Alpha Writer's Poetry

My 2013 copy of Lyrical Iowa finally arrived.
Since I have not been able to attend Alpha Writers
for months, I was anxious to see what was
published.

Out of almost 2,000 entries, 368 were chosen
for reading enjoyment. I'm delighted to
tell you that the seven that follow are from
Mitchell County,the Alpha Writer's group.

I've included pictures.
Enjoy.



MY DAD
When I was just a little girl
perhaps just barely three,
I loved to crawl up on Dad's lap
and have him read to me.
I still feel his sturdy arms
hug me as he read
my well-worn favorite story book
before I went to bed.
I could recite it word for word.
Eyes twinkling, Dad would tease
by changing or omitting words,
adding an extra squeeze.
I'd kiss and nuzzle his whiskered face,
inspect each over-all pocket,
to discover a secret treasure
we would talk about.
Dad would sing me silly songs,
listen to my bedtime prayer,
bless with me a goodnight kiss,
then tuck me in with love and prayer.
     Dorcas Dorow

PROGRESS....

Legs crippled with toil and time, he sits

Head to one side--glasses askew

And watches his mother walk out of the cornfield

With senses revived, he remembers more

A wife--brown hair lifted by the breeze

Cleaning sweet corn on the front lawn

Giggling from the grove

Hammer rat-a-tat-tat--with a vision of a tree house

A thunder boom--a blessing of rain

Children running barefoot through puddles

Rhubarb pie warm from the oven

Pulling weeds from the garden

Plucking apples from the trees

Laughter in the lane at the end of a school day...

The old house he was born in

The house his children were raised in

Sits now with toppling ceilings and wasted walls

Surrounded by brush and debris

Waiting for a singular match

          Kathleen Stauffer

 

 

 

               

it's happening
sun shines
mud dries...

birds sing
wind howls
dead wood falls
snow shrinks
puddles form
on His day of rest
       Mary Fisk
r

                  At Dusk

 

The old man

jabs the

smoldering leaves.

He spits.

Brown saliva

fuels the flames.

He leans into the rake,

remembers his Lois,

talks to the fire.

 

She loved

rakin' days best.

helped when she

was able.

Things ain't the

same now on

these rakin' days.

He spits again,

swipes his chin

kicks the fire

and turns away.

     Ramona Morse

Dark veins of tall oak
Creep across new-fallen snow
As full moon rises
     Cathy Lee Simon

YELLOW

Cooling

Soothing

Refreshing lemonade

Springtime daffodils

Sunshine in sewing room

created by bright dandelion walls

Comforting backdrop for cozy bedroom

Pleasing touch with blue for a Swedish flag

Laughing A-line dress bursting into full skirt

Lifelong friend of gardens, lawns and swimmers

Youngsters puckering lips taste sour lemon juices

Revitalizing rhythms with other pastels in a tiny baby quilt

warming splashes across a dining room floor for sleepy dog

I am yellow

               Carol Sisterman

 

 

 

DROUGHT RELIEF

 

Dry, desert-like, dreary
The land yearns for a drink
Occasional sips barely keep it alive
In protest, cracks widen
Plants shrivel, wilt, die
Clouds of dust clog the senses
Rivers and lakes withdraw their teeming bounty
Prayers ascend to heaven with no response
Cries of agony fall on impotent ears
Promises of grace repeatedly broken
Dash hopes against parched hearts
Life-blood ebbs without the flow
Frustration, resignation the lot of many
Until nature relents in abundance
And the earth, at last, gets drunk on rain
     Margaret Smolik




RETIREMENT
Hating time clocks, night shifts, OT
I patiently waited to quit
Now that I have obtained freedom
I don't know what to do with it
                    Steven Thompson

Congratulations to the Iowa poets!

 

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Something else to think about:

We write about our parents, our homes, nature and work.

Alfred Tennyson, English poet, called Job, a book in the Bible, "one of the greatest poems, whether of ancient or modern literature." It is filled with divine records of human philosophy, gropings of human wisdom and gems of spiritual truth.

Some things never change. We are still working on understanding God and ourselves and how we fit into His entire universal plan.

While vacationing recently, I penned another poem....

BROKEN
Late one night
Struggling to tug a morsel of joy from the gloom
She separates herself
Into pieces--
Events, relationships, perceptions--
The sun inches over the horizon
As she understands
The pieces no longer fit.
A jigsaw
With a missing piece:
God.

Is it possible that nothing really "fits" without God?