Contributors to the Spring Issue 2008

Marie Arnett
Arlette Lees Baker
Graal Braun
Jack Clubb
Maryann Corbett
Ann B. Day
Diane Der-Hovanessian
DGB Featherkile
Mary Wirth Fenner
Daniel Fernandez
Paul Fraleigh
Joan Higuchi
Patrick Kielty
Michele Leavitt
Kennneth Lee
Jack Lovejoy
Jack Massa
Constance Rowell Mastores
Anesa Miller
Bob Moore
Richard Moore
Richard Moyer
Cynthia Weber Nankee
Robert Youngs Pelgrift, Jr.
Kyle Potvin
Valerie L. Ross
Stephen Scaer
Tom Schmidt
Amy Jo Schoonover
Edwin Schur
Wendy Sheehan
Virginia Artrip Snyder
David Stephenson
Larry Turner
Sandra Shaffer VanDoren
Maria Veres
Vito Victor
Myron Wahlstrand
Patricia Wheeler
Gail White
Lionel Willis
Ryan Wilson
Valerie Wohlfeld
Ross Yates

Selections from the Spring 2008 Issue

TOASTING SPRING

When dog toothed violets
nod their drowsy heads
like sleepy children
sunlight in their hair
we wander in the woodland
seeking evidence that winter
is no longer lurking there

where lime toned plumes
of leaves edge twigs of oak.
Beyond us, shielded
by their canopies
the purple finches
squabble, splashing us
with liquid melodies.

We stop to sniff
the apple blossom air
check baby skin tinged
rose and putter by
iris flaunting tint of skies.
We ramble, celebrating warmth
like tipsy butterflies.

Joan Higuchi

TO A BEAUTY

You never listen, probably because
I never tell the whole truth.  O, I try,
But always flinch at last and spare your flaws
The final verdict of this naked eye.
You grow “voluptuous”, not overweight.
Your “bird-like” voice has never asked “Which bird?”
Your “flaming“ hair owes more to art of late,
But art has never dared a cooler word.
But what’s the whole truth if it’s not that love
Tries to disguise its folly in a rhyme,
And then pretend the rhyme is you, my dove,
As if we were not equal prey of Time
Who slowly plucks away the splendid coats
Which marry that which spurns to that which dotes?

Lionel Willis

PARENT.NET.EDU

At some point, I should unsubscribe---
rethink my goals, embrace the Tao,
spend time on other things.  I will,
but not right now,

in fall, when first-year families
have no experience, no routine.
I almost hear their voices, tense
behind the screen,

firing excited questions off,
nervous, not quite understanding,
needing to hear the calming sound
of me, old-handing:

“I’ve been this route a time or two
and even got one done and paid for.”
Jitters like theirs are just the ones
mail lists were made for.

Health insurance, meal plan cards
dizzy, joyous overspending,
susurrations of the sense
that something’s ending.

bursar bills, financial aid,
extra-long dorm mattress sheets,
the scheduling for move-in day,
the one way streets,

the two-way tugging on the mind.
The breath caught on a stairway landing
up to the room where eighteen years
of your life are standing---

Reply. Hit send. Delete.  I think
somebody’s helped here, maybe me.
So no, I won’t sign off just yet.
Next year we’ll see.

Maryann Corbett

ADVICE TO A GIRL LEAVING HOME

Your car must be reliable,
The engine tuned, the parts maintained.
Be sure you don’t run out of gas
Upon a lonely midnight lane.

Accept no dope, no booze, no smokes—
You never would (or would you, dear?)
And anything regarding sex
Will have to wait another year.

Your dog should be about the size
Of Mr. Johnson’s cattle barn,
And double deadbolts on your doors
Should do the woodwork little harm.

No blouse too low.  No skirt too high.
Don’t lend your cash and borrow none.
I said I’d give you sage advice,
I never said it would be fun.

Arlette Lees Baker

VAMPIRE FINCHES OF THE GALAPAGOS

The climate turns.  Fat bugs and seeds are rare.
Now humdrum-bounded finches become weeds
and wit affords new chances for new fare.
Now mischief to the albatross—misdeeds
and vicious piracies of nest and beak
and feather---haunts these desert isles.  Pinched bird
turns Puck to pry warm eggs off cliffs and peck
white legs—a greed for blood.  Without a word,
the word gets out of easy prey, delightful sauce.
Yet some hold back—timid, suspicious.
Beware the albatross, brilliant and cross,
who learns how delicious a finch is.

Susan McLean

WAITING

Fog, pushed by a dense pack of scudding clouds,
is blowing inland off the Pacific swell.  Yet here,
where I stand observing, how still the morning air.
In the tree tops, yes, if one looks hard, a gently swaying;
but elsewhere and beyond not a single leaf is moving.

A pair of red-tailed hawks maneuver through the gray,
then settle on a bony limb.  Blue jays fly their
jagged flight; a hummingbird, flashing red at me,
pauses to stare me in the eye.  I stand unmoved.
Hardly a breath.  Mind at a stop.  Audience quieting

in expectation.  Stiller and stiller.  The storm compacting.
Darkness peripheral.  Air closing.  Moss on the rocky
growths greener and greener.  I hardly dare to breathe.
The hawks plump themselves up and wait.  Steller jays
disappear among the leaves.  Stiller and stiller.  Then,
at last, the soft, unbearable first drops of rain.

Constance Rowell Mastores

LEAVING CALYPSO

Tired of wandering the island's shores
gathering useless wreckage at low tide,
I begged my mistress for a list of chores--
some carpentry to keep me occupied.

The sea nymph's grotto had no crooked door
or leaky cedar roof I could repair.
She needed me for love, nothing more.
And love it was--convinced of my despair,

she freed me, though she couldn't understand
why I'd be fool enough to risk my life
to slumber in a bed I made by hand,
or trade a goddess for an aging wife.

Stephen Scaer