recently retired from a small retail business. As a poet, she has five collections of poetry and four chapbooks. A graduate of University of Western Ontario in Visual Arts, she combines an interest in art with her writing ventures. She has won many awards for her work and has taught Creative Writing at Lambton College. Peggy has five grown daughters and many grandchildren.
Patricia Louise Gamache, at the age of 69, lives in Sidney, British Columbia, Canada, where she enjoys retirement. She has worked in many vocations, including banking, psychiatric nursing, 150 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets finance, a womens jail, turkey plucking (for one day!), farming (in Buick, B.C.) and school secretary. Her last job, and the most enjoyable one, she states, was as administrative assistant at the head office of a popular restaurant chain. She has published poetry with Noble House in the U.K. She also had two poems in our previous collection, New Classic Poems. Patricia enjoys gardening, family and friends, shopping, reading, writing and being trained by a cat.
Anne Maarit Ghan grew up in Finland in the 1960s as the youngest of seven children. After graduating from High School, she studied cultural anthropology at Helsinki University, and later, massage therapy at Nursing School of Helsinki. Anne has worked as a tourist information agent, a janitor of a cruise ship, a dancer at the National Theater of Finland, a courier in Sweden, a nanny in the Irish Embassy in Russia, an English tutor in Japan, owned a massage therapy practice in the USA, and has spent the last three years studying in Germany, pursuing work as a freelance writer and translator. She is married to her soul mate, Scott. Together they have raised three children.
Peter G. Gilchrist describes himself as a 49 year old parent, poet and sometimes lawyer who lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. He amuses himself by chronicling his experiences in poetry. His poems in this anthology are simply personal anecdotes drawn from various times in his life. He has had a number of poems published in on- line journals and in print. Some of his other poetry may be viewed at www.pgilchrist.ca.
John Grey, a citizen of Australia, has been writing poetry for 30 years. He likes to compose all kinds of poetry. His work is extensively published: it has appeared recently in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Bellevue Review and Avocet. His most recent book is What Else is There, from Main Street Rag. His other particular interests include music and the cinema.
Max Gutmanns Kindling first appeared in The Formalist.
Jan Harris informs us: I am 49 years old and I live in Nottinghamshire, UK, with David, my husband of 26 years and our son and daughter, Rob and Sarah. I started writing poetry and short stories in 2003, and have been fortunate enough to have several poems published on the internet and in anthologies, including Oxfams Poems for a Better Future and the Open University Poetry Societys Openings 22 anthology. My interests include our animals, vegetarian cookery, web-site design and helping to run Dome 2, an online learning community for writers. I was the editor and web developer on Madelaine, an online magazine of poetry, prose, pictures and recipes. Madelaine was designated a Poetry Landmark of Britain by the UK Poetry Society in 2005.
Dick Hayes says, I am 57 years old, and I live with my wife Hilary in Liverpool, United Kingdom. I work for the Royal Liverpool Hospital as a manager in Information Technology. At school I was taught only about 20th Century writers such as T.S. Eliot; so I discovered the English poetic tradition by chance in my late teens, through having to search out crossword quotations. Inspired by my reading from Elizabethan through to Victorian poetry, I wrote intensively and worked on the craft of metrical composition, learned by imitation. After a break of many years I restarted writing, this time with a more experienced view of life. I have written many poems the first gleanings being Slow Train Passing (a selection of lyrics), in which Trebizond was first published. (Edmonton: New Leaf Works, 2006.) I have several pieces published in magazines, and I won one international poetry competition.
Laura Heidy (Lo) is the mother of three grown children and a former medic from Indiana, USA. She currently resides in Alexandria, VA with fellow poet Dan Halberstein. Laura has been writing poetry for approximately five years, and she prefers to work strictly in form and/or metered verse. Her poetry has appeared in Verse Daily, Raintown Review, Pebble Lake Review, Solares Hill, The Hypertexts, Susquehanna Quarterly and various other publications. Vomiting Jonah appeared in The Hypertexts e- zine, 2005.
Debbie Okun Hill is a new poet who started her writing career as a journalist for a small town 151 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets newspaper. She later became a public relations specialist with The Winnipeg Art Gallery in Manitoba, and Lakehead University and Fanshawe College in Ontario, Canada. A few years ago she returned to college where she completed five additional on-line writing courses. It was here that she discovered the challenges of writing a rondeau, villanelle, sonnet and more. Her poems have already won awards from The Ontario Poetry Society (1 st place in the Haiku Category of No Matter What Shape Your Poems In, 2005 and 5 th place in the Simply Good Poetry Contest, 2005 to name a few) and have appeared in Quills and in anthologies such as The Saving Bannister, Vol. 19; The Writes of Freedom; Unlocking the Muse; Ascent Aspirations Magazine Anthology One; and The Future Looks Bright. Spring Thaw was first published in Winterberry Shadows, Niagara College, Ontario, 2006.
Keith Holyoak, Ph.D., whose essay, What Should a Poem Be Like? appears as the first chapter of this volume, is a poet, translator of classical Chinese poetry, and cognitive scientist. Raised on a dairy farm in British Columbia, Canada., he is currently a Distinguished Professor of Psychology at UCLA. Holyoak has been a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, and is a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. His poems and translations have been published in numerous literary magazines in the US, England, Ireland, Canada and New Zealand, including The London Magazine, Envoi, Candelabrum Poetry Magazine, Orbis, Flaming Arrows, The Lyric, Measure, and Poetry NZ. Recordings of Holyoaks poetry with musical scores are available through Broken Electric Records (www.brokenelectric.com). For other poetry samples, see www.keithholyoak.com. The Private Loves of Mr. and Mrs. Chen was first published in The London Magazine, 2002.
T.S. Kerrigan is a member of the California Bar, a produced playwright, a former theater critic and member of the Los Angeles Drama Critics Circle. His verse has been published in magazines too numerous to mention on both sides of the Atlantic, and in Another Bloomsday at Molly Malones Pub (Laguna 1999) and The Shadow Sonnets and Other Poems (Louisville 2006). Some of his poetry has appeared in the following anthologies: Off the Record (Indianapolis 2004), Garrison Keillors Good Poems (New York 2002), Only Morning in Her Shoes (Logan 1997), From the West of Ireland (Dromlought 1994), and The California Poets Anthology (San Francisco 1986). His poetry is also available on the website The Hyper Texts and in an e-book published by The New Formalist. He was the only living poet on Strolling with the Poets on National Public Radios California Artists Radio Theatre. Lines Written During Pentecost was printed in The Shadow Sonnets and Other Poems, Scienter Press, 2006. Graeme King was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1950. He started writing rhyming poetry when he was about 10 years old, and he remembers having an exercise book full of poems when he was 11. He attended Ivanhoe Grammar School on full scholarship, awarded mainly because of this writing book at primary school! Over the years he wrote only sporadically, but always seemed to write something at least once a year. Almost everything posted on his website, kingpoetry.com, has been written since January 2005. He enjoys music, gardening and fishing in the nearby lakes. While he appreciates all other writers, it is special poems that particularly inspire him, and he reads many contemporary magazines to try to gain inspiration from the efforts of others. He says that he enjoys the freedom of free verse, but there is nothing like putting together a clever rhyme in correct meter that is actually ha-ha funny as well. (We agree!)
LaVonda Krout says, I am a full-time nurse and a part-time writer, genealogist and gardener. I have attended adult writing classes at Indiana University. I have been writing poetry since age eight (Old Man Winter had a splinter ) and have been published by the magazines, Midwest Outdoors, Weeds Corner, Main Channel Voices, and in the anthology, Gardening at a Deeper Level. I live among the limestone hills of southern Indiana, where I raise healthy herbs and chronically ill roses with the assistance of my indulgent husband, bulldog and two despotic Siamese cats.
152 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets Simon Leigh was born in Melbourne, Australia; and he lives with his wife Nenagh, a choreographer, in Toronto, Canada. With degrees from Sydney University, Oxford and The University of New Brunswick, he loves writing, jazz and ski racing, hopes somehow to save the environment, and still believes that Western civilization is worth a try. He taught Business and English at the University of New Brunswick, U. of Toronto, and Seneca College in Toronto (now retired). Publications include two poetry books, dozens of poems and stories, a prize-winning play, and his just-released novel, Wild Women (available from Amazon.ca).
Eric Linden writes: Ive settled in the sunny Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, Canada, after roaming and rambling my fair share throughout life. As a construction electrician, I have seen many beautiful corners of this province. Writing has always been a significant part of my life. While I was living in the interior of B.C., my travelogues appeared weekly in our local newspaper, along with my advertising for the travel industry and real estate. Sometime in 2001, I responded to a competition to write poetry. I didnt win; but began a delightful hobby, spinning off ballads, pantoums, sonnets, and other rhyme and meter verse, as well as the rare bit of free verse. My first book, Lindens Lyre, was printed in 2006. The British Poetry Life and Times, several anthologies and Sonnetto Poesia have printed my works, and my garland about the Halifax Explosion of 1917 was accepted by the National Maritime Museum in Canada.
Irene Livingston won Canadas prestigious Leacock Prize for Poetry in 2001. She began writing for adults in 1998, after starting childrens writing a couple years earlier. She has been published in Canada, USA, England, Australia and New Zealand. Recently she won 2 nd prize in Arc Magazines Poem of the Year contest, and she placed 3 rd for Prairie Fires Bliss Carmen Award. Irene has written a novel, a series of connected short stories with Damon Runyon-like characters, called Down Around the Corners, and a poetry collection. She has created two picture books, Finkelhopper Frog, and its sequel, Finkelhopper Frog Cheers, published by Tricycle Press, Berkeley CA, USA.
Steven Manchester , the father of two sons and a daughter, is the published author of The Unexpected Storm: The Gulf War Legacy, Jacob Evans, A Fathers Love, Warp II and At The Stroke of Midnight, as well as several books under the pseudonym, Steven Herberts. His work has been showcased in such national literary journals as Taproot Literary Review, American Poetry Review and Fresh! Literary Magazine. Steven is an accomplished speaker, and currently teaches the popular workshop Write A Book, Get Published & Promote Your Work. Three of his screenplays have also been produced as films. When not spending time with his children, writing, teaching, or promoting his published books/films, this Massachusetts author speaks publicly to troubled children through the Straight Ahead Program. See: www.StevenManchester.com
James K. McAlister is the youngest author whose poetry appears in this book: he is now 13 years old. He started writing poems a couple years ago at the instigation of his Grade 6 teacher at Trinity College School in Port Hope, Ontario, Canada. James enjoys mathematics, competitive swimming, making music on cello and saxophone, and playing with his sister Zara and his Guinea Pig, Coffee Bear.
Neil Harding McAlister, M.D., Ph.D. (father of James and Zara) lives in Port Perry, Ontario, Canada. He specializes in Internal Medicine, and practices medicine along with his wife, Nazlin, a Family Physician. He is co-author of five previous books, and editor and publisher of this anthology and of its predecessor, New Classic Poems. Dr. McAlisters scientific articles, non- fiction and humor appear in professional and commercial journals. Besides writing, collecting and publishing poetry, his other hobbies include backyard astronomy and composing music. Travel is the impetus for much of his writing. He maintains two Internet sites: Travelers Tales: Contemporary Formal Poetry, and Brigadoonery, for fans of Scottish-Canadian humor.
Zara McAlister, a 17 year old high school senior at Trinity College School in Port Hope, 153 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets Ontario, Canada, enjoys creative writing, travel and fashion. Her poem A Caf in Paris was suggested to her by one summer that she spent in Paris, studying in a French immersion course. Zaras other interests include playing the cello.
Mary McIntosh, at the age of 85, continues to write almost every day. At present shes writing her memoirs based on a five-year diary she kept (and still has) when a teenager from 1935-1939. As time doth fly, she says, shes focused on getting this completed. A short writing-related story with a photo of herself was published in Bylines 2006 Writers Desk Calendar. The week allocated to her was April 2-8, so at least she avoided April Fools Day! Recently she placed third in an on-line writing contest with her story, Mondays With My Mother. She was recently voted secretary of a large writing group that she attends each Saturday. Some of her work previously appeared in New Classic Poems.
Mary E. Moore, M.D., Ph.D. obtained a doctorate in Psychology while working as a research assistant in the Sociology Department at Rutgers University. She then attended medical school at Temple University, later specializing in Internal Medicine and Rheumatology and joining Temples medical faculty where she rose to the rank of Professor. Her last teaching post was at Albert Einstein Medical Center in Philadelphia, where she headed the Division of Rheumatology. Through the years, Dr. Moore had occasionally written poetry, but she only started to do it seriously after retirement in 2003. She says that the main difficulty she has encountered in this endeavor has been in encouraging the expression of the right side of her brain after neglecting it for most of her life. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Mbius, Raintown Review and in two anthologies.
Michael Milligan is a native of Westerville, Ohio, USA; but he currently lives in New York, where he is a professional actor. In addition to poetry he has also written many plays including an adaptation of Jack Londons The Sea Wolf. He is currently writing a drama based on the myth of Phaeton, written in verse. He trained as an actor at the Julliard School, and has since been seen at Shakespeare Festivals around the United States. He has also performed with the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford, England. In New York, Michael performed Will Enos one man show, Thom Pain, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Michael is director of sales for New West Knifeworks, a Wyoming-based company founded by his brother. Other interests include playing the Celtic Harp and practicing martial arts.
Ellen Birkett Morris is a writer based in Louisville, Kentucky, USA. She has contributed to six anthologies, including The Writing Group Book (Chicago Review Press) and Hidden Kitchens (Rodale). Her poetry has appeared in The Heartland Review, The Pedestal Magazine 2004 Political Anthology, and it was the Editors Choice in The Binnacles Ultra-Short Edition in 2004 and 2005.
Steven Parlato, who lives in Waterbury, CT, USA, with his wife Janet and their children, Ben and Jillian, is pleased to make his international print debut in Rhyme and Reason. He has previously published in the poetry journal, Freshwater 2006. Steven holds a B.F.A. from the University of Connecticut, and he is a recent graduate of Wesleyan University where his focus was creative writing. A graphic design instructor at Naugatuck Valley Community College, Steven has worked as a professional actor, freelance illustrator and quality manager. He is currently nearing completion of his first novel.
Carl Reinholt, retired office supply company owner and high school music teacher, has been a pillar of his community of Kirkland Lake, Ontario for decades. Among other civic duties, he has been President of the Kirkland District Chamber of Commerce, the local golf club and the local chapter of the Heart and Stroke Foundation. He has held numerous positions in the Shrine Club, the Masonic Lodge and his church. Musically Carl remains very active as first trumpet and musical director of the Churchill Drive Swing Band. His poem, The Jump, recalls his passion for track and field during his own high school days in Kirkland Lake. His daughter, Lindsay, keeps up the family tradition of musicianship.
Sally Ann Roberts was born in Fresno, California, but raised in southern 154 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets Oregon. At 7, Sally fell in love with the zany antics of Dr. Seuss. (Her favorite: The Cat in the Hat.) Yearning to write poetry was very strong, but obtaining the knowledge and opportunities to research the many poets she sought was a great challenge. Sallys teachers were a disappointment throughout her school life. Their discouragement, rather than encouragement to reach goals and realize her writing abilities, left Sally misled and confused. At 19 she found the works by: Edgar Allen Poe. (Her favorite: The Bells) Poes poems are rather different from those of Dr. Seuss -- and the spark of inspiration was reborn. Now age 50, Sally, her husband James and their seven year old daughter, Sarah Jean, live in historic Wolf Creek, Oregon, where Sally continues to write poetry. Prairie Whispers first appeared in a chapbook, Under the Streetlights. A community of Poets Collection Vol. 2, Shadows Ink, 2003.
Daphne Rock, a poet from the U.K., wrote her first poem at age six. She is now aged 78 and still writing. She is currently exploring positive poetry for older people dealing with ageing and death. She grew up in wartime England, leaving school at 16 and later training for teaching and social work.. At age 50 Ms. Rock began to take writing seriously: Peterloo Poets published her collection, Waiting for Trumpets, in 1998. She produced poetry pamphlets about Derbyshire lead miners, South Wales and the Industrial Revolution, and the almost-unknown Isle of Sheppey. She received a London Arts Board Award in 2000. She says, I am happiest writing about locations with history and the interaction of people and places. Subject dictates form: I love rhyme and strict form, but dont use it very frequently. The poem published in this anthology was written after visiting a British Museum exhibition of sculpture: I wanted to combine sociological, visual and musical aspects. Ms. Rock is an amateur geologist and a mother of five who also works with disadvantaged teenagers.
Joseph S. Salemi, Ph.D. is a widely-published scholar, translator and poet whose work has appeared in over 80 journals in the U.S. and abroad. He has published three books of poetry, Formal Complaints and Nonsense Couplets from Somers Rocks Press; and the recent Masquerade from Pivot Press. He is the recipient of several literary honors including the Classical and Modern Literature Award and a National Endowment for the Humanities Fellowship. He is currently at work on a book-length poetic satire of modern American habits titled A Gallery of Ethopaths: Twenty sections have been published in various journals. Salemi is the associate editor of the magazine Iambs and Trochees, and a regular reviewer and essayist for the Expansive Poetry and Music On-Line website. He teaches in the Classics Department of Hunter College in New York City. The Sergeants Warning first appeared in Light Quarterly, Winter 2004-5.
Jeannine Schiavoni. Since childhood, Jeannine has been part of the Creative Arts Movement, initially beginning with painting, while exploring the literary venues by composing silly poems and stories, and illustrating each with accompanying, scribbled drawings. These days, this singer- songwriter-musician-poet serves in her community as a long term preschool educator, utilizing the written word to promote literacy programs for children, while combining poetry with art and music as enrichment tools and entertainment. Poems, including The Spring That Never Was and Dying Things have received awards in the Robert Frost - Eagle Tribune Poetry Competition, based in Lawrence, Massachusetts, while other titles have been included in various publications over the span of several years. Although her writing styles include an eclectic mix of form and pattern, she regards the traditional use of meter and rhyme as the true, unyielding foundation for the written word. She seeks to preserve its standing in many of her own compositions. Jeannine is currently in the process of completing her collection of poems, stories and other, related works for publication.
Dawn Sinclair: Dawn is the name I adopted for writing poetry early in my career as an online poet, although I have been penning poems for more than 40 years, since age 13. Ive added new formats to my repertoire but I have abiding fondness for formalist poetry -- classical style in particular. Ive had a few poems published by poetry magazines and in anthologies, but it is as an on-line poet that I am better known. I was administrator / moderator on several 155 Rhyme and Reason About the Poets websites but for the past year Ive owned my own poetry site, Born Poets. Apart from poetry, I enjoy success as a lyricist and have also written a couple of novels which have yet to be published. Married for 36 years, I have two children and two grandsons, aged three and six. My husband supports my literary efforts so that I no longer need to earn a living myself.
E. Russell Smith was born in Toronto, Canada in 1933, and was educated at McGill University in Montreal. Since 1960 he has lived in Ottawa, where he taught high school before completing an M.A. in English and taking writing as his full- time occupation. His work has appeared in newspapers and literary magazines across Canada, in the United Kingdom and in India. In addition to feature writing, he has published two novels, a collection of short stories and two volumes of poetry, mostly lyric. His most recent book of poetry is Spring Garland, a collaboration with Stratford wood engraver Gerard Brender Brandis. (Buschek Books, Ottawa, 2005.) He is a member of the League of Canadian Poets and the Writers Union of Canada.
smzang (pen name of poet Sarah M. Zang) lives in West Virginia, USA. Her poems have appeared in many on-line and print journals including Subtle Tea, YaSou!, A Poetic Village, Kookamonga Square, Wordflair, Muse Whispers, New Classic Poems and others. She is the keeper of the key at the Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers. Her source of inspiration is nature, and the relationship of the seasons to the seasons of human life.
Gerry Spoor writes: Im 52 years old, and live in a small rural village in upstate NY, USA, about two hours north of New York City. Im employed as a National Sales Manager for a company which manufactures packaging film for the food and beverage industry. I began writing poetry about 15 years ago, and now along with tennis and playing the piano, it has become one of my avocations. Ive always preferred metered poetry, more in line with those poets from the late Nineteenth to early Twentieth Century. My topics range from nature, to romance to humor.
Joanne Underwood, a Canadian poet, is a founding member of the Calgary-based "wordweavers" writing group. Her poetry has appeared in the Sails to Calgary edition of the literary magazine, Peter F. Yacht Club, and at the Powell River Writers Festival. This wife and mother has been a flight attendant, a teacher, a Boy Scout leader and a home renovator. Writing gets squeezed into odd moments when her husband is out of town, which, she says, (un)fortunately happens a fair bit! Joannes poems are often based around family members.
Aaron Wilkinson, an aspiring novelist and a proud Canadian from North Bay, Ontario, says that he finds poetry to be the best way to unwind after a full day of wearing the devils shackles, helping people in customer service. Words can always be counted on to play nicer than any single person calling him for assistance. It should, however, be noted that he handles even the most irate callers with the same ease and skill as formal rhyme and meter. He is currently working on a new piece that expresses the varied concerns he has about the people calling on him for help every day. His notebook travels with him wherever he goes, just in case.
Vincent W. Williams advises, I was born when I was still quite young, as was also my twin sister. We do have different balding patterns: she has almost no facial hair. I had the usual childhood experiences: kicking dogs, worshipping cult leaders, trying on clothes at Victorias Secret, etc. But, not all of my formative years were so happy, by any means. For example: I have had numerous performance experiences; one of the most recent being that of acting the role of one of the three kings who rode camels and brought gifts to the baby Jesus at Christmas time. The camel I was riding was, sorry to report, a crusty, bad- tempered beast. He threw me off his hump and knocked me frankincenseless. Although there is much more to divulge, let me simply say I am excessively old, married, and we have two sons, both of whom are married and learning the world on their own.
156 Rhyme and Reason Index of First Lines
Index of First Lines
A man sets goals, and struggles to achieve 40 A pallid, panting page appeared and said, 135 A poet who is cursed with sinful pride, 111 A rocky desert stretches far 25 A single ant is harmless. 145 A turtle labors very hard 145 All offices are similar, it seems -- 35 Amazing how well make-up hides his age, 114 An ancient enemy have I, 18 As March winds sear through field and town, 49 As seasons change, and autumn comes ablaze 48 As the telltale heart was beating, 93 Astride the nook where branch and trunk embrace, 54 Away, away I burst! 63
Because he is the older of the two, 108 Begging mail, intrusive calls 142 Behind his makeup, look and you will find 49 Beneath the Celtic cross the morning chill 30 Blackie was missing, and Jane in a state. 132
Chilling as a play by Pinter; 43 Come Children, hear the ocean sigh 69 Come join me at the thrift store, where rank on rank youll see 112 Consternation: Out again! 137 Curtains of rain slide apart to expose 48
Dark clouds oppress the Valley of the Sun. 40 Daughter, close the blinds! cried Mrs. Chen 128 DaVinci painted La Gioconda 143
Feverfew protects unseen 110 From pounding hooves 80 From time to time it can occur to me 129
Girls and boys still dance to music 50 Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile. 32 Grey as the ash from a toppled urn 24
157 Rhyme and Reason Index of First Lines
Had a bug, in my computer; 138 Hard where the ocean beats the sand, 82 He sprawls before the television set: 120 Here, in this leafy place, 20 His Antony before the war 103 How futile is his proudest boast, 61 How sweet the sound of whispered sighs 125
I climbed the stairs with heavy heart, 105 I cry aloud to warn the crew; 62 I drove on at a steady pace. 52 I have nothing to think of and nothing to do; 18 I hear the music played today, 58 I looked at my face 139 I pen these lines to Sally now whose looks are past compare; 147 I recognize the face I knew so well 121 I seek the strongest image I can find 109 I watch my world through poets eyes 111 I watched the moon on purple hill 96 I wonder why the household fly, 145 If the Bing Bang theory is true 136 Ill never wonder when Im dead 54 In a rusty, battered dumpster 21 In halcyon hospitality 68 In spring when I was just a girl 56 In the halcyon days of air travel 134 It seems I'm not communicating well. 129 It takes a hard-nosed kind of man 66 It was the hunting season when the Earl upon his horse 97 Its funny how bravado bolts 71 Its midnight now, its time to go to bed 147
Kindly gods do not subsist 36
Late last night I talked to Mount Olympus, 98 Let me be sorry, let me take the blame; 114 Let us go back to the black and white world 55 Lets go to the Metro zoo! 102 Listen it lies soft upon the air. 95 Loose, loose every sail to the breeze, 60 Love, before the children thinned your hair 47
Marmota monax was his name 53 My daughter has a guinea pig, 140 My mind swims in you 125
Now piping down the setting of the sun, 67
O that I were Prometheus on a stone! 24 O, when I left Scotland long years ago 72 Oh corn hull, spinach, other dross, 136 158 Rhyme and Reason Index of First Lines Oh Shakespeare! Must I live forever blank 23 Olden houses seem to know 41 On barren rocks stroked by the tide 60 Once again new dawn awakens 44 Once upon a more skilful time 58 Only from a suitor worldly wise 127 Our gleaming, new canoes glide off from shore, 38 Ours was the world; you tossed them your bouquet 119 Outside the day was bleak and cold, and winter reigned supreme; 100
Paris Hilton 136
Reflections dance on a glistening stage 48 Remember when as kids wed sit around 79
She sits upon her Grandpas knee, 94 She works as a model 117 Shining ever, hope of love eternal, 123 Six weeks or less, the doctor warned Touch and go give or take 42 Smog alerts and acid rain 26 So where on earth could a missing sock go? 141 Spring cleaning time! Emerged from winters slump 46
Tell me truly, if you please, 145 That April, morning etched our room with light -- 123 That honeymoon in June was over soon; 119 That night we sank inside our coats while dodging fierce December snow 28 That Quality might dare to take a Trade 130 The centipede, dont you suppose 145 The court considers senior counsels pleas 101 The day his girlfriends father let him cut 126 The dress is long and satiny and blue. 116 The frantic pace of summer ends 51 The goldfish life is sad, alas. 145 The hunchback hobbled homeward 81 The janitor who mops the floor 29 The noisy crowd fell silent, 70 The other day our furnace died -- 144 The photos in our album havent changed, 118 The reading done they left at four; 127 The shadow of the willow by the moon 79 The snake who doesnt chew her food 145 The sonnet has its uses, though I doubt 107 The swollen-bellied spider must have spun 27 The wheel affords mobility 106 The winged horse in waiting flies 92 The year is 1520. Rival kings, 33 There are strange things done by my husbands mum when that gal decides to cook; 133 They wander down in search of food each year 45 This Jersey fall, the unrelenting rain 122 Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls, 137 Through the blue and frosty heavens 22 To scratch, to scrape, to caterwaul with ease; 146 159 Rhyme and Reason Index of First Lines Trainee on a software project 124
Unless I draw or sculpt or write 101 Up at the clubhouse every Wednesday night 34
We cross our bridges day-by-day 112 We spoke our last good-bye in Winnipeg 118 Well now Im on the Internet, Im up til late at night, 104 What separated Shakespeare from the herd 19 When I unlatch the dryers door, 141 When Im worn by obligations and run down by expectations 64 When lilacs lick the April morning air 39 When shadows creep across the churchyard lawn 74 When snowman sags, slips, spills to lake 50 When time is kind and makes of me its own -- 36 When tossing grenades, you must follow some rules; 107 With both our spouses still asleep indoors, 126
Michael A. Knibb, Edward Ullendorff The Ethiopic Book of Enoch - A New Edition in The Light of The Aramaic Dead Sea Fragments (Vol. 1 - Text and Apparatus & Vol. 2 - Introduction, Translati