October 11th, 2011
Link • Poems, Tributes • Leave a Comment
Doris Vernon
CROW AND THE ARTIST
Crow flings his black cloak over his bony shoulders
Caws into the sky
Calls others from the Crow Clan
And leads them over the corn field
He’s painting He’s painting
They feel the vibrations rising
Before they hear the sound
the artist staggers through the field
Down the country road
Back to his hotel
Crow flaps back to his perch
Shivers knowing his wings are black strokes
On Vincent’s canvas.
–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Tribute to the Greatest Generation
October 9th, 2011
Link • Poems, Tributes • Leave a Comment
Phyllis M. Teplitz
EVERYTHING I WANTED I HAD
a dime to sit through a Fred Astaire movie
twice, kids to play with after school,
parents who loved me, and four sisters.
June, in college, juggling boyfriends, May,
just two years behind, sang
at all the ladies’ clubs. Eleanor,
way ahead of me too. Thirteen.
I tried imagine being so grownup.
Sure, we quarreled, but sometimes
we had such fun making fudge, dancing
to Glen Miller’s Boogie Woogie,
in the upstairs hall.
It was my birthday, my first party ever.
We played musical chairs, upset the fruit basket.
And for once, I was the center of attention.
I remember two presents,
a tiny glass vase of jeweled flowers
that shone blue and red on my hand.
The best one, a real diary. It even had
a little gold key to lock up my secrets.
After everyone left, I went up to my room,
closed the door and told my diary,
I can’t believe it. At last.
I am ten years old.
–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Tribute to the Greatest Generation
October 2nd, 2011
Link • Poems, Tributes • 1 Comment
Joan Stern
FOR GOOD
We’re going to the country for good
I told my kindergarten teacher.
It was 1929. I wasn’t thinking forever–
for goodmeant the country was a good
place, life there would be good.
I couldn’t know my father would take
a bus, a train and a ferry to work
leaving in the dark, coming home
in the dark, chain-smoking his way
to a heart attack, or that my mother
in the darkness of another winter
would die of pneumonia. The day
we moved to the country
my mother played Fox and Geese
with my brother and me. We lay down
and made angel wings with our arms.
We danced in a circle to keep warm.
She played with us all day in the snow
and no one could have told me it wasn’t for good.
–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Tribute to the Greatest Generation
October 1st, 2011
Link • Poems, Tributes • Leave a Comment
Nan Sherman
DON’T ASK ME ANY QUESTIONS
I used to know all the answers
but I don’t anymore
possess the assurance, bravado
of foolish youth.
The more ancient I get
the less I know.
My faltering footsteps,
seek secure ground.
Don’t ask me any questions.
I have no answers.
Where is the wisdom
that arrives with age?
Another fairytale for the young.
–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Tribute to the Greatest Generation
May 22nd, 2011
Link • Poems, Tributes • Leave a Comment
Susan Rosenberg
OUR ADULT GRANDCHILDREN
How slowly………
imperceptibly
we moved from center
to periphery;
Their visits now, I think,
stem from duty
more than pleasure
as we ply them
with too much food and
stories they have heard before;
We struggle to understand
their lively conversations
about a world
that is not ours;
and we laugh with them
without quite knowing why
–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
