Archive | Anthology

First Grandchild

Buds of babies-breath
Dawn-scented weanlings
Cuddlier than teddy bears
Snuggles in cradles –
Ever so softly unfold
Like the youngest of winds

As pink as babies-breath
A four-toothed mouth
Beams with budding poems
Dripping with honey –
All syllabic – with mostly
Ba and Da and Pa

– Yala Korwin

I Love Words

Some words sing – like wing.
Some words thunder – like blunder
or plunder
or softly creep – like sleep.

Some words are harsh
and croak like frogs in the marsh.

There are homely words
like box and barrel;
and is there an uglier word than snarl?

The word thump sounds like a bump.
Then there is March, stiff as starch.

Words can murmur or can shout.
Words can shake my thoughts about –
words of comfort and of grace
or words that put me in my place !

I love friends and flowers and birds.
I must add, I do love words!

– Marion Wyllie

Shards of Glass

It did not seem like a loud explosion,
but more like a gradual erosion
when leaves turned to yellow, red orange and brown
and, just like my dreams, came fluttering down.
They lie, like pieces of coloured glass,
mixed with gravel and weeds and grass.

But why should I sit on this heap of rubble,
crying vexation for loss and trouble?
Out of the wreckage I’ll patiently dig
some things I fancy, though not very big;
something that’s funny, unusual or sad –
not like the grandiose dreams I once had!

Something may waken a tear or a smile,
or brighten for someone a wearisome mile.
Life holds no prospect of public acclaim.
Millions will never have heard of my name;
but I can reflect back the sunshine’s bright beams,
recovering sky-tinted shards of my dreams.

–  Marion Wyllie

63rd Anniversary

Whom the gods can’t break
they exile

He’s disappearing more each day, she says.
In the cradle of her arms
she strokes his face,
feeding spoons of memory to stall
the hooded stranger,
crooning melodies to lift the lidded eyes,
lead him to the dappled forest paths
they used to wander.

Sometimes when I phone
and she’s not home
a recording greets me,
something unerased,
a robust baritone:
I’m not here right now,
but hope to get back to you
soon as I return.

–  Mara Levine

A Glance into Eden

Glancing out the window
on my daily scan to see
if I can spy my reclusive
neighbor of the woods,
I once more feel that rush of joy
spotting the caramel colored doe,
those pointy ears like antennae
monitoring every breeze
as she grazes leaves and grasses,
her head popping up
like a periscope at any noise.
Such dignified grace,
like a queen strolling in her garden.
How carefully she places every hoof,
soundlessly slipping thru the woods.
What lithe strength and beauty!
Perhaps we too should be vegetarians!

– Helen Vanier

Bret Andrew, February 5, 2003

I smiled all day:
this is the kind of news
that can set the tilting world
up straight.

A new person arrived,
eyes squeezed against the glare,
fists holding tight
the dreams of his prenatal sleep.

He is all possibility, watching
his narrow world with wide dark eyes,
searching for meaning
in sound and speech.

He has no opinions,
has yet to learn the stories, to taste
bread and onions, to flex muscles
in a great leap, or share ideas.

He knows nothing of how land folds
as it swells into mountains,
of garden fragrance coaxed onto night air
by the silver invitation of the moon.

I smiled all day,
rocking with the tilting world.

– Marion Frahm Tincknell

On Hearing Things Male

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth …. A wind from God swept over the face of the waters ….Then God said, Let there be light; and there was light. Genesis 1:1-3

Did the author of Genesis hear Yahweh’s voice
like the rumble of thunder over Mount Zion?
And did the man say to himself, as though spitting
against the wind, this boom must be male?
Male ears hear things male. Even medieval giants
decreed, Whatever is received, is received
according to the mode of the receiver
. And if
Yahweh drops her hairbrush in the desert,
who can hear it? And write it in the book?

– Kilian McDonnell

Bridges of the Mind

Bridges are the world’s great striders:
Span after span out of the memory rising
Into each bright and complex city –
Every human mind among us –
From the many other shores
We once have stood on
As evanescent
as this is

Bridges are highways suspended
To bear us into unknown territory
Foretold in our imaginations –
Till our destiny receives us –
To bring us into new realms
Where strange stars rule and
Our future is

Earth changes: shores alter; are gone.
Our bridges however may linger till after
The transforming moment invoking
The new world we hardly envisioned –
Our full realisation that
Now we’re in harbour
And time is beyond our

– Michael A Mason


He stands before me every day and
I can’t tell who is here
I miss
who is absent

Here’s nothing of the lusty
red hot fury of concentration
steam and sweat of heavy work

No rush to do
only impatience

with an unfamiliar voice,
printed sheet
painted symbol   All seem threats

What hums in his chest?
What presses on his frowning brows?
What word grasps the wish
but comes out twisted?
What name lost and
lost again
has disappeared?

– Phyllis Hotch

The Deer

You astound me here
on the lawn of the Historical Society
this snowy January morning.
You don’t belong here,
invader of gardens,
bearer of disease.

Ah, but the narcotic
of your delicate grace –
I long to know your secrets.

Your encounter with the town
ends badly for you.
Now in summer
you lie by the roadside,
even in death
the form of a goddess.

– Dorothy Schiff Shannon