Becky Alexander...12

Maureen Applegate...6

Elizabeth Bodien,,,14

Von S. Bourland...11

Michael Bourgo...7

Selma Calnan...16

Gail Denham...10

Marilyn Downing...2

Lynn Fetterolf...17

Deborah Filanowski...4

Ann Gasser...3

Mark Hudson...9

Inge Logenburg Kyler...18

Emiliano Martin...19

Marie-Louise Meyers,,,15

Jacqueline Moffett ..5

Henry Spottswood...13

Lucille Morgan Wilson...8

FebruaryFebruaryFebruaryFebruary2012012012018888

1.

(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors

28 lines or less,

formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,

and other shared images.

PPS members are invited to submit.

Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received

Target date for sending out—10th of each month

“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..)

HOME NEVER WAS A PLACE

—by Marilyn Downing

“I learned – at last – what Home could be”

—Emily Dickinson

If childish wishes were houses,

I might have lived in a white cottage

with green shutters, Priscilla curtains,

trellised roses, a picket fence, smoke curling up

from the chimney toward a blue sky,

fluffy white clouds and V-shaped birds.

But that white cottage never left

its two-dimensional art paper on

my grade school desk.

Three states, five towns, dwellings of various

sizes and shapes, and seven decades later,

I found it takes a lifetime to finally

understand home has never been a place ….

Each house has taught me what it knows …

Home is what I took with me in moves

from place to place, house to house …

Home is constructed of memories, more

intricately designed, more lasting than

wood or stone or bricks, green shutters,

trellises and picket fences, or wisps of smoke

curling from a fireplace chimney.

Within this present house I have my home,

solid, multi-dimensional memories of family life …

“What Home could be” it has become.

2.

3.

TO THE BOY WHO DUMPED ME

WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN

—by Ann Gasser

I thought of you today.

It happens sometimes

when a golden oldie program on the radio

plays "our" ancient song,

or when I see young lovers

walking hand in hand.

This time the thought

was triggered by a phone call,

a voice I barely recognized,

saying, "I am Wendy,

we were best friends in Tenth Grade—

Do you remember me?”

As she spoke, and words came tumbling out

like fugitives from Pandora's box,

I thought of some dysfunctional guest on “Dr. Phil.”

I listened as she said she is back in town after all these years,

no husband, five kids, the oldest sixteen.

She is working as an LPN in a nursing home,

taking courses when she can, to earn a B.S. in nursing.

We reminisced for a while, and she asked about you—

(she had introduced us, if you recall..)

I told her how you had dumped me soon after she moved away—

how I found the love of my life, my fulfilling career.

(For which I shall always be

overwhelmingly, ecstatically, eternally grateful

to you and to the guardian angel

who watches over me.)

4.

THE SAGA OF THE COHO SALMON

WHICH SWIMS UPSTREAM

AGAINST THE CURRENT

AGAINST THE ODDS

DODGING HUNGRY PREDATORS

CIRCUMVENTING OBSTACLES

ALL FOR THE RESERVATION

OF THE SPECIES

—by Deborah Filanowski

The Coho salmon swims hundreds of miles

spreads its sperm and dies.

And you won’t even get me another glass of wine.

photo fromFlyLife Magazine

5.

MOMENTS IN TIME

—by Jacqueline Moffett

tick tock, tick tock, when you are very young,

passage of time is not a daily concern

high school, college, marriage, new job, children,

these are major items of anxiety.

Important scenes flash through your mind,

but you are busy providing a living for your family,

every hour must be productive.

tick, tock…

when grandchildren are born, family and friends

become more precious,

events and happenings of yesteryear seem current.

How we love to reminisce.

Is this behavior normal?

Yes, it is…

our fondest memories return once again

to make us smile.

tick, tock…we now have the time.

6.

GOING HOME

—by Maureen Applegate

We stepped into our Brigadoon,

fifty years within the fog

of family tales and photo books...

our linking bridge just concrete roads,

arrow straight between the rows

of drying corn, small round barns...

and windmills waving lazy arms.

Two grand dames on county seats

still hold court on old town squares,

and vintage houses still remain with

schoolyards, fair grounds, church remains

attesting to the lives and deaths

that fifty years cannot divest.

But mist returns to cloak the years

and we must leave hometowns again.

Just one day to reminisce...

just one day... now time insists

we leave the past well guarded and

take just our memories... sharp again.

photo fom Internet Wiki MHSrebuilt.jpg

THE POET’S LAMENT

—by Michael Bourgo

Writing verse is never easy

when form must take its rightful part:

rhyme and meter make me queasy.

Perfect lines may seem too breezy

when I would aim for soul and heart:

writing verse is never easy.

Stanzas often come off lazy,

mere phrases from a greeting card:

rhyme and meter make me queasy.

Those thoughts once clear now ring hazy:

what came so close will miss the mark.

Writing verse is never easy.

Often words sound far too busy,

an artifice become too smart:

rhyme and meter make me queasy.

Crafting poems leaves me dizzy,

for sirens sing within this art.

Writing verse is never easy:

rhyme and meter make me queasy.

7.

NON-REFILLABLE

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

There is cause to mourn

for a pen

that has written its last words

an instrument from which once

vibrant bold characters

flowed in scribbles and scrolls

almost without hand’s volition

now mute

its final efforts a fading a w a y

then nothing . . .

. . .nothing . . .

and dying with it

the untold stories

of yesterday and tomorrow

of all the tomorrows

8.

Silograph Corsani

9.

THOSE CARDS

—by Mark Hudson

I stood at the post office and waited my turn;

I had nothing but lots of time to burn.

In front of me, a mother placed her order,

behind her, her daughter was young and shorter.

The woman was in front of me in line,

and the little girl looked at valentines.

They have those cards out a month in advance,

they don't want anyone missing their chance!

The mom said, "Honey, we have to go,"

The girl said, "There's a valentine I want to show,"

So the mom patiently stopped to take a view,

and the child must've known that love is true.

The child was so cute, as children always are,

and Valentine's day cads are sent near and far!

clip-art by mzayat.com

10.

GET REAL

—by Gail Denham

I speed past the dumb displays

with the skeleton-look mannequins

who sport the latest bosom-baring

styles, which could never show what

isn’t there anyway on those paper-thin,

sightless examples; someone’s misguided

ideas of what the ideal figure ought to be.

The shops ignore the normal droopy-boobed,

ample-hipped women like me, who turn their

eyes from those scarecrow shadows, while

they head toward the large woman’s

size DD cup, 2X rack, after they stop for

a small chocolate fudge brownie

with ice cream and nuts.

photo by Gail Denham

AN UNENDING TALE

—by Von S. Bourland

Caught in her amber bridal veil –

encircling glow of honey hue –

the silver moon appears quite pale

like death’s white horse. A fingernail

of light that shimmers casts the view

caught in her amber bridal veil.

Her swain, deep twilight, where stars fail

to show, wears garb of velvet – blue.

The silver moon appears quite pale

like noontime clouds which seem to Braille

their way across the sky – milieu

caught in her amber bridal veil.

Their wedding songs resound travail

while bride and groom dread morning’s dew.

The silver moon appears quite pale.

Their plight is an unending tale –

each daybreak they must bid adieu.

Caught in her amber bridal veil

11.

photo by Glenn Gasser,

Jensen Beach, FL

AGAINST THE HEADWIND II

—by Becky Alexander

Today, I am a raven

caught in a headwind;

bereft of feathers, and hollow bones,

I cannot pull free from earth’s draw;

only in dreams can I beat doctrined laws

of physics, only in dreams real as red

can I find wings to beat

the concrete chains of science.

.

© B. Alexander, June 24, 2005

12.

WHAT’S THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?

—by Henry Spottswood

Need I be so serious

about it, this nagging effort

at writing yet another poem?

It’s all been said before, the same

or similar tropes, phrases, allusions,

down to the homeliest worn syllables.

My secret, face it, hope for fame,

drop a stone down the well again:

it’s been said – but not by me.

13.

photo from thegilding.com

14.

HYPE AND STRUGGLE

—by Elizabeth Bodien

No, I can’t tell you, you already know, whisper it in your walk

coming late from the street, swiggling, swaggering,

you fall down, call the spirits

they wait it out

pull your whisper walk down, your oogly eyes in

hide that practiced drawl in your raggedy pocket

whose heart did you break tonight?

what red moon did you claim?

set your shoes down as you set to sleep

they will not go without you

all the night you will toss as if your dreams

were answered by some bigger bargain

crawl up, climb back

into the womb, the forgetting

now is not the day’s hype and struggle

now is when you, even you, submit

NEEDLECRAFT

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

The steady click and clack of needles

breaks the monotony of the clock ticking.

A kind of security written in the woven wool

wound round fingers like a bargaining tool,

inundating the mind with a patterned lift

held together by a Chain stitch

or skipping around while holding fast

to the memories of the past.

Whiling away the hours, drifting,

instead of the dread of everyday realities,

the image of patience and forbearing witness

but soon gathering momentum and vision

for some who never notice the painstaking

precision,

but feel the fullness and warmth of extension,

wrap-around sentiments,

the embodiment of self

off on a solitary raft of needlecraft

for peace of mind which takes us,

without blinders,

without the daily torque that breaks us.

15.

painting by Jozeph Israels 1824-1911

16.

A ROMEO OF THE SENIOR CENTER

—by Selma Calnan

To anyone behind him in the lunch line

his bald, round dome with wisp fringe

ironically resembled a friar’s tonsured head.

Face to face, you can see

his hair has slipped forward

to form one eyebrow, long and luxurious

like a sleepy English sheepdog.

The regulars know better.

They watch him pause,

survey the pickings

from behind his hirsute duck blind.

He morphs into a cruising bull yak—

pauses—then slowly lumbers forward

toward the unwary target of the day.

Too late she realizes she’s his prey.

from her book

“Poems Worth A Second Look”

(1939 to 2017)

HOUSE HUNTING

—by Lynn Fetterolf

Somebody lives in each house by the road.

Their lighted windows beckon.

Somebody’s dreams are encased in those walls

the place they’ve turned into a home.

Somebody sits in their favorite chair

and reads from a favorite tome.

Somebody’s flowers bloom by the gate,

their green trees are stretching tall.

Somebody’s waiting for someone to come.

They’ll hurry to answer the call.

When you pass by any house in the road,

smile as you go on your way.

For somebody’s filled each house with love.

And there’s one where you’re welcome to stay.

17.

18.

TWO SISTERS

—by Inge Logenburg Kyler

Years ago

on the junior high school stage

two cousins being in different classes

passed a big shiny tuba

to each other,

for the spring concert

under the proud eyes

of their mothers

who were sisters.

Later, in the concert of life

one of the youths became a navigator

refueling bombers in a war

while the other worked

in United States Embassies

throughout the world

that other bombers

tried to destroy.

The two sisters, again,

watched, listened,

hoped and prayed.

19.

THE MORE OF HER

—be Emiliano Martin

I woke up this morning

and felt the early rays of the sun

softly...

caressing my mood.

That light and warmth

did not come through

the windows

but the fingers of her attitude.

Slowly...

I bathed in her image

I soaked in her words

to dry off by instinct

and ready to love

everything about her.

The way that she treats me

her kissing... and more.

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

February2012012012018888

Ann Gasser...22

Inge Logenburg Kyler...26

Prabha Nayak Prabhu...28

Constance A. Trump...29

Lucille Morgan Wilson...25

20.

Becky Alexander...30

Maureen Applegate...23

Michael Bourgo...24

Gail Denham...27

Marilyn Downing..21

Lynn Fetterolf...28

TRAVEL TALE IN THE NEWSPAPER

—by Marilyn Downing

Airlines try to meet a passenger’s needs

when an adjacent seat is bought.

But according to the daily newspaper

one passenger’s wish came to naught.

Imagine the scene at a Delta flight gate

when a woman caused quite a shock,

insisting she paid for the seat next to hers

for her therapy pet – a full-sized peacock.

Delta Airlines would not accommodate

a feathered passenger with a six-foot tail.

The woman was told in very clear terms

her therapy pet plea would not prevail.

Don’t you wonder what the sequel will be:

a court case waged against the airline

to pay for a woman’s psychiatric distress

if her therapy pet had to stay behind.

21.

photo from WHYY

22.

FEBBRRRRRRRUARY

—by Ann Gasser

My feet keep slipping, my nose is dripping,

and sleet stings like little ice bees.

Now snow is snowing, a bitter wind's blowing,

forecasters predict more deep freeze.

I think I know what is going on,

I have lived through these cycles before.

Mother Nature is showing us SHE is in charge

and she's thumbing her nose at Al Gore.

23.

THE REFUND?

—by Maureen Applegate

There is no such thing as a Tax Return

for people in my situation.

A return implies that something’s come home

(with home as its destination.)

My neighbors have waited quite patiently

for me to replace the eye-sore

of my bent over lamp post, taped window screens,

and handle-less rusty screen door.

This year’s return will take care of these three

and pay for new brakes on the car.

I might even purchase an oven that works

(of course if it stretches that far!)

I WILL do my best with the refund to come

to keep the economy spry,

to “return the return” to more taxes and goods…

and the rest of the year just get by!

24.

NEW JERSEY (THE 3RD STATE, 1788)

—by Michael Bourgo

New Jersey is a crowded place—

a lot of souls without much space,

and as I read in one profile,

more than a thousand each square mile!

Long ago in a war with our royal boss,

when it was feared our cause was lost—

two victories in northern Jersey

proved our cause was still most worthy!

In its past were country charms:

fertile fields on pretty farms,

where grew the food for New York City—

but now the ambience is gritty!

Refining oil can be quite crude

and handling bets can spoil your mood,

but Jersey folk know how to chill:

it’s just their job and not a thrill,

and if it’s how your home gets bacon,

you’d better not be belly-achin’!

25.

IT’S CLEAR TO ME NOW

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

When in the midst of night I wake . . .

I’ll make quick notes . . .now where’s my pad--

lest inspiration slip my grasp,

the greatest thought I’ve ever had.

Excitement holds more sleep at bay.

till finally, with royalties,

fans’ calls and letters stacking high,

I hug my pillow, take my ease.

Then dawns the morning’s ruthless light

upon my midnight scrawl.

I’ll neither Frost nor Kipling be;

handwriting’s on the bedroom wall.

26.

GREAT GRANDDAUGHTER’S

4TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

—by Inge Logenburg Kyler

She banged the drum and marched the hall

and wobbled, trying not to fall.

The bright blue roller skates were new

and meant to strap on any shoe.

Her little sister tagged along

and sang into her horn, a song.

I stored the scene within my mind,

this best of treasure I could find.

FEAR THE JOWLS

—by Gail Denham

Bassett hound, his jowls a-drip

barks as though your limbs he’d rip,

while his soulful eyes belay

his dire threat to make you prey

27

photo by Gail Denham

WISHFUL THINKING

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

There once was a woman from Mali

Who wished to marry Mohammed Ali

She was badly shaken

When she heard he was taken

Screamed, “I’ll see I get Salvador Dali.”

28.

photo freom artsology

HERE'S THE PLAN, STAN!

—by Constance A.Trump

Punxsutawney Phil

should be road kill,

his eyes are failing him;

another 6 weeks of

freezing my cheeks

makes life look mighty grim.

Round up the old coot

and give him the boot,

before its too late to act;

so Ground Hog day

will no more delay

29.

28.

A TICKLE OF MAUVE

—by Becky Alexander

A tickle of mauve!

Now that’s quite a title,

I’ll keep working on it

‘til I get it rightl.

The best of the bunch

is the royal of purple,

so splendid and regal,

especially grape slurple.

And mauve, the pale sister

in this colour tribe,

is the candy cane winner

of this poem I scribe.

So go flaunt your greens,

and your oranges and blues,

for a tickle of mauve

rings the bell of my muse!

TRUE LOVE

—by Lynn Fetterolf

When I am told the magic never ends

My skepticism warns me, just stay friends.

That moon in June malarkey’s just a rhyme

Has nothing much to do with endless time.

Great singers croon, and poets add a line.

I think the facts have more to do with wine

Than any truth I have been privy to.

True love stays true as long as it is new.

It rarely lasts beyond when mating’s game

Fires both of you with passion’s fickle flame.

The longer romance lasts, the weaker gets.

I may be long in tooth and graying, yet

Should some handsome rogue ask me to marry,

I’d not be averse to cupid’s arrow.

29.