National Poetry Month

2011

A Sprinkle of

Napkin-Pocket Poems

Quick Sale

While shopping through my dreams,

I found these words on a clearance rack

marked “Reduced for Quick Sale:”

Poetry, like the first breath of morning,

is not for capturing or squandering—

rather for sharing, like friends breaking bread.

                    —Loretta Diane Walker

 

Ice Storm

Late March and bits of ice

descend

on this rain spattered evening.

The trees conceal their buds,

holding back false promises of spring.

           —Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

Sculpture

From the library window,

I watch the moving circles

on long metal arms—they arc slowly

in the spring rain—first to the left,

then to the right, dazzle my eyes

until I think it is my imagination.

Perhaps sitting across from me,

you are an illusion too, writing

quietly, head bent in concentration.

        —Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

Adieu to March

I will not miss you,

unraveling from

my embryonic winter's nap,

the winter ice slowly drip-dripping

from my old bones,

I rise, stretch, and face the sun,

inhale the fragrance of blessed April.

                  ©Judith A. Lawrence

almost midnight

the cries of geese homebound

hours after curfew

Easter dawn

the Arctic chapel decked out

in white snow flowers

Inuit Easter

little girls' parkas covered

with new flowered prints

                —Dorothy McLaughlin

                   

late snow

falling in spring

I also linger

not eager for endings

or convinced of rebirth

as spring begins

tree branches splay crooked

from winter storms

I draw from their bent struggles

permission for my own

                    —Elizabeth Bodien

To Celebrate National Poetry Month in April

Sprinkle your pocket

poems all over the land,

in library books, in cafes,

on buses, in church, at the office, on trains, planes, attached to your email, anywhere you can tuck a poem to be found.

What are pocket poems?  Short-short poems that

fit on a scrap of paper, a napkin, or cut in squares, small enough to fit in a pocket. 

Email me your best short pocket poem, and I will

share them on our website for the month of April.

judithlawrence@verizon.net

National Poetry Month

is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the

Academy of American

Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of

poetry, to living poets,

to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of

wide aesthetic range

and concern.

Shooting Range

Spring is a green rifle, locked and loaded.

Pull the trigger:  a scatter shot of violets

splays the ground.  Bleeding hearts drip

on the lawn, a virulent green that hurts

the eyes.  The bees are unbuttoning

the apple trees’ silk blouses, and the air

reeks with desire.  Even the muzak of bird

song, all arioso, is saying, “Come

here, baby.  Ravish me.”

                     (first published in Alba)

                            —Barbara Crooker

Even

And now the long days

held up in comparison to lesser ones

migrating cranes stay over

down by the creek

it’s faith that carries them

and all of us to warmer things.

                   —L. Ward Abel

Tea Pot

Your shape always pregnant

warm to the touch

steaming, caressing

your fluids re-invigor me.

               —Peter D. Goodwin

Uninvited

Sweeping rain wet patio leaves,

a mud brown surprise

slithers off indignantly.

What rain failed to wash away,

my broom will not let stay.

                     —Leo Juarez

In Spite of Superficiality

Yet--Light is coming out to the surface

of my Whole body.  I look down

at my hand and see it

Shining through.

It is exploding out of the ends of

My hair and out of the tips of my nipples. 

I get up in the morning and how

the room is lonely.

I become involved with the burial

of shy people.

                      —Gloria del Vecchio

Haves

even lying down, a sea

of pine, red

birds, crickets

and your hands, the feel of

waking up in the

morning

bursting with haves

                          —lyn lifshin

Dreams

I am fifty-six years old

and have awakened

from many a beautiful dream.

Have cursed the breaking days

and dressed myself, weeping.

Know  this, as I twist

your sleeping hair around my fist.

                             —C.P.Stewart
(Considering the Lilies published by Wordsonthestreet Publishers,Galway, Ireland).               

At Whit’s End

I spare no words

to rhyme or reason.

But words too obtuse

are a poet’s treason.

                   —Neal Whitman

Writing the World

A river washes over me

in its spring rush

I inhale early morning mist

Immerge with open eyes

A trout slides over my belly

I follow the rainbow

Swim in its ripple wake

I am a single drop of water

                           —Ellaraine Lockie

On The Death of a Poet Friend

The shrill cry of Lorca rings out in the night

Jazz notes loud as thunder burst the

Eardrums like artillery fire

The four walls closing in

like a police dragnet

Poets are like butterflies

Spreading their wings

Reshaping the stars the universe

Cosmic matter waiting to be reborn

                                          —A.D. Winans

In a Leathered Web

I’ve been chasing summer
since sometime last September,
but today
I snared it in a leathered web;
just reached out and caught it
as it came flickering through shade
and sunlight,
released with the whip of my son’s
strong right arm
beneath the constant trees.

                         —Ron Wallace
First published in Oklahoma Cantos

Bucolic

Across the road, backed in

the driveway, a pick-up

with a horse-trailer hitched.

Three horses stand with their

heads rested on the rail.

               —Allen Hoey (4-2010)

         In memory of Allen Hoey

                    (1953- 2010)

Life is Water

Life is water—

icy, steamy, tepid

a wave of unpredictability,

consistency, change—

until it rests in peace

             —Loretta Diane Walker

Spring Ensemble

Photography by

Judith A. Lawrence

Missing

The October air is chill.
Soon November winds will

shatter leaves.
I wait for a message; it never comes,
even Jupiter's light has dimmed, nothing left
but a white, cold moon.

—Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

morning rain

on silent yellow tongues
purple irises
speak to me of
my mother’s voice

(first published in red lights Jan., 2011)
                          —Kathe L. Palka

hunting wildflowers
I find indian pipes
doll’s eyes and bee balm—
recalling all the names
my father taught me

(bottle rockets #24, 2011)

                  — Kathe L. Palka

Exemption

I would have gone
except for your
saying at the last

moment how awful
apart would be like
discarding the apple

core Eve retrieved
to see if there was
one bite left.

                          —Tom Sheehan

A Message for Posterity

Rejoice the life, the love we shared
the times we laughed, the times we cared
The journey will take me to a different sphere
My love will keep pervading the air
       
                                     —Abe Khan

Serenity speaks
in quiet waves of
warm feelings
from the heart.

Early spring flowers
Daffodils in yellow  dresses
Sunshine" gift to us.

             —Carolyn Constable

River of Grass

Limestone
sawgrass
egret
dew

If I do not evaporate
in winter’s drought
I will become
the summer slough

           

               — Karla Linn Merrifield 

Scherzi Trio for Bill Heyen

Goldfinches butter my daily bread;
I say spring grace.

Orioles spread marmalade
on my toast to May’s days.

Jays stir blueberry blue
in my power juice. I blend.

          — Karla Linn Merrifield

Lovely cherry trees
overshadow tiny violets
hiding in spring lawns.

 

               —Carolyn Constable 

Embrace

Later,
and I'm wearing you;
your aftershave aroma still
hugs, seizing my hair in the
soft gusts of an April wind.

        — Susan Kerschner 2011

Remembrance

Your loved one is gone,
but we won’t forget.
Their smile, their laugh
their face, their grace.

Your loved one is gone,
but we won’t forget.
The good times, the bad times
the fears, the tears.

                — 2001 Eve Hall

Music by Sandy Bender - Happiness

Dot the Path

ducks peck ground
children giggle, grubby fingers
squish bread and toss
kids yammer for snacks
mother tears bag
doles M&Ms
family wanders lakeside
sheds colorful
memories

                   — Joanne Faries

view from the back deck

a cloud rolls lazily by
lilacs in first bloom

blue skies this morning
sparrows squabble at close range
the cat salivates

            

                    —Judith A. Lawrence

Website Designed at Homestead™ Make a Website for Your Business