Members' Poetry
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought
and the thought has found words.
~ Robert Frost
“Disclaimer: The poet is responsible for content. GCWA does not edit posted poetry. Members may provide critique feedback to the poet.”
Winners of the 2010 Writing Contest - Poetry
Read winning entries here
Carol Drummond, But I Did Not Truly Look At You, First place contest winner, posted April 2010
Mary Beth Lundgren, Cold Snap, second place contest winner, posted April 2010
Larry Stiles, What Makes Little Girls Scream? third place contest winner, posted April 2010
Member's Poems
Marth Jeffers, Olé!, posted August 2010
Joe Pacheco, Dejection on a Florida Summer Afternoon, posted August 2010
Joe Pacheco, Where Was I on October 3, 1951, posted August 2010
Martha Jeffers, Alaman Left, posted July 2010
Russ Miller, An Angel by my Side, posted July 2010
Mari Hopp, Feed My Sheep, posted July 2010
Judy Loose, Music, posted July 2010
Russ Miller, The Word, posted May 2010
Mari Hopp, The Pledge, posted May 2010
Joe Pacheco, A Walt Whitman Moment in Fort Myers, posted May 2010
Poet's Sites
(see more links under resouces-genre-poetry)Olé!
Once a tall, skinny man from CancunGathered Mexican hats in his room.
Piled on the floor
Were a thousand or more,
But he still liked the fez with the plume.
~ Martha Jeffers
On August 19th, two of Joe Pacheco's poems were featured on prominent poetry websites: YourDailyPoem and bardball. Members interested in visiting the websites can read Joe's poetry at the following:
http://www.yourdailypoem.com/
http://bardball.com/
Back to topDejection on a Florida Summer Afternoon
by Joseph Pacheco
On this ominous summer afternoon
I’ve had my fill of Florida,
My fill of alligator-friendly heat,
Of red weather
Bursting from the TV screen
Into a dark angry clot
Over our fail-safe houses
And alien lawns—my fill
Of violent venereal rain
Fueling the overgrowth
And overbuilding, the excess
Of Paradise paved over.
On this ominous summer afternoon
Lightning flashes
In diabolical sync
With the signs on Tamiami.
Inside my conditioned
Condo cocoon, outages blink
Off and on, off and on,
Urging me to evacuate
Before the unborn mosquitoes
Get to beat their wings
And the mouth of red weather
Swallows us whole
© 2007, Joseph Pacheco
Used with the author’s permission.
Where Was I on October 3, 1951?
by Joseph Pacheco
To honor the memory of Bobby Thompson, who died this week, we are again running this tribute, first posted in 2008.
In the belly of the beast,
the Social Lounge of Brooklyn College,
the only New York Giant fan surrounded
by more than a hundred Brooklyn Dodger fans
cutting their classes to watch
the most important game in history,
the third playoff game
between the Giants and Dodgers —
having arrived there just after the sixth inning
from my Classical Civilization class
and Professor Costas’s lecture
on Aristotle’s Poetics,
during which I had argued
that a modern example of hubris
was Dodger manager Chuck Dressen
singing “Roll Out the Barrel,
“The Giants are Dead”
after his team swept the Giants
in a doubleheader on August 8;
the crowd in front of the tiny TV set
parting like the Red Sea
to let the token Giant fan stand up front,
the better to taunt me and watch me suffer
when Sal the Barber Maglie tired
in the top of the eighth
and the Dodgers scored three
to go ahead four to one,
the Social Lounge a-roar in unison
like a Greek chorus
and the outlook no longer brilliant
for my Manhattan Nine that day,
Newcombe still throwing strikes,
the Giants’ miracle spurt to the pennant
fizzling before my eyes,
everyone taking turns backslapping me
in mock consolation except for two twerps
wearing Ivy League sweaters standing on the side
and smirking just like Yankee fans
at Giant-Dodger games;
the game going into the bottom of the ninth
and the tension between catharsis, escape
from the humiliation of blowing
a thirteen-and-a-half-game lead in late August
and the awareness that three colossal outs
still stood in the way
causing a nervous hopeful silence
to fall upon the Dodger fans,
the only sounds the TV announcer
and myself, yelling “Peripeteia,
Giants, peripeteia, turn it around one more time;”
then Dark and Mueller letting drive singles
to the consternation of all
and the much admired Lockman
tearing the cover off the ball
and then the dust lifting
and the announcer being heard,
“Alvin’s in, Whitey’s safe on second,
and Don’s a-hugging third…”
“Take Newcombe out, take him out now!”
everyone shouting at the top of their lungs
as if they were at the game
and the Dodger manager walking out
to make the change
and suddenly I recognized it all,
anagnorisis, just like in Greek drama,
Bobby Thomson coming up to bat,
and who would Dressen pick to pitch to him?
hamartia, Dressen’s tragic flaw,
his error in judgment, would now take over;
“Bring in Branca!” I remember shouting,
“No, no, not Branca” the Dodger fans beseeching,
knowing Thomson had already hit three home runs off him,
the last one two days before in the first playoff game
and yet knowing,
like Greek audiences advising Oedipus,
that Dressen would bring him in;
the first pitch a strike and then the TV announcer
shouting “Oh!”— a shot of the stands emptying,
the fans pouring out on the field,
Stanky wrestling Durocher to the ground,
I must have jumped up and down twenty times,
yelling, “Incredible! I can’t believe it! The greatest!”
till becoming hoarse and remembering
where I was, I turned around to gloat in triumph
and there was no one there.
Where was I on
October 5, 1951?
Telling Professor Costas and the class,
Aristotle was right:
If not at first — in the long run,
hubris and a high inside fastball
will do you in.
Haiku from Martha Jeffers
Alaman Left
Tall trees bow, clasp hands.
The wind calls, "Swing your partner."
A summer square dance.
An Angel by my side
I have often dreamed, that I’d write a book
A novel based on adventures, of which I partook,
Many times I sat down with a pen in hand,
Seeking appropriate words, to summon on demand.
I’m going to write a book!
I hobnob with the literary coterie,
Where my ineptitudes could easily expose me,
But if I don’t flaunt them, they shan’t be the wiser,
And I can learn from them as my phantom adviser.
Yes, I going to write a book!
Writing short stories is easy for me,
And I love to write poems, as you can see,
But when writing my book as I truly intend,
I’ll need thousands of words, from beginning to end.
But, I’m going to write a book
With heart and mind, all set for the task,
And a blank page, awaiting my cast,
of characters and places, each era and event,
I’ll be a creator of the intrigue, which I will invent.
I’m going to write a book!
I sit at my computer, inspired and in command,
My thoughts wafting into fantasyland,
Adding imagination, to the actual facts,
Embellishing excitement, for added impacts.
I’m going to write a book!
Oh yes, what wonderful drama, my book will entail,
If only I got started, it could be a whale of a tale,
But I’m still on the first page in chapter one,
And if I don’t stop dreaming, it will never get done.
But, I’m going to write a book!
I know I could self publish my meager writing,
By writing a check, but that’s not exciting,
I want to be lauded as an author renown,
And be celebrated when I come into town.
I’m going to write a book!
I expect trials and tribulations in the writing process,
Before my book will ever hit the printing press,
If first I don’t succeed, I shall try and try again,
I will never give up my writing, for I have a plan,
I’m going to write a book.
I am sincere and committed, I want everyone to know,
I just can’t get rolling, because my mind wonders so.
I need a literary pusher, someone really qualified,
What I need to help me is an Angel by my side.
And then someday, by God, I’m going write a book.
Feed my sheep
by Mari Hopp
Confused I asked the Teacher what to do to make me
like Him through and through
He said I will teach you what to do Love me,
yourself, and feed my sheep
When you see someone hunger, thirsty, in prison,
lonely, broken, sick, a stranger welcome
them in my Name. And take care of them as you
would Me-
also take the very best care of thee For in thee,
I live, I see, and I change the world
by you caring for Me, you, and feeding my
sheep.
Music
Music, language of the heart,
highest art, communication.
Tiny notes upon a chart,
turned to language, celebration.What is this art, this great creation?
What wonder language of sensation?
Who is musician, genius bold?
Where comes the talent to unfold?His music moves into our soul,
finds a sense we did not know,
pulls us in, our senses reeling.
Shows us new and glorious feelings.Therapy for unknown sorrows,
Makes us cry for lost tomorrows.
Helps to let out our frustrations.
Lets us feel it's deep vibrations.Makes feet tap, makes body sway,
tribal instincts dance and play.
Sensory impact, sadness, gladness,
sight, sound, deafening madness.What is this art, this great creation?
What wonder language of sensation?
Who is musician, genius bold?
Where comes the talent to unfold?~Judy Loose
Back to top
The word
By Russ Miller
I have a friend, who challenged my acumen,
With a word that nonplussed me, to my chagrin,
It was hard to say it,
Or Spell to display it,
Or even understand what I would use it in.
Now this word is ONOMATOPOEIA, that’s it,
It was not in my lexicon, so be it,
But I looked it up,
And there is was, yup!
Bolden in type, for anyone to see it.
What does it mean, and what is its use?
As Webster defines, to me is all news,
It’s for words, when spoke,
The sound it will evoke,
Is Like quack for a duck or honk for a goose.
Where the spoken word is the same as the sound
In all the dictionaries that I have found
Like for cymbals it’s clang,
Or a gun, it is bang,
Such audible examples are all around.
Meow from cats, boom from a cannon, and so,
woof woof for a dog, and caw, caw from a crow.
Now I understand,
The lesson at hand,
It’s a word I’ll never use, except for show.
If I feel pedantic, and wish to impress,
Those who will listen, whilst I express,
Useless information,
To liven conversation,
But it’s sometimes amusing, nevertheless.
The Pledge
by Mari HoppShe fought through the flashbackes to
remember what she was fighting for
inspite of rejection from fellow fighters
comments uncoth and coy
actions that no one should deal with
to being isolated ignored --
then in one moment children are being taken
hostage, a fellow soldier is down
a bomb goes off, a fist hits her face,
and all she can see is the American Flag
that beautiful tattored wartorn cloth
the red of blood shed, the blue for patritism
the white for pure devotion to the cause.
Through her tears and blood
she speakes to her self- "I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation UNDER GOD , indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." She pickes up her gun and grits her teeth praise to God to protect her and begins her day again ....
Remembering the Pledge.Our deepest appreciation, respect and prayers go forth for the brave men and woman in all capcities We remember you today
and everyday. God be with you!
A Walt Whitman Moment in Fort Myers
(As per When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer)When I heard the multi-talented MacGregor,
When his Power Points and Proofs and Illustrations
Were displayed dazzlingly before me,
When his mind games and wordplay challenges
Overwhelmed me and I was no longer sure
Which side of my brain did what to whom
And how and why --- how magically
The right half of me kept listening
As my left side played with unborn poems,
And when he finished to great applause
By the Gulf Coast Writers Association,
How quickly I rose and glided out,
Driving home through the Florida afternoon
To create new poems.Joe Pacheco