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Grammy’s House

My favorite place is Grammy’s house-
I like to visit with my mouse.
We stroll the grounds,
We make the rounds,
Making cupcakes for each and all.
At the end of the day,
We make our way,
To Grammy’s bed and snuggle.

Joya Marie Strubing

I’m from a radio talking, a book being read, or a cat purring at my heels

I’m from games of daring, swinging on ropes and playing in a tree house made out of wood
I’m from bulging mountains covered in trees, blue sky almost hidden, and a grassy meadow that can’t be cut short
I’m from pasta boiling, chili sizzling, and Dad sticking his head in the fireplace to make the flames go whoosh
I’m from “just leave me alone”, “turn off the TV”, “I can’t stand this anymore”
I’m from twisted ankles, a bleeding nose, and celery jammed in my nose
I’m from bell-bottom pants, stuffed animals, and cat toys in my closet
I’m from those moments. I’m from those memories. I am a friend and a loved one.

Sarah WapnerI’m from the rustling pines, clinking screws, the smell of taco meat and tortillas frying in the pan.
I’m from climbing rocks, colored stones, pollywogs in the lake.
I’m from sunlight spilling through the trees like milk.
I’m from crab stuffing, hot cocoa, baking cookies.
I’m from “welcome back, no way, yes way, chopped liver!”.
I’m from a bump on my head, bruises all over, and a bloody face.
I’m from old jackets, backpacks, and legos stuffed in my closet.
I’m from those moments. I am from those memories. I am a traveling bug.

Jarod RischpaterI’m from a silent room that smells of new paint that I can read in day to night, music playing in the living room, drawing things that no one has drawn before.
I’m from a forest with several forts, a swing that makes you glide through the air, with friends on a field trip that make you feel like your can fly anywhere.
I’m from drops of rain that pound down like thunder, a milky cloud like whipped cream in a bowl, an overflowing river like too much water in a cup.
I’m from a sizzling pan of bacon, a kitchen that smells like cookies baking in the oven, the fire on my back, crackle, crackle.
I’m from “wake up, shut up, I hate you, turn off the light, eat your dinner!” I’m from “how was work”, I love you, time for bed, good night, I’ll see you in the morning”.
I’m from lost jobs, people dying, hospitals, moving into a new home and leaving an old one behind, and bloody knees.
I’m from books hiding in the closet, pictures in my mind and in my drawers, journals from first grade under my bed, wrinkled clothes crammed in closets, smelly soccer cleats.
I’m from those moments. I am from those memories. I am from that old book you are reading that you wish would never end.
Happy Memories
Take me back, Take me back
to that time- to that place
that place deep in my memories
where all I can remember
is your smiling face and
the way your lips taste
take me back take me there
Take me any where- but here!
Smile, for me, one more time, for me?
Smile like you did in that perfect place
Oh, I know that you asked for space
But I can’t go one more day
Without your happy face
Take me back- please?- to that place
Where I lost my heart to you
Where I lost my heart to you
Where I couldn’t see anything beautiful
But you, and your smile
Take me back, I can’t go one more day.
And you can’t say “Happy”
Without our names together
Happy- in that time, in that place
Happy is you and me- yes in that place
Any memory of you,
Is my happy place
Jillian Fulton
The Wonderer
Who argues when the birds sing?
When the sun goes down?
When things that are supposed to happen
No one makes a fuss.
It’s the way things are.
So who argues when the wonderer
Wonders past my door?
Things that are supposed to happen
Happen, and so
It’s no surprise to me
When he makes his way past.
Not doing any harm,
Doing only what he knows how to do,
To go forward.
What is he looking for?
Perhaps it is solitude,
Absolute peace.
But I know he is just looking for
A place.
A place to stay, a place to belong.
In a way, it’s my own
Form of solitude,
Watching him go by.
A chance for myself
To see what others must
When looking at me.
Another wonderer.
Finding a place.
Emmy DiGirolamo

There is a place,
A place of truth,
Where the truths are lies.
A place that is everything.
Where there is nothing.
A place where anything can be done,
Where nothing is done.
A place where people die that are alive,
Where people live that are dead.
A place of inaction,
Where inaction is caused by action.
A place that is made of something,
Where that something is made of nothing.
A place where everybody is free,
Where freedom is entrapment.
A place of no celebration,
Where there is celebration for no celebration.
A place of many colors,
Where the only colors are black and white.
A place of light and dark,
Where the dark is brighter than the light.
A place of happiness,
Where happiness is made of sadness.
A place of contradiction.
This place is my mind.

Richard La Plante

n Living Here

Out here past where the center line ends,
seasons pass.
You might hear voices
telling you there’s a way to do things.
Horned Owl, Red-tail Hawk:
Don’t poison the wood rats we eat.
Chickadee: Let the red berries cover your porch
where wild honeysuckle plants itself.
Great Blue Heron: Fill your pond with koi, for me.
Alligator Lizard: Keep the cat inside, so we can
lie on the doorstep all day, begetting,
tails and jaws entwined.
Bracken fern, mugwort, horsetail, redwood sorrel:
Clear Scotch broom, periwinkle, forget-me-not, ivy.
Be alert in what you plant.
Crawdad, Steelhead, Dragonfly: Let the creek stones be.
Don’t take too much water. No oil leaks; no Drano.
You live in the world.
Sing this song every day
so the sun will rise.
That is all.
Karen Close

Ode to Rain…In Memoriam Dr. Seuss

This should be Spring, it is nor Fall!
This darn weather’s off the wall.

Every day is still more wet.
Much more wet, it could not get!

Outside the water falls…and falls
While I am inside, wrapped in shawls.

All we get is more cold wet rain
I wish I could be back in Spain!

I stay inside each long, long day
When can I go outside to play?

Can you stop the rain, my friend?
It’s time for winter’s rain to end.

Inside I moan and fret and sit.
I’m really tired of this rain stuff.

Joy Churchman

Chemo Days In The Bonny Doon Reserve
Whenever I can I walk along the road
beside the reserve that burnt last summer
Somedays right after the chemo session
it’s hard
The nerves in my fingers and toes
tingle like electric shocks
And the bones in my hips and shoulders
ache in a burning way
My face when the wind blows freezes
into an expression I can’t change
And if the wind causes tears in my eyes
they hurt with a terrible pain
so that I have to stop and push my
gloved fists into the sockets
until it subsides
I trudge along on these days
like a soldier depleted by
the ravages of war and the march home
But the reserve brings hope
For months now green has been
sprouting everywhere
I look up to the top of blackened trees
and green pine needles have grown
Life is still here forcing her way into
the charred landscape
It’s encouraging
It makes me feel strong and vital
no matter what the chemo is doing to me
I feel strong in my core
I watch the birds
red headed woodpeckers, scrub jays, blue jays,
black crows, tiny black hooded juncos
All so alive, full of health, full of purpose
The purpose of survival
I feel uplifted and happy.
Hazel Weiser