pantoum poem by liz snader

Those Times by Elizabeth Snader

She was only four years young, playing with her friends.

Running around in the grass, all laughing.

Gold and black uniforms separate teams.

All these young, vibrant children living life.

Running around in the grass, all laughing.

Parents cheering loudly from the sidelines.

All these young, vibrant children living life.

Expressing their innocence through sports, now.

Parents cheering loudly from the sidelines-

Children gallivanting through the green grass-           

Expressing their innocence through sports, now.

Enjoying their time together always.

Children gallivanting through the green grass-

Their peers are their friends for just a few years,

Enjoying their time together always.

Not knowing what is coming next for them.

She was only four years old playing with her friends.

Not sure of what’s next, but no real scare.

Gold and black uniforms separate the teams;

This is her life without worries-for now.

The kids continue to prance around free.

Running around in the grass, all laughing—

Just in time to enjoy their youthful thoughts.

All these young, vibrant children living life.

The ball is kicked into the goal by her.

Parents cheering loudly from the sidelines.

Everyone begins to scream for the team—

Expressing their innocence through sports, for now…

A Man Said to the Universe (Imitation) by Nicholas Ingalls

 

A man said to the universe, a three

Word statement. To that man, the words meant more.

“Sir, I exist!” The man proclaimed up to

The heavens. He meant to say he lived, he

Was there, he existed, he would thrive in

This world that was at the tips of his fingers.

To the universe he was nothing. Not

But a speck, a tiny user of the air

The universe supplied for him. Air that

Drifts across the earth, swirling in cycles

Of life and death, never destroyed nor to

Be created. There until the very

Land the man stands on collapses beneath

His feet, dragging him into the center

Of the earth, the very breadth from whence

He came. The cold, dank soil his new coffin.

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me a

Sense of obligation.” No laws that bind

The universe to hold onto life, the

Last light that sparkles, bright white in his blues,

Until the soulless, blank stare of his eyes

Roll back in his head, a man now without

Sight, white noise all that he now sees. A man

So blind in life, only on his last breath,

His last moments of conscious thought, does he

Finally see for the very first time,

The universe had no obligation

To find for the man that which he wanted.

Only the man’s job to achieve his will.

A Man Said to the Universe
by Stephen Crane

A man said to the universe:

“Sir, I exist!"
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

Hope by Ivy Jones

Hope

A man said to the universe “I’m here.”

“Can you not see me? Can you not hear me?”

“I have been her since the beginning” he

Continued to yell up at the heavens.

“Why are you punishing me with the plague?”

“I am innocent. A by standard with

No help, no love, no support in my life.”

“I’m here. Can you not see me or hear me?”

Clouds began to shift and shape to cover

The small shimmer of light that shown on

The dead ground, once alive and green but now

Is barren as a wanting mother. Hope.

“My family is dead. My wife and kids

Taken too soon from this world good time.”

“I’m here. Can you not see me or hear me?”

The man continued to yell in hopes of

A response from the Gods. Yet nothing came.

He laid on his knees like a beggar starved.

The expression on his face said it all.

Darkness had consumed him soul, body, and

Mind. The shell of a man was left behind.

“I’m here. Can you not see me or hear me?”

Finally after so much time had passed

The universe answered his questions now.

“We can see you and hear you all the time

But we cannot answer your prayers. It was

For told that the world would suffer for sins.

We are sorry you were caught in the wind.”

“I am here. You can see me and hear me.”

Life had come back to the shell of a man.

____________________________________________________________________

Poem of the Day: 

A Man Said to the Universe

BY STEPHEN CRANE

A man said to the universe:

“Sir, I exist!"

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

“A sense of obligation.”

My Stolen Plan by Ivy Jones

My Stolen Plan

I must have been seven

Or eight, maybe nine.

My younger brother

Always had money

He was never broke

Even though he didn't

Have a job or work.

He told me of

His plan for our

Mother. With his money

He planned to go

To the store for

A large bouquet

Of flowers for no

Reason, other than

He felt like it.

This cannot happen

I told myself.

If he succeeds

In his task for her

I will look like a

Fool. No longer

“the one” of us four

Children raised.

I stole his money

From his room and bought my

Own bouquet of flowers.

It would be me, I tell

You. Not my younger

Brother’s plan of gift. 

Array of Loss by Ivy Jones

Array of Loss

All the new thinking is about loss thoughts.

We lost human connection silver strings,

Broken, replaced, shattered by zeros and

Ones. Otters still hold hands to not drift to

Slumber or wash away with the tides drift.

The clam shells cover the beach from shoreline

To shoreline. Otters have eaten them all

And only left their cover evidence.

Once so cute and cuddly to attack

Animals of helpless no hand creatures.

These small clams leave colonies holes in

The sand. It is the trails left behind now.

Holes form in new thoughts, a sponge can still work

Though. Even after hours of use and

Scrubbing of pots and pans day after day.

So why can’t new thoughts last as long as that?

A sponge can hold water though consumed with

Holes from corner to corner and both sides.

“I hate cleaning dishes” is what my youth

Sister used to say. She complained ALL time.

It was like the Never Ending Story

Followed by the Never Ending Story

Two and Three, and sometimes Four depending.

That story did end though and so did

My sister. She was Ten and full of life.

If I forget and move on during life

She did not move on, she cannot ever

Again. New thoughts means Sarah is forgot.

Not in our minds or daily actions she

Is out of sight, out of mind with picture.

Smoke Signals by Ayla Rogers

Smoke Signals by Ayla Rogers

There was a time I so longed to share this

Feeling resonating deep in these bones,

Like a reverb from my epicenter,

My origin echoing through some viscous

Medium, soft enough to permeate,

But too firm to yield to gentle pressure

Points, and paradigm shifts with sticky keys

To locks of hair you loved twirling, tangling

Up my fingers like rings, and crimson

Ties that bind my hands to your tasseled head.

Something senseless, like nibbling my ear,

And how I still feel it, and how I hear

Hasty breath like imagined melodies

From a brook that babbles human lyrics;

At least rolling ripples of empathy

Across a frictionless plain, cold as ice,

Sea, all tundra-bound to form a sinkhole

Where I can practice the art of drowning.

Breaking, eating ice and throwing up fire

That reminds me of the way roses look

In your eyes, when burning bleaches them

Stark white, like the moonlight we bask beneath,

Whether or not she fits into our plans.

We live the sharpest lives on a blade’s edge,

Bending backs, you live to make my squirm,

Knowing I’d surrender it all for one

Kiss me anywhere you like, but leave me

Something to hold to, someone worth holding.

Leave me anything but disenchanted.

Kiss me anything but the last goodbye.

There are some words my lips refuse to move

For, and two lips my words could never touch.

You can’t even loose your lips to swallow

My sweetest sentiments, or the savor

Of my skin caught in your teeth, sunflower

Seeds that tried to sprout where land was fallow.

Now the good left undone means nothing more

Than pulling out the roots to curl under,

Curl up, and burrow down deep in a whole

Mess of you own invention, still drilling

Holes in your head, like petrol might surface—

Full of overturned fishes, and x’d eyes

Still mark the same old spots, without treasure,

Where some will only bury their trinkets,

Like happy hour glasses and jewel’ry

Every now and then I find a seashell,

A shale, a nesting ground—some sign of life—

The subtly sensuous sentience

Of sequence and substance so meaningful,

I can’t quit leaving signals in the sand.

                                                                                                                                                                

Poem of the Day: For Love

by Robert Creeley

Yesterday I wanted to

speak of it, that sense above

the others to me

important because all

that I know derives

from what it teaches me.

Today, what is it that

is finally so helpless,

different, despairs of its own

statement, wants to

turn away, endlessly

to turn away.

If the moon did not ...

no, if you did not

I wouldn’t either, but

what would I not

do, what prevention, what

thing so quickly stopped.

That is love yesterday

or tomorrow, not

now. Can I eat

what you give me. I

have not earned it. Must

I think of everything

as earned. Now love also

becomes a reward so

remote from me I have

only made it with my mind.

Here is tedium,

despair, a painful

sense of isolation and

whimsical if pompous

self-regard. But that image

is only of the mind’s

vague structure, vague to me

because it is my own.

Love, what do I think

to say. I cannot say it.

What have you become to ask,

what have I made you into,

companion, good company,

crossed legs with skirt, or

soft body under

the bones of the bed.

Nothing says anything

but that which it wishes

would come true, fears

what else might happen in

some other place, some

other time not this one.

A voice in my place, an

echo of that only in yours.

Let me stumble into

not the confession but

the obsession I begin with

now. For you

also (also)

some time beyond place, or

place beyond time, no

mind left to

say anything at all,

that face gone, now.

Into the company of love

it all returns.

Sunday Afternoon By Rachael Jones

Today of all days he had to ask me,

The day with intolerable searing heat

"Go with him Virginia" urged mother.

"Yes, what a fine young man" agreed father.

This unintelligent, unworthy fool

Asked to escort me to the church social!

The green grass quickly yellowed by the sun

Better not stain my dress for I will scream.

And this dog, dreadful dog must go away

It sniffs and slobbers causing a ruckus.

Dressed like a peasant smelling repulsive,

Who does he think he is, sitting next me?

No longer can I embroider this cloth,

My eyes drift toward the soft blue water

Following ripples to the muscled men.

Damn that trumpet man, endlessly blowing

Such violent noises harming my ears.

When will my misery end? When can I

Ditch this appalling monstrosity?

When will these gossiping women quiet?

I dread these dumb 'fun family events’

Parents hovering by, staring into

Distance but their eyes move like hawks on prey.

Children running about, they should be poised,

Sophisticated and proper like me.

Imagination is my one escape,

Away from this bore of a man whom is

As lively as a pile of large boulders.

Men in the boats please hear my pleas and cries

Take me in your cloud like sails to the sky!

Rowdy By Rachael Jones

Rowdy By Rachael Jones

Stampede every second weekend in June

Bulls and broncs, over eight seconds to shine.

It’s not the same, although we train all year

Rowdy and I prefer to stay on ground

Racing time as we reach for each barrel.

Little boys and girls sit on the fence

Wanting to feel the soil beneath their boots;

Crowds jump to their feet as we pass the stands.

Dirt flies as if it was thrown by a shovel,

Earth forced in the opposite direction.

Together we race as one unit combined

His hind legs hidden beneath the overcast,

Dust clouds prevent returning to that path.

Our hearts thundering like a stormy night.

Luminous light peering through the filth and hair,

Hair so coarse and dark, it helps block the sun.

His coat darkening with sweat as it pools.

Muscles tense and tight, contracting. Running.

His gait increasing, I sink deeper in

Sitting high leaning forward in the saddle;

Knees in, ankles out, ready to drive and kick.

Hands high and steady, calm in the intense moment.

Rounding the corner, turning on a dime,

I focus on each barrel as they come

Our last lap to take in this arena,

Seconds stand between us and the buckle.

Every stride and run is just to escape

Not trying to escape any danger, instead

The darkness as the sun sets for the day.

The Elgin Stampede comes to a close.

Loss and Loess by Peter Gidlund

All the new thinking is about loss
Erosion, the banks and the loess.
It is the denominator of the lowest.
Asking out a girl, rejected by the lass.
A loss in my mind, sleeping through class.
A paper in a hot car, about to curl,
milk in the sun, about to curdle.
Eating too much pie, about to hurl.
Falling on your face, as you attempt to hurdle.
Having your favorite pet you
notice in your store.
An abnormally large hampster,
that you named Chuck, and loved,
but it had to escape the cage.
At an age where it is impossible
to see anything other than that fact.
I knew how to act, but I couldn't see the back.
I ran through the day like a fiery mare.
Hoofing upon the impressionable sod.

Drew, on a strength I didn't
have before finding new life to
fill the spot of the hampster, a puppy.
A lively young buck, that likes to prance and squeal.
About to steal the corn, but it is too late.
The new puppy keeping us safe, never leaving my side.
For what is loss, but just a vacancy,
in the hotel of my heart.

Story Poem by Peter Gidlund

The sun rising over
the mountains, the son,
playing his gamboy,
Charizard and Blastoise,
paper and scissors,
victory and loss,
have been decided,
long before the match

As the splint feeds

the feeble flame,

in the heart of

the lonely cave, looking

for friends to swallow up,

like a selfish nephilim.

As my hair falls out,

My teeth to rot,

My eyes are deaf,

And my ears are blind,

My mouth is sealed,

Wandering in a steely cave

searching for the treasure

of a trusted friend,

The Original companion

on my side, till the whistle,

I would not want for 

them to faint, or to 

feint their crys, but their

strength will only raise,

from the raze of the cave,

or the rays of our star.

Perhaps by Megan Windom

Perhaps by Megan Windom

Just one more spin and I may lose my head.

I already feel a hitch in my chest.

Is it from the dancing, though? Or perhaps

because of this man, Adams…no, Daniel.

Good thing he has such a firm grip on me,

otherwise my cold toes would give me up

and he might suggest we run away where

the water can’t reach us.  I like the sand.

I can see every step we’ve taken.

Over there where the sand is dry and soft,

it looks like a series of tiny dunes.

But at that line, where the moisture is still

clinging on, and my heels lay abandoned,

the prints of his shoes and my toes are sharp.

The circles we’ve been dancing will remain

etched into the earth. At least until the

next high tide rolls in and washes it clean.

I’m sure if my sister could see us now

she would be pinching her mouth while dying

to ask: Do you think you’re in love with him?

Oh, dear Sister, what a silly notion

you do have. As if it matters at all!

Perhaps I don’t know. Even while he breathes

in my ear and whispers into my neck

Perhaps another glass of that red wine

will clarify why my head is spinning,

why his eyes drink in my crimson dress and

his hand inches closer to my zipper.

Perhaps I can’t say. I couldn’t say if

I love him, but I like him well enough.

For Falling by Megan Windom

For Falling by Megan Windom

Yesterday I wanted to speak it,

that nagging drone in my head that directs

my form into its proper prostration.

Today the lock jaw settles in. Unease.

A flittering building bile under

the heaving in my chest. It’s in my head.

Logic whispers soothingly in my face,

the warm embrace that tries to seep into

my head,  ensuring me it’s not that hard.

But sensibility wavers. Sometimes

I wonder what it is I’ve done to you.

We talk about getting better, being

better. Saturn jingles its rings at us.

Miniature duplicates of its loop

around Sol. We wonder where it goes when

it inserts itself discretely behind

the violently burning orb that keep us,

forever falling.  Pushing and pulling.

Incapable of moving forward in

the direction we wish to escape to.

It’s good, this act of balancing power

because eventually Saturn sneaks out

from behind supposed oblivion

and it shakes its rings at us once again.

We may be falling, but it keeps us here,

not flung into the emptiness beyond.

The uncertainty and trepidation

that chase too much internal scrutiny

are flung away when our orbits re-sync

and we fall into a lovers embrace.

_______________________________________

For Love by Robert Creeley

Yesterday I wanted to

speak of it, that sense above   

the others to me

important because all

that I know derives

from what it teaches me.   

Today, what is it that   

is finally so helpless,

different, despairs of its own   

statement, wants to

turn away, endlessly

to turn away.

If the moon did not ...

no, if you did not

I wouldn’t either, but   

what would I not

do, what prevention, what   

thing so quickly stopped.   

That is love yesterday   

or tomorrow, not

now. Can I eat

what you give me. I

have not earned it. Must   

I think of everything

as earned. Now love also   

becomes a reward so

remote from me I have

only made it with my mind.

Here is tedium,

despair, a painful

sense of isolation and   

whimsical if pompous

self-regard. But that image   

is only of the mind’s

vague structure, vague to me   

because it is my own.

Love, what do I think

to say. I cannot say it.

What have you become to ask,   

what have I made you into,

companion, good company,   

crossed legs with skirt, or   

soft body under

the bones of the bed.

Nothing says anything   

but that which it wishes   

would come true, fears   

what else might happen in

some other place, some   

other time not this one.   

A voice in my place, an   

echo of that only in yours.

Let me stumble into

not the confession but   

the obsession I begin with   

now. For you

also (also)

some time beyond place, or   

place beyond time, no   

mind left to

say anything at all,

that face gone, now.

Into the company of love   

it all returns.