Poets

James Penha

A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past twenty-five years in Indonesia.

A collection of his adaptations of classic Indonesian folk tales won the Cervena Barva Press fiction chapbook contest. No Bones to Carry, the latest volume of Penha’s poetry, is available from New Sins Press

He edits New Verse News, a website for current-events poetry.

James Penha's poem, "Lesson" can be found under the Appreciation category in the 2016 Origami Poems anthology The Best of Kindness available on Amazon.

► Jack's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.

Origami Microchap	Poem(s)
Stalking Celebrities
Click title to download microchap Audio Version read by James Penha • _charlie_ the little must ache -- querulously it revs up from attraction to the high light right eye, then alternates with the pendulum of time current, frees the nose to inhale gusts of great air, and, truly, enforces a smirk, the little man is empowered.	Woody Allen, Alive and Well I trailed Woody Allen up Madison Avenue once. Block after block, I slowed to his footsteps. He talked with a woman oh twice his height. Not Keaton, nor Mia of course. They parted the waves. In the wake, I watched millions tilt their eyes and try to watch with casualness where they went. Not one broke stride; we yielded Woody his vector. But at the plane of passage all turned for the denouement with their heads upon their shoulders and quickly back to each other to ask, rhetorically, “Do you know who that was?” or to say who that was. The sure only smiled. Others looked back. This city was Woody’s. I watched Woody and the woman turn a block onto Fifth and into an apartment house. It has taken me years to intrude with this, but my sadness makes me want to write that Woody lived with reverence. DIGGING LORCA Do soggy bones matter more than Bernarda’s broken cane or New York tenements or a perfect pair of olives in hand? For if we hold, Federico, your delicate fingers, trace the lines of your lips with our fingers, and hear your inspiration even now, we have no need for the palpable to imagine you. Exhumation reminds me more of the next innocent to die wordlessly in a ditch.	Rudy Emerging from the parking garage to the November light of 51st Street I needed a Circle in the Square where Ah Wilderness was amidst crowds jaywalking to queues for curtains when I felt a startling thump to my back. It smacked of muggery, spun me round like a revolving door, but spindleless I plummeted down shelves of strangers to the ground on my ass and so saw his horizontal right arm a bulbous bow breaking the ice of pre-theater klatches and the carelessly ignorant gutter bergs, his muffler flying behind on the wind his stride created: Nureyev, head knitted, feet booted for the cold, commanding the theatre district, utterly virtuosic--in a coup de Tatar--rushing street-lit to the wings and Margot deux in fewer than ten minutes. I sat an invisible corps in his life's ballet losing my breath for his buoyancy. EULOGY AT OPRYLAND Merle Watson, he done it right: He didn’ plow‘is veins with rock ‘n’ roll or mill’is brains with jazz. That boy jest slid’is strings o’er the songs of’is pa. Didn’ open’is mouth, didn’ hog the light. I al’ays thought I’d like t’expire here on this stage with my fiddle fallin’ on me like a lily. But Merle was a realer country boy to die wrapped up in the hum of’is tractor. • James Penha © 2012
Genealogy
Cover is a mural detail from the Pod Hotel NYC (formerly Pickwick Arms) •	Opening Lines Nina jumped from a fifth-floor bath of the Pickwick Arms Hotel. I’m swaddled in Nina’s unsteady 8 millimeter arms. Later a splicing machine made me the family archivist and my father’s black and white movies were read all over. Nina’s sister Bertha--“Ah, Nina and her grandson” at the epic premiere. I’ve no Grandma Nina in my memory but Nina on film. • James Penha © 2011
Sumtran Highways
Cover Photo by James Penha	Riverwalk We slip on jungle river stones back, rock by rock, year by year, till we are immersed in yesterdays swimming mightily against the flow of time. We grasp at corners of the past in the crooks of ancient boulders and crawl through eras to epochs and edens where we are the first humans rubbing our eyes to find ourselves born to blue butterflies, green mansions, and infinity falls in cascading canyons pristine, primeval, untouched until this singular moment when we are aboriginal, indigenous. • James Penha © 2009
Lessons From The Archipelago
Cover Photo by James Penha • MOUNTAIN STEPS In absolute silence I know the river, birds, the wind, and you. The flower attracts a squirrel along a branch too loose to weigh. Bees rejoice. The hummingbird tastes nectar -- but smells squirrel abandoned orchid. A shining swirl of flies -- float in the garden rain Hurricane of life. Treetops, tangled fronds and ferns. Monkey sirens. Writing on rice paper, durable and mothproof: Stops my bleeding.	A Bali Dancer, A New World My mask faces dead moons breathing breasts sun bursts eruptions of language when you stare silently into the corner terrified of your seeing my geometry I turn away ART HISTORY IN NORTHERN SUMATRA The Kotanopan jungle mountains are cut in the foreground by the rapid river and so shimmer at sunset, like a pointillistic painting until every tree shakes and the sky itself explodes into a guernica of bats: dark night before night when the landscape fractalizes into pollack drips and daubs de kooning and bits of landscape in my cubist eyes.	THE SALT EATERS IN SOUTH TAPANULI, SUMATRA the family shares a dinner of rice and salt a few grains each of rice and salt a main course of rice and salt saved to last a treat for the family ODE ON WOOD IN BORNEO Because I sit here at home with nature my arms in line with the grain of the wood my mouth open and yet knot my hand dripping with the resin, I seem some Romantic ideal. Because you find me so, you see in every plank in every tree some one much like me. • James Penha © 2010

Nancy E. Brown

Nancy Brown as portrayed by her grand-daughter Sophia Nancy E. Brown, retired from 25 years in Alaska libraries, has been a reporter for The Nome Nugget, book reviewer for the Kenai Peninsula Clarion, freelance writer, storyteller, writer of haiku, and a lifelong fan of Dylan Thomas.

Her biggest fan, husband Ken, has kept a steady hand on the rudder for 42 years of marriage through rough waters and calm. They have a daughter Roda Motta, son-in-law Rick Motta, and three witty, musical granddaughters who also love to read and write poetry.

Her poetry is included in The Poets Loft anthology, Nine New England Poets on love and loss. Edited by Beatrice Lazarus. Order from Main Street Rag.

(Above Image: Nancy Brown as portrayed by her granddaughter, Sophia)

► Nancy's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.

Origami Microchap	Poems
A Real Bout
Click title to download PDF microchap “Tomato Can:” Slang term used to describe an inferior boxer that an up and coming fighter takes on to burnish his reputation & record. Also, a boxer who ‘takes a dive’ or loses a fight on purpose •	Tomato Can Blues No bets on the plodding bruiser who is not Ali’s Wepner, The Bayonne Bleeder from Jersey. Not Tyson’s Douglas in Tokyo. He’s a bad boxer picked to make this champ look good, a real tomato can kind of guy— until his southpaw found the champ’s jaw and the wrong ‘can’ hit the mat. Victory Clenched jaw slackens hand jab. - against right Feigning left, glove drives into the gut. Angle the camera to show blood drip front tattoo, - onto full glistening iconic detail in color— blood red, vein blue, long black hair matted under thorns, ribs shadowed above navel.	The crowd cheers. Illegal groin kick. Like a tall pine, the fighter is felled, cold on the canvas. Above him waivers the opponent. Gloves raised, eyes swollen, he walks to the wrong corner. Somewhere a bell sounds the end of round twelve.	Violence Becomes You “Temper, temper,” his father cautioned. He took his anger to the ring, became the Golden Gloves champ voice. basso profondo with the Still, the wrong tone, wrong look... Now, blind as a raged bull, he swung before he saw Jim taking the blow. Two fists formed in temper’s forge. His fierce face thrust at the stranger, he spat, “You made me hit my brother.” Barely the last word spoken, then the first fist thrown. He beat bloody the man until from behind, an arm locked ‘round his neck, and Jim said, “Stop. Stop now, Chet.” “Stop.” • Nancy E. Brown © 2013
I Would Never Anthropomorphize My Finches
Click title to download microchap Cover photo by Ken Brown •	OBSERVING MANNERS I would never anthropomorphize, but I see my zebra finches display etiquette toward each other, bathing and nest-building. Yet when I complain about their mess, they cock their heads at me and boldly scratch and toss seeds with wild abandon. BATHING The male hops onto the lip of the dish, dips his red beak into clear water. Did he send a signal? The mate hops into the dish, shudders and shakes to fling water onto feathers. Back on the perch preening begins, and the male enters the water.	IDENTITY From jellybean-sized eggs, the hatchlings emerge as flesh and down. No mouth apparent, no eyes open. shapes - Hours later, teardrop mark corners of beaks. The parents gorge on millet and begin a delicate plunge into open mouths that soon will scold demands for food. CAGED The male finch worries a stripped millet stem into the woven bamboo nest and tucks in cotton tufts. The mate, tiny feet clasping the bare wooden perch, watches, waits to lay a clutch of tiny eggs. Nearby, juveniles— flutter — newly rejected against the wires of their new cage.	AUSSIE FINCHES This tiny, indigenous species was there in 1788 when soldiers and convicts landed at Botany Bay— building grass nests in trees among the penal colonies. Perhaps a convict stopped to listen to their song, like the fisherman in Andersen’s ‘The Nightingale.’ • Nancy E. Brown © 2013
Mishnock, RI (An Album)
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover photo by Rocco Rainone - On the shores of Mishnock Lake The heron lifts its head to listen. •	Neighborhood Life After a restless night, I walk into dawn. Mute swans float beneath the lake mist. The creek burbles under the road next to the small cottage where Miss Lovelace— her sister dead in a crash— raised her orphaned niece and nephews after rejecting her brothers’ solution, “We can each raise one.” Summer The neighbor builds this year’s racing car. His sons play basketball in the street after they drop their bikes in the yard. Later, they walk to the lake, beach towels over their shoulders, bare feet slapping the road.	The Lake In the beginning was water, fish, turtles, freshwater clams, and hunters, fishermen, farmers with spears, canoes, nets, hoes. Then came axes, chainsaws, trucks, cars, streets, TV, Internet.... Is that Metacomet on YouTube? Mishnock Barn Fires, a hurricane and post-war building codes hastened demise of Mishnock sawmills. Still, native timber was found to build the dance pavilion at Mishnock Barn. Gone the carousel, roller rink, bath house. footed line dancing - It’s live music and fleet on the shores of Mishnock Lake. The heron lifts its head to listen.	Winter One, two...five boys push snow from the frozen catch basin, brush clear the stump where Sara can sit, but she straps on skates, grabs a stick, and joins pond hockey. • Nancy E. Brown © 2012
Alaska Album
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover Photo by Maureen Conley Dedicated to the memory of Milli Ekak who served me whale meat and muktuk and taught me to play 'Hearts,' to the memory of my son Jason B. Brown who took his first steps on St. Lawrence Island, and especially to my husband Ken Brown and daughter Roda L. Motta who share many of the memories and stories in these poems about our former home. •	Tenakee Springs, Chichagof Island Norwegian men—eyes glacial blue, Blond hair burned white by sun, Shoulders built to ship strength— Sluiced and dredged Nome’s gold Then wintered at these hot springs. Nearby in wilderness coves stand raven, Orca, eagle totems. In the strait a pod Of orcas stampede seals to shore. Rocks tumble in the crimson tide. Tangle Lakes, Denali Highway Traveling the road rough as miners’ hands, We turn off the engine to watch One, two snowy owls ride the air Like white smoke over the tundra. A young porcupine huddles under a willow. At the next rise, Tangle Lakes shine like New coins or maybe moons fallen from Jupiter In homage to this midnight sun. After a blueberry and grayling breakfast A snow smell blows into camp. Quickly we tie the canoe to the car top In a rush to outrun the blizzard.	Gambell, St. Lawrence Island Duffles drop on the floor before Milli, my children, and I hustle To where spring ice clings to the shore. A whale’s blood path Marks the way to flensing— One foot in the oomiak The other on the whale’s back. Alarm: a small boy toddles off the ice. Splash! Snap, a gaff grabs his parky. That night, dancing at the school, Aieee! Tong!Tong! Walrus-hide drums. Later, hands join hands, join hands To reach home through forty-mile winds Blowing snow from Siberia. Aggie Creek, Seward Peninsula We read the shallow rivers — Wet maps of boulders and sandbars — Until we bank our boat at Aggie Creek. At midnight Martin Olson glides his Super Cub Onto the sandbar for coffee at our fire. Bang! Pop! Bang! We duck and stare. Martin laughs, there are abandoned oil drums. Pop! As temperatures drop like the sun’s arc Beyond black spruce silhouettes against A char-pink sky. Late light Lingers behind the Bendelebens.	Goodpaster River, Delta Junction Tanana River— a rumble of driftlogs, oxbows — Heavy with silt the color of goose eggs Hauls its glacial load past the mouth Of the Goodpaster, the river never seen By the Kentucky family bearing its name. Up the Goodpaster delphiniums bloom, Planted long ago at a trapper’s cabin Now collapsed into earth on a bluff Above the beavers that build A new lodge on an old oxbow. • Nancy E. Brown © 2010
Home: Ohio, 1950
Click title to download microchap Cover by JanK •	Home: Ohio, 1950 - I. Cold well-water gulped from a gourd. A dose of brown sugar and turpentine - An old-time remedy To keep away worms. Cod liver oil from a cold metal spoon. Buttermilk cornbread baked In a cast-iron skillet. Sun-warmed tomatoes and peppers, White corn on the cob Rolled in butter. Pan fish fried on Fridays. . II. A worn quilt, feather pillows Wet grass between bare toes Papery wasp nests abandoned The tickle of a praying mantis’ legs another — A raw potato against a wart time remedy. - Old The pop of ripe gooseberries in the mouth Warmth under a hen’s wing The soft wrinkled feel of Grandma’s cheek.	III. In the kitchen window sit Mason jars of sage. Coffee boils in a speckled pot, Sausage sizzles on the stovetop. Baking powder biscuits bake In the oven of the kerosene stove. Down in the musty basement — Piles of dirty laundry Oily overalls Dingy boxer shorts stained undershirts. - Sweat From the wringer washer tub, Mrs. Stewart’s bluing Scents the air. IV. The screen door, framed, bounces shut; - Wood Rag rug for mud. Outside, Weeping willow branches Veiled in green buds. — Devil’s shoestring — Trumpet vine Brings hummingbirds. Blackberries stain lips. - black - A spider, yellow White, writes its web On the grape arbor. A calico apron hangs On a nail.	V. ourning doves coo In branches above hens Clucking as they peck grit. The robin’s song springs Bold as thunder. Mice scritch scratch in the grain. Newspaper pages rustle, A slurp of coffee, then The cup clinks In the saucer. The porch glider Squeaks back and forth. • Nancy E. Brown © 2009

Noël Patoine

Noël Patoine was born and raised in Sutton, VT. She found formal education at Riverside Day School, St. Johnsbury Academy, Connecticut College, The Williams/Mystic Program and Bard College. Having survived and thrived her adult initiations she migrated to Providence by way of Mystic where she’s found her niche and friends who love her.

She is a poet by nature, wooing the world with words while wandering through its magic. Her poetic influences are everything from flower to friends: it began with Shel Silverstien’s brilliance and her Grammy Patoine who wrote her letters in rhyme. Poetry efficiently shares experiences Noël would otherwise need many lifetimes to explain.

•

Robert Muir

Bob Muir was born in Boston, raised in NYC, later returned to New England, and has been a resident of Providence RI for the last 30 years. He retired from the Providence Police force after twenty years of service. Bob is bilingual-Spanish and writes poetry in both English and Spanish.

While he was on the police force he studied Spanish to do a better job in the Investigative Bureau. During his pursuit of his Spanish degree he discovered his talent for poetry. A talent recognized, and encouraged, by his professor in a Hispanic poetry class.

Bob continues to write poetry in both languages, which language he writes in depends how the poem initially presents itself. At present he teaches Spanish, and a life lesson now and then at a local private High School.

Bob uses his many experiences he has had as a police officer and of life in general as material for his poetry. It was in his Hispanic poetry class that Bob wrote an Ode to Steven Shaw, which helped him bring closure to the killing of a fellow officer, an investigation in which he was directly involved.

► Bob's books are available for printing. See below and click on the titles.

Title of Origami Book	Poem Titles
Las Letras
Dedicated to my father, who passed on his love of learning, eternal seeking, and endless quest for understanding. Who spoke, wrote, and translated Chinese, and who, when I was acquiring Spanish shared with me a gem given to him by his teacher: "When you acquire another language, you gain another soul."
The River
The Writings of Stone and Water
Based on Las Letras by Robert Muir
Damaged in Transit
Dedicated to E., who discovered the courage to find what she needed, and then some. May knowing that change is possible inspire others to discover their courage, and fledge themselves from their own nests of fear and shame, and begin to chose their own path.
Of Mad Dogs, Clockwork and City Steppes
	Glenda
	Waiting
	Forecast
	Haiku: #4

Marjorie Gaunt

Marjorie Gaunt has been published in Yankee Magazine, Crone's Nest, Newport Review and The Providence Journal.

Her Letter to Rowland (to her husband who died in WWII) was featured in a choral presentation: Songs of Love & War composed by Paul Morevec and presented in Carnegie Hall on March 4, 2008 by The Oratorio Society of New York.

We miss her voice (1920 - Mar 15, 2016).

► Marjorie's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.

Origami Micro-chapbook	Selected Poem(s)
Little Things
“Truly, I find myself struggling with being in my 90's… strange because age never bothered me before. All in my head, of course. I'm better now." •	Bits and Pieces I keep finding bits of you lying around as today there you are I push the tape button in my car and smile to hear your special song then in the freezer find a half-eaten carton of raspberry ice-cream and leafing through a strange magazine it occurs you have crossed so many thresholds I can only grasp at bits and pieces as you pass • Marjorie Gaunt © 2010
Love and Blessings
•	Finding Buttercups I wander where wind is bending grasses in the meadow and I look for you your luminous cups of gold filled with sunlight my mother sought you for a small bouquet and taught me that holding your golden light beneath my chin reflected your glory she placed you in a blue bowl yellow and blue like the colors of the flag of her childhood homeland with its fields of gold stretching beneath the blue of the sky • Marjorie Gaunt © 2009 {/mooblock}

Bill Sullivan

Bill Sullivan is professor emeritus, Keene State College, NH, where he taught courses in American literature and American studies. He is a co-author of Modern American Poetry and Containing Multitudes: Poetry in the United States since 1950. He also co-produced, "Here Am I," a documentary film on the life of Jonathan Daniels, a slain civil rights worker.

He resides in Westerly, Rhode Island.

Bill's recent book, Loon Lore: Poetry and Prose, is available from Bauhan Publishing.

•

► Bill's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.

Origami Micro-chapbook	Selected Poem(s)
Three Strikes
Cover: Dark Petals by Lauri Burke — Every Origami Micro-chapbook may be printed, for free, from this website. •	2. Holding on The roller coaster car inches up the steep hill. Our eyes question blue skies. Hands linked, we anticipate the terrifying thrill. But as we reached the apex and viewed the wrenching drop, our stomachs groaned, our hearts shook. Then gravity and machinery shot us down. Took our breath away as we loosened our grip on the lap bar, then grasped each other, inseparable we thought until you and so many more were no more. Now I cling to what remains-- out of love and fear. Hold on tight until my knuckles turn white. • Bill Sullivan © 2016
Pick A Color
•	Pick A Color The single-minded ones demand that we choose: the red rose or the white rose, black or white skin, blue or grey cloth, green or orange flag. We could join the fray, watch the colors clash hear the swords clang and the rifles ring, sniff the cannon’s smoke feel between our fingers the blood soaked soil. Or we could sit and sink into Rothko’s rectangles and bands painted in colors no clan can claim, in hues and shadings that whisper our shared sensibilities: tragedy and doom beauty and ecstasy. • Bill Sullivan © 2011
Book of Loon Poems
•	Oil Spill: RI, 1/19/96 When the oil barge and tug were grounded off Moonlight Beach, the officials said there was no leakage. But in Wakefield oil, carried by the gale force winds, clung to storefront windows, windshields and clothes. When they claimed it was under control, the oil, churned by wind and sea, had penetrated the salt ponds, had sullied Block Island, Long Island Sound… The grim biologist is on a beachhead strewn with the dead and dying: lobsters, mollusks star fish , fingerlings and flounder, grebes, and mergansers. In her oily hands she cradles a loon. If he could open his eyes their redness would dazzle you. If he could sound out his plight, the song would haunt you. If it were yesterday, he would have dove deep for you, but today you count and curse the cost of oil. • Bill Sullivan © 2009
Birdbath Buddha Haikus
•	mooblock=Haiku No. I. Young sparrow splashing. Straw-yellow grass fast dying. Bird bath Buddha smiling. • Bill Sullivan © 2009
Snap Shots
•	On The Seventh Evening On the seventh evening at this roadside pond ringed with scarlet lupine and blazing goldenrod, we see the blue heron amidst the green- leafed white lilies. On the road above a car speeds northward. Its lights burning dimly in the dusk. The night rises; covers the heron, the pond; reveals another way home. • Bill Sullivan © 2009

Collective Works

Cup of Origami

Welcome to the OPP world of Collective poetry!

Most collections were created from prompts issued to poets, near & far.

(Visit the page, 'Collaboratives,' which presents Contest & Special collections, here)

Origami Microchap

The Poems

Snow

An Origami Poems Winter Celebration

• Prompted by a request from editor, Doug Norris, the poems by Bill Sullivan & Mary Ann Mayer appeared in a South County, RI publication. •

Snow by Mary Mueller

"an elegance of snow…"
from Waxwings by Robert Francis

Who can think of snow
while summer’s humid air
lingers, thick with lassitude?

Who can rise from beach chair
nursing a muddled drink,
breathing half-breaths
while addled squirrels
watch for falling acorns?

Like the moon, it will arrive –
a lucid flake will melt on a nose
gather with friends on a slushy pool
practice swirls with icy wind
revel late ‘til morning sun.

Silence, then.
Still, pure.
The landscape turned
a painting in white.
You walk in -
it wakes you up.
At last you breathe
sculpted air.
•
Mary Mueller © 2011

Winter by Marguerite Kiel Flanders

January poaches my warmth.
Ice: nice, but not for walking.
The white dog's bones move
easily over the crusts of snow,
noting where deer have been.
I stay inside wishing to weep.
Chill has no limit. I gather
kindling, carry logs.
The splendid insufficiencies
of winter crack and rattle
my sleep. In the morning
the old dog paces, scrapes
his toenails across the planks,
heading for the door.
I shudder at dawn's glimmer,
its cruel syncopated breath.
•
Marguerite Kiel Flanders © 2011

Snow by Bill Sullivan

...snow was general all over Ireland.
It was falling on every part of the dark central plain,
on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen,
and further westward, softly falling into the
dark mutinous Shannon waves...upon all the living and dead.
- James Joyce, "The Dead"

Yes, there is the sense that the end of something is here
when the wind is not whistling and the snow flake's fall
is as silent as a monk meditating on a moonless night.
Perhaps it's the death of daring, courage and ceaseless
caring, as Joyce intimates-a time when the snow's descent
numbs our memories, buries our tales of heroic deeds-
when caution and comfort prescribe boots and slickers-
when no lover stands in the rain beneath a window, dying.

But as the quietude of falling snow mutes, flake
by flake, the harsh clamor of years and yesterdays,
we hear the wheel groan then move- sense a beginning
as well as an end-even imagine that before the snow ceased
and the sky turned turquoise blue and the world's whiteness
glistened in the morning sun, a hatless man stood knee deep
in snow beneath his lover's window, calling, in the darkness
of night, "Come with me, come with me."
•
Bill Sullivan © 2011

The roofs are alive and reassuring by Mary Ann Mayer

(For Pete)

You say,
        The snow on the roof
Looks like a swan sleeping in its wing.

I say,
        The avalanche is coming, can’t you see
That iron rooster poke its head out of its clutch of white?

You say, don’t worry,
        The rooster is just a chimney cap
Can we play the snowdrift game some more?

But the avalanche, I say,
        Makes puckering sounds
In the night and I’m afraid.

You say,
I see a whale
Taking a steam bath.

I say, I love you.
•
Mary Ann Mayer © 2011

Christmas in Florida by Jan Keough

Here in Florida, miles from RI,
The pelicans and palm fronds,
Skeins of clouds with or without rainfall
Rehearse their routines on a sky worn inside-out
With moist blueness.

Snowmen lawn balloons, puffed by electronics ,
Sway at their lawn anchors
And melt flat once the juice times out.

Snowflake glitterati hang on trees,
Gossiping about their imaginary perfection
Of plastic-poured prisms bought at Walmart.

Coconut palms wear twinkly girdles,
The night is festooned with neon greetings
And Santa rides jet skis.

It’s not the same,
This make-believe Florida winter
Far from mittens pulled-off before a wood stove
And that silent hushing snowfall
Playing in the twilight.
•
Jan Keough © 2012

A Room

Two musings on Virginia Woolf and her talk “A Room of One’s Own”

• “A Room of One's Own is an extended essay by Virginia Woolf… based on a series of lectures delivered at two women's colleges October 1928. The title comes from Woolf's conception that, 'a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction'. – Wikipedia •

My Own Room by Jan Keough

I would like to think
that a room of one’s own
is something to be found
like a jar or basket
ready to be filled,
but it is not.
It is a quality hidden inside,
stored, waiting -
combed from choices
to be untangled,
and pulled away
from distractions
that own the mind.
A room that is nothing
but expansion,
it’s beauty
a reflection of hope.

A safety, a welcoming,
a presence that turns
each key, each insight,
into wave after wave
of discovery.

It is a splendor
where time becomes lost
like an echo.
Discourtesy fades from disuse.
Misunderstanding
trolls shores not your own.
•
Jan Keough © 2009

The Weight of Stones in Pocket by Lynnie Gobeille

(Remembering Virginia Woolf)

Back lit by skies winter light
oceans ebb and flow,
gulls cry, circling us in flight.
I watch the stranger on the beach
as she bends
picking up sea-glass with her hands.
Dusting off the webs of salt and sand
bringing the treasure to her lips
as if to devour it.
Working her fingers
over the smooth surface,
mesmerized
by the glimmer of lavender dye.

“A rare find,” she tells me
when I inquire.
“more rare than eclipse
of sun and moon.”
Beloved sea-flower
in her outstretched hand,
‘Reason enough,” she states
“to empty my pockets
of their weight.”
•
Lynnie Gobeille © 2009

A Cup of Origami

Eight Poems to help you enjoy your cup of whatever...

Celetrates the first Origami Poems Project reading (held at Java Madness in RI 7/12/2009)

Cappucino by Mary C. Mueller

Steamed peaks
float like meringue
in the swimming pool cup
that warms my hands.
Ready to dive
nose first
into roasted mist,
I pause and sip.
Alchemy of capuchin –
elixir of bliss.
•
Mary Mueller © 2009

12-Step Verse by Kim M. Baker

She sat next to me, stoked
on caffeine and cinquains,
compressing her life philosophies
into jazzed up lines of five.
She passed me a pen and said, “Hit?”
“Me? No. I’m off the ink.
It ruined my life. My muse left me.
Now? AA. Alliterations Anonymous.”
But as she spoke, I craved a toke
off that stoked poetry,
a cuppa that coffeehouse java sonnet.
I don’t need fourteen lines! Just one
clever couplet and I’m outta here.
Hi, my name is Will and I’m a po-slut!
•
Kim M. Baker © 2009

Joltin' Joe by Lauri Burke

Coffee's the bad boy of beverages
hanging around every urban corner
shouting out with aromatic fervor
bewitching promises of hot leverage.
Joe will prop a girl up when she's low
set blood soaring to race in sluggish veins
excite florid thoughts of unleashing reins
to burrow in arms of chemical flow.
Who cares if Java's a fickle lover
driving a gal to town he won't take home,
yes, you'll limp in spent and round-heeled later no,
Joe won't call or pick up the phone
but when you were with him, didn't thoughts
shudder
in same blind ecstasy that births a poem?
•
Lauri Burke © 2009

Mass Pike Coffee: May 19, 2008 1:30 pm by James B. Rosenberg

LavAzza
Italy’s favorite
Breath of espresso
Breath of Rome
City of stones
Stepping from past into future
From future into past
Through languid sips
Of Eternity Now.
Dark brown brew
Nurturing moist loam
Explosion of taste
To remember tomorrow.
•
James B. Rosenberg © 2009

COOL BEANS by Louise Giguere

Etched, fetching
seafaring vessel
Perked up tizzy
Razz ma tazz dizzy
An old tin lizzy,
Let it fizz, so hip,
Jazzed up java, fresh brew,
Liquid lava, cappuccino syrup
Espresso, latte, decaf blends
In a clay-fired mug, demitasse cup,
for the java, lava coffee crew
Together we sip, my friends.
•
Louise Giguere © 2009

HAIKU #36 by Bob Muir

In my sitting place
cares will fall like autumn leaves
when I sip my tea
•
Bob Muir © 2009

Sweet Words by Jan Keough

It is the sweet words
stirred like sugar in the cup
that brews a friendship.
•
Jan Keough © 2009

Sips by O.R. Gami

My tea amigos
sip their delicacies
without haste.
Their pace laced
with caffeine or not.
They linger, they twirl,
they flavor their world
with honey.

Coffee conspirators
want mugs that handle
every degree of need -
am or pm,
Starbucks bold or Dunkin mild;
they steep themselves
in brewed wisdom -
with hopes to unwind.
•
O.R. Gami © 2009

Fall Realities

An Autumnal Celebration

• Volume 1 of 2 - Seven Poets muse on the season known as Fall •

Autumn Morning by Doug Norris

Fog in the harbor,
Steam on the mirror,
Frost on the window.

Outside, discovering
The neighbor’s oak
Growing in my garden

And one crazy squirrel
Risking everything
To save a single nut.
•
Doug Norris © 2009

Elvis by Tom Chandler

A hundred of you
parachute into a football stadium,
a hundred gilt and spangled jumpsuits
with proud bellies tumble in a tangle
of ripcords and billowed silk,
then square away with weird precision
and give it all you’ve got; who cares
if you’re alive or not?
•
Tom Chandler © 2009

Autumn Jazz by Mary C. Mueller

This mountain night
full moon creeps
at turtle pace
through shadowed
branches tree tops
then aglow below
the violin plays
African, accordion
his bass companion
kora, drums
command that
wine infused
with rosemary
be sipped
like honeydew
•
Mary C. Mueller © 2009

A Little Latitude by James Penha

The equator circumvents
autumn with forests as green
in October as ever April
is green although leaves here ever
umber to leave their branches
in a fall to feed the jungle’s
perpetual spring to life. Around
this earth it is every day
every season.
•
James Penha © 2009

Fall Decides by Marguerite Keil Flanders

Oaks are the last to cast
their burdens. Air is full
of the athleticism of change.
Chickadees greet the end
of the road of night
with their tally: seeds and chill.

The science of what must turn leaves
us bereft. We wait for all to be
revealed, as if choosing will shift
the relentless trajectory of stars,
restore what has been felled.
Hawk, oak, brook, co-trustees
of winter’s approach, know better.
•

Leaf Peepers by Kim M. Baker

Winter has sent ahead its scouts.
Those leafy aviators so vibrant
that you wince with their wicked beauty.
They cackle their raucous colors
down highways, along bogs,
or anywhere you might be languishing
in the sun one last time this season.
You forget the brisk wind behind them,
forget this time last year when they jumped,
kamikazes in kaleidoscopic glory.
The next thing you know, they are gone,
riding the sky just ahead of Captain Snow.
•
Kim M. Baker © 2009

Falling Towards The Questions That Remain by Lynnie Gobeille

If this is where I am now…
how will I survive the winter?

God, how I would like a friend
to just drop in… unexpectedly,

the darkness and cold will continue,
the nights will get longer…

Note to myself:
Develop a God damn hobby.
•
Lynnie Gobeille © 2009

As Fall Sets In

An Autumnal Celebration

Volune #2 - 7 poems, 7 poets

Want To Say Something About Goldenrods by Barbara Schweitzer

how prolific they are, waiting to be sickled
along the town roads with the touch-me-nots;
how little notice, how little difference
they make in the world, invisible, void,
being the fruit fly weed of New England,
so heartily hardy they stand ignored
like life itself – which just keeps up its end –
creating replicating fornicating,
all the while ignorant of and in its needs,
the thrust necessarily pause-hating,
so that those of us who parse and name, cede
most roadways to ignorant lustful life
that ingratiates itself like the actor rife
with talent to imitate, then move on.
•
Barbara Schweitzer © 2009

Summer Solstice by Nancy E. Brown

A raft of mallards
dozes on the dock
as the full moon’s light
dims into dawn.
This short night’s
hot hazy air shimmers
above the lake until
sunshine splinters
onto the gentle ripples.
A garnet-colored dragonfly
drifts onto my sleeve.

Nancy E. Brown © 2009

Ingnish Beach by Louise Giguere

An August day this summer, it was as if I were
Standing on Ingnish Beach, thirty years ago the
salty air, dampening, tangling sandy strands in my
long hair, in all directions, like thistledown, wild
and windblown, lingering, from dunes, on the
breach of my breath, catches a memory, a glimpse
of a lighthouse in the distance, floating sounds, or
warning calls of buoys on whale watch; a quick
jaunt off Cabot Trail, a stone’s throw from the
opposing Bay of Fundy, is the cliff- cleave haven, a
cloistered valley hide–away, raw, resolute elements
Ingnish Beach – Nova Scotia’s North Atlantic air

Louise Giguere © 2009

September by Marjorie Gaunt

high tides have almost obliterated
the path by bending beach grasses
hiding the lavender now delicate ashen wraiths
above these gray ghosts
grow great swaths of yellow goldenrod
glowing along the dunes
staunch spartina stands tall at water's edge
wearing russet tassels
•
Marjorie Gaunt © 2009

Autumn Haiku by Noël Patoine

Dying thrives in fall,
harvesting nature’s bounty,
caring hands restore.
•

Autumn Adornments by Noël Patoine

Autumn Adornments

Breaking my spirit s
oul’s pleasure dies amidst fall,
leaves the only stain
brightening gray October
with gnarly trees adorned.

Noël Patoine © 2009

The Nuisance of Weather by O.R. Gami

You have to live with weather.
Let it lick your face
elbow your plans
tumble you into the jet stream.

You change and rearrange
the coat, the shoes, the attitude.

Sunshine when you need shade,
Rainfall to muddy every note,
Cartons of slush in the mailbox.
Long, dim days that track
the floor with uncaring -
Tell them to wipe their feet.
•
O.R. Gami © 2009

Doug Norris

In his work life, Doug Norris teaches English to adult immigrants in Rhode Island, which is the most satisfying and gratifying work I've ever done. He likes writing poetry, too, though.

His poems have been published in Frogpond, American Tanka, Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online and elsewhere.

Dec 2013: "Dublin Scribe" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by the Origami Poems Project.

•

► Doug's microchaps are available to download. Click on the titles below to open & download/print single-page PDF.

Origami Microchap
Lines from Lost Notebooks
Click title to open microchap Cover by JanK •	TAROT A shuffled deck, a random draw, a flip of the card, the fate of my universe. The Joker turns over. What does it mean? Just a fool beginning some new journey The Death card arrives. How should I feel? Some skeleton celebrating the end of something. TITLED HAIKU QUARTET IN A STATION OF THE METRO fleeting faces blurred ghosts the screeching rails TURADH parting clouds gray skies give way to green hills glinting gold YO-YO AND STEGASAURUS His cigar box still smelling faintly of smoke, containing my childhood. MANGATA moonglow skimming dark waves spanning worlds	ELEPHANT RIDE Grand Opening: The local North Conway hardware store Selling hammers and sheetrock Advertising free rides On an African Elephant. People cluster Streaming past the Whippy-Dippy, Story Land and Dairy Queen Enduring steamy, spitting rain On a day made to order For these monstrous New Hampshire mosquitoes Tasting elephant for the first time. THE GLOAMING In the rising darkness boats parade the channel one by one under new stars the lighthouse blinks bridges bedecked in green the bay a constellation of beacons and buoys cosmos and maritime even the airport across the bay shooting rainbows into the kaleidoscopic night	AUGUST AFTERNOON (A Kidnapper’s Ransom) The sun demands I give up everything – mind, body, soul. No exceptions. AFTERWARD There will be no stone To mark my passing No grassy mound No Celtic cross No marble statue Or mausoleum No epithet “To be continued” No sandy pyramid Mummifying ego No Viking ship Lit by flaming arrows Blazing in the mist Just human hands Scattering my ashes Somewhere in the cove Where my spirit swam off Years ago • Doug Norris © 2022
Third Life Poems
Click title to open microchap Cover: Kloof St photo from Lauri Burke — Poet’s Comments I call these "Third Life Poems" because they all began as travel blog posts, where they still exist in cyberspace. Then they received a second life as Wordle images, push-pinned to a bulletin board. From the Wordles, I found origami poems. •	Metro-North Nobody platforms Consciousness necessitated Whatever maneuverings People without sky Without tracks Slow-moving sun erasing morning Seatmate strangers touching opposites No words Just sunglasses Blank as bees Locomotive nose blasting darkness Subway womb erupting galaxies Random Mamaroneck universe Awkward pause Stop train Manhattan Incident at Cape Town Crazy laughter Man on Kloof Drunk city night Smothered. Guarded. Raucous motorbike optimism Traffic at a standstill Hear Africa yell rooted wants - Deep bellied fears - Deep present uncertainty - Ever Stopping. Forgetting. Repeating. “We are crazy!” “We are crazy!” “We are crazy!”	Badgers! Headline: “Worthing Attacked” Reportedly yesterday. Quote: “Strippers exterminate government.” Society prepares for consequences. Headline: “Activist badgers causing murder” Quote: “Quizzically lead thousands of companions Deep into countryside.” Yes, blood. Years lost. Nuns bought. Cows mourning. Public mindless, yawning, Just another headline, Turning the page. Onto pigs. Ancient Tales Imaginary wastelands Talking libraries Memory curators Practicing revolution Seeing, showing Mechanical islands Token countryside Rubber villages Character factories Penny wonderlands When poets Blankly composed Darker songs, Scrambled life, Shaped conditions, Ended nations	Poem for Old Quebec This vast divine Woolen company Visitor snowmen Caribou heads Carnival invasion Cobbled and loose Walking twisted geography Sterile snow blowing Allée - White dunes down the Grand Layers of smiling life Stonewalling scowls and annoyances Ubiquitous bugles calling out Frozen beards Drunken tongues Stumbling strangers Holy creatures This muffled colony This common ground • Doug Norris © 2014
Beaches
Click title to open microchap Cover: View of Horseneck Beach from the web •	Narragansett Thirty years later The surf and the sand, The sun, the sea breeze, the scenes: Tanned, sinewy bodies of lifeguards and teens, Kids crabbing and sandcastle-building, Swells of surfers and body surfers and boogie boarders, Miles of swimmers and sailors and sun worshippers And the three of us, Who once spent entire summers planted here, Alternating hours between waves and beach towels, Now shooing away the herring gulls, Their irritated squawks Mimicking our own frantic talk Lamenting lost times in sacred places – Terminisi’s, Iggy’s, The Sunnyside, The meatballs and jukebox of Giro’s Spaghetti House, Where strangers recognizing anyone at the bar Would order a round for everyone, Free drinks piling up like rocks on a cairn, In empty shot glasses turned upside down Languid beach days lapsing into blurry pub nights Pints of salty seawater ale sloshing in frozen mugs The clink of four quarters dropping into the slot Voices rising in the starless, moonless dark Singing “The Ballad of New Orleans.”	Horseneck “If you listen carefully, You can hear the wind” Was the first poem I spoke – Uttered among dunes, Echoing wild waves, Amplified by emptiness, Resounding in the hollow Knobbed whelk of my ear. I was just a boy, Seven years conscious, Scratching mysteries From driftwood and sand. I did not know anything About poetry Until the night my father, Recalling my words, Tapped his typewriter, Clackety-clacking the keys, Transforming my line Into an enduring shape Made of windblown dunes. Sankaty The seal followed me, Keeping its distance Precisely angled 45 degrees, Watching from the waves While I walked the slanted sand To the lighthouse and back. Neither of us spoke Between glances and progress, Each of us content To merely indulge Our pleasures and curiosities.	Katama After work, When the dishes had been washed, The tables cleaned and all of the food Eaten or stored away, We built a bonfire Between the dunes and the tide, Laughed away the darkness, Swam under starlight and moonglow, Slept to a lullaby of waves Punctuated by crackling, popping flames, Dancing like blue ghosts above the sand. We never worried about sharks then, Only the beach police, making their rounds. If we made it through the night, By morning it was all just smoke, Charred skeletons of pitch pine and driftwood, Glowing embers that matched the rising dawn. We drowned the evidence with seawater, Buried our skeletons under glacial scrape, Hid from the sun’s glare in kitchens That fed the rich and famous, Scraping plates, rinsing glasses, Counting hours to the next Star-drunk moon-drugged sea-high. Race Point A day’s walk in the fog Staggering between strewn dogfish Abandoned by fishermen Their eyes black, hollow Still staring out at the ocean As if, even in death, They ponder where they came from, They wonder where they’re going. • Doug Norris © 2014
Toward Wisdom
Click title to open microchap •	The Eleven O'Clock News Tonight’s top story: A little gray moth Strumming the screen door, Moving wings in Monk rhythms, Tuned to the light of the lamp inside. The moth finds a hole, Makes it bigger, Squeezes through, Discovers the lamp. Zap! Sizzle, smoke... One last loud note. The moth explodes In surprise or ecstasy. Maybe this news Doesn’t mean much Except to me and the moth. Ash heap and smoke ghost, Lamp light hums its karmic melody. Murmuration Black as words - In a storybook Two looping, Swooping clouds Shadowing gridlock. So the gray asphalt Seems a green field. Billboards forge a forest. Automobiles roam Free as buffalo. Only starlings Winging as one, Waltzing in the sun, Proving to all How easy it is.	Toward Wisdom Just a duckling, Yellow and limp, Like a flattened tennis ball In Dusty’s drooling Dog mouth. The dog Wants to know What to do With this thing Plucked from the pond. Something happened When they were playing And now The thing Isn’t. The dog Walks in circles, Won’t let go. She has done Something wrong December Morning In winter I wake popping - pop - To the pop Broken dawn. The fog lifts. A dream disappears. Somewhere explodes a duck. From bed I lurch, Grinding coffee over gunshot, Wincing at the aftertaste.	I Crossed A Country Crow Road I crossed a country crow road The woods were black with crow I wondered which would steal my soul There was no way to know I crossed a country crow road The sky was black with crow I wondered which would flay my flesh There was no way to know I crossed a country crow road The fields were black with crow I wondered which would eat my eyes There was no way to know I crossed a country crow road The snow was black with crow I wondered which would take my tongue There was no way to know I crossed a country crow road The road was black with crow I wonder when the road will end There is no way to know • Doug Norris © 2013
Marginalia
Click title to open microchap Cover: Detail from medieval manuscript, unknown artist •	These poems were inspired by a trip to Dublin, the Book of Kells, and a commonplace book I picked up in a used bookstore Dublin Scribe Here and now Moving my ink Across an empty manuscript White as the New England snow I wander Through mist and moss Up cold stone steps Into the land of lost memories To glimpse a ghost A daydreaming Irish youth Glancing out his little window To the wild green world beyond Death of a Poet (To Li Po) Such ancient light, Seen so clearly Dancing silver, Between the lily pads, You considered A lifetime Looking for the right word, When wordlessly The moon compelled And you found Zen: The awestruck poet Losing himself Smooching the moon.	Just Before Waking The moon Between blinds Like a washed copper penny Note 147. Sunshine Through the Window Pleasant To me Is the glittering of the sun Today Upon these margins, Because it flickers so. Four hundred - thirty - eight Thousand suns Have risen and set Since that pleasing light Fell upon the manuscript, Glittering upon the margins, Gilding the vellum. I am pleased to report, In the slanted light, Through the frosted window, Across the scribbled notebook On this bright winter's day, It continues Flickering so.	Siesta, 800 A.D. Twig and root, The blackbird's song, End of the day, - A lover's grave In the margins. Even this Book, With all its weight, Can't keep the minds Of simple monks From wandering. So what if A few harmless dragons, Inklings and beasts, Take flight, Escape the parchment, Evade the vellum, Slip out the splashed window? • Doug Norris © 2013
Rhymes & Enchantments
Click title to open microchap Cover photo: Monkey Dreams By Robert Schlenker •	Rhymes & Enchantments grew from thoughts that were all scraps, written on napkins and bar coasters over the years. Napkin Poem I love the Earth But cannot stay. It's not my choice. It's just the way. And so I ask, And this I pray: To learn To love To live Today. Genesis We find a place Among the stones To watch the rising sun. Begat, begotten, Forget, forgotten - Too late. It's begun	Feeling Frog Head drowsy, Sinuses lousy, I feel a frog Coming on. In my wallowing, Sludgy swallowing, Muddy disposition, I feel frog. Slimy sheen, Turning green, Head to toad, Frog explodes. My thoughts are dark Like a frog. My skin is moist Like a frog. I am jumpy, Slightly bumpy. My bed's a bog. I am frog.	My tongue is fat. I cough and croak. I mump and mope. I am frog broke. I still dream: From kiss to king. But I'll take any action I can get. That's the thing About being frog: High aspirations, Low expectations. Monkeytown The monkeys wake in Monkeytown Leaving beds of monkeydown, Monkeydreams of great renown, For uniforms of monkeybrown. They monkeydrive and monkeywalk, Monkeycurse and monkeytalk And jog around the monkeyblock As days tick by the monkeyclock, As days tick by the monkeyclock, As days tick by the monkeyclock. • Doug Norris © 2013
GET HAPPY!
Click title to open microchap 20 poems inspired by tracks on the album, 'Elvis Costello and The Attractions' •	Love for Tender and others Can be a love for money Or a love for kindness. Choose wisely. They are very different sorrows. Opportunity Knocking, knocking, knocking at the door. Avon? Death? Jehovah’s Witnesses? We need less doorbell. The Imposter Seven company pens Clattered on the counter, Falling out of the pocket, Under the noose of the tie That had squeezed my soul dry. Secondary Modern The post-post modernist has come and gone. Back to the caves, people. Back to the caves. King Horse King Horse ruled with an iron hoof. Zebraphobic, slightly off-centaur, Equine equality neighsayer. Exterminated unicorns. Persecuted Pegasus. Consorted with sacred cows.	Possession All possession is obsession, More impression than expression. Who needs another piece of clutter? Own nothing. Owe nobody. Man Called Uncle Woman called aunt. They make cousins you don’t want. Clowntime Is Over Doomsday is nigh. Angels high. Horsemen fly. Release the mimes. New Amsterdam Sold for trinkets. Beaver pelts, Wampum belts. Knickknacks. Gimcracks. Gewgaws, kickshaws. Bibelots, curios. Baubles, trifles, whatnots. Yorked anew. High Fidelity Def, when music was - Before Hi The center of the universe, There was Nirvana, there was Hi-Fi. I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down Too many Guinness, the hangover Abandoned to the channel Televising lawn bowls.	Motel Matches The blue light of the TV Turned to a Forties noir. Warped when they kiss. Human Touch No sense makes sense Absent the heartfelt hand. Beaten To The Punch That thunk you hear is the thunk Of a thought I had one day But then forgot to copyright. Temptation If the apple had been offered to me, I could have said no. But the fate of mankind Would have hinged on a meatball grinder. I Stand Accused Of not living up To the universe’s plan. In my defense The dog ate my holywork. Riot Act Text a manifesto. Tweet a screed. Blurb an epic. Origami an opus. Don’t let this shrinking world stop you. Say something • Doug Norris © 2011
Minnows (Summer Haiku)
Click title to open microchap	The graveyard shimmers Somewhere beyond, a plane flies, Someone mows a lawn The fisherman's bridge A crow watches the current A father's ashes	A tanker arrives Making the bay look tiny These darting minnows Orange daylilies Turning away from the church Stones casting shadows	Fading lavender Absent the purple flowers No white butterflies • Doug Norris © 2010
Omitted Tales
Click title to open microchap •	Death and the Goose Boy A boy approached a pond when he noticed Something streaking up the hill toward him. “Who are you,” the boy asked. “Where do you come from?” The shadow faced the boy and spoke. “I am Death. I came from the water.” “I am Johannes,” the boy responded. “The village goose boy.” “Where are your geese,” Death asked. “Drinking,” the boy replied. “Uh-oh,” said Death. “What’s wrong,” asked the boy. Death hesitated, awkwardly Searching for a way to explain it. “Never mind,” Death shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” MANHATTAN DREAM shadow sprays the sidewalk - A half In front of an Italian restaurant With a water hose. It is dusk. The skyline is sepia, like a 1940s tintype. In twilight, Manhattan is even more Crowded with ghosts and lost souls, Exiled from past lives, taking shape In wraiths of steam above city grates. Some of the ghosts frown as the living Saunter through them without apology Or awareness. A flower girl peddles ghost orchids. A fruit vendor tosses pale banana peels. A phantom taxi circles Times Square Endlessly, searching for a fare	FOUND CHARM (NEW ORLEANS) The Frog Charm: Kill a frog. Dry him Thoroughly in the sun (Or put him in an ant’s bed) Until the flesh is removed from the bones. Among the bones you will find One that looks like a fishhook, Another like a fish scale. To win the desired person, Hook the bone looking like a fishhook Discreetly in her garments. If her devotion proves too irksome, Flip the bone looking like a fish scale At her as she walks away. Her love for you will immediately disappear THE GRASSHOPPER’S VERSION It was cold and I was hungry. The ants were drying their grain. So I asked for some. They said: “Why did you not Treasure up food during the summer?” I said: “I had not leisure enough. I passed the days in singing.” They said: “If you were foolish enough To sing all summer, you must dance Supperless to bed in winter.” Just then an anteater shuffled by. It ate the ants. I took the grain. Moral: Work or shirk today, Tomorrow there are no guarantees.	SUNDAY IN PROVIDENCE Stragglers ignoring The raggedy stranger Hogging the street corner, Smelling like hamburger, Hawking his newspaper, Backing the socialists, Begging for change. They go next door – To Johnny Rockets Neon blinking, Burgers sizzling, Speakers blaring: away, - whim - “A away, - whim - A The lion sleeps tonight.” • Doug Norris © 2009