Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Each year veteran and emerging regional poets are invited by Art on the Prairie to showcase their work in Poet’s Corner. This year we have artists from Ames, Beaver, Chariton, Des Moines, Earlham, Ft. Dodge, Indianola, Manning, Perry, Urbandale, West Des Moines and Winterset.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The Poetry readings will take place in the lower level of the Hotel Pattee Nicolette Room.
Poet's Corner Reading Schedule
Lee Enslow
Lee Enslow is a member of the Iowa Poetry Association and a founding member of Third Stanza Poets of Ames, Iowa. He currently has a catalog of six chapbooks with his publishing company, Treedom Press. He writes on diverse topics but primarily nature-writing. He lives in Beaver, Iowa, with his wife and numerous stray cats.
Lee Enslow is a member of the Iowa Poetry Association and a founding member of Third Stanza Poets of Ames, Iowa. He currently has a catalog of six chapbooks with his publishing company, Treedom Press. He writes on diverse topics but primarily nature-writing. He lives in Beaver, Iowa, with his wife and numerous stray cats.
Mud Swallows in Winter
The occasional creek-gurgle under the ice
and wind through the grasses
are all these mud swallows hear
throughout the winter.
The hardiest stay this far north,
subsisting on grass seed,
starving for insects.
They zoom around in subzero air --
with their sharp, dive-bomber wings --
when they hear me coming.
Bootsteps crunch on ice.
Down the embankment,
under the bridge,
their nests are mud-daubed
together in rows
like refugee housing.
Most are vacant.
The occupied ones have cylindrical entrances
to block the wind.
And grass mats inside.
The grass sticks out like fringes
on the ends of prayer rugs.
These birds accept the possibility of death
and wait for spring.
Lee Enslow
The occasional creek-gurgle under the ice
and wind through the grasses
are all these mud swallows hear
throughout the winter.
The hardiest stay this far north,
subsisting on grass seed,
starving for insects.
They zoom around in subzero air --
with their sharp, dive-bomber wings --
when they hear me coming.
Bootsteps crunch on ice.
Down the embankment,
under the bridge,
their nests are mud-daubed
together in rows
like refugee housing.
Most are vacant.
The occupied ones have cylindrical entrances
to block the wind.
And grass mats inside.
The grass sticks out like fringes
on the ends of prayer rugs.
These birds accept the possibility of death
and wait for spring.
Lee Enslow
Elaine Erickson
New Portraits is the seventh book of poems by Elaine Erickson. Her award-winning poems have appeared in journals such as The Briar Cliff Review, The Maryland Poetry Review, and Lyrical Iowa. In addition to composing poems, Erickson composes music. She has written five operas, and a variety of chamber, orchestral, and choral works. She has received several awards for her compositions from The National League of American Pen Women. She lives with her cat, Katrina, in Des Moines, Iowa.
BLOSSOM
I find you fluttering around my knees,
a miracle of wild rose.
You are a dream beginning at dawn.
Fallen from its stem,
your dress for a ballerina quivers.
Clouds above you are a struggle
of darkness and light.
At night when streetlights
turn to milkweed,
the moon blotted out
with shadows dense and cold,
you face death.
Shall I bury you in the wet earth,
or keep you in the palm of my hand?
Elaine Erickson
I find you fluttering around my knees,
a miracle of wild rose.
You are a dream beginning at dawn.
Fallen from its stem,
your dress for a ballerina quivers.
Clouds above you are a struggle
of darkness and light.
At night when streetlights
turn to milkweed,
the moon blotted out
with shadows dense and cold,
you face death.
Shall I bury you in the wet earth,
or keep you in the palm of my hand?
Elaine Erickson
Marilyn Baszczynski
Marilyn Baszczynski, originally from Ontario, Canada, teaches and tutors French in Central Iowa. Writing since childhood and largely inspired by living in the country, she weaves life's journeys and detours into her poems. She has won awards for her poetry in NFSPS and Iowa Poetry Association contests. Gyuri, a work based on the experiences of Hungarian refugees appears in the Geste Series published in spring 2015 by Whistling Shade Publications. Her poetry has appeared in The Aurorean, Lyrical Iowa, Tipton Poetry Journal, Midwest Poetry Review, Sweet Annie & Sweet Pea Review and online at Mused - the BellaOnline Literary Review, Loch Raven Review and Poetry.com. Marilyn is currently President of the Iowa Poetry Association.
A Beggar In Paris
I walk along rue Bellechasse to the musée d’Orsay.
At the corner of boulevard St. Germain, tourists side-step
a man lying on the curb, flailing his arms and legs
like a disoriented swimmer, drowning. His face is like rusted iron
with chasms, eyes yellowed and unfocused, maybe alcohol-damaged
or deathly ill. His clothes are threadbare and dirty, and
his blue and brown plaid pants move like a dappled Monet
in sunlight. As I hurry past, I’m struck by the stench
of him. He mumbles something about shoes and whores,
drifting alone in waves of natives and foreigners.
I head straight to upper level room 35 to see you again, Vincent.
You remind me of him, the craggy brushstrokes of
your angry face in your self-portrait. Blueness
flows like unstable waters behind you and moves
through thick daubs of color in landscapes and in sky.
I wonder if maybe that was you drowning and too proud for heroes,
but your eyes glower at me as I step back to avoid
a solid fist in the face. I have seen you struggle with madness, dying
in a cornfield battling your painting. I have seen you, Vincent, alone,
stubborn, hot-headed and discouraged in the end.
Marilyn Baszczynski
(Published in Lyrical Iowa 2012)
I walk along rue Bellechasse to the musée d’Orsay.
At the corner of boulevard St. Germain, tourists side-step
a man lying on the curb, flailing his arms and legs
like a disoriented swimmer, drowning. His face is like rusted iron
with chasms, eyes yellowed and unfocused, maybe alcohol-damaged
or deathly ill. His clothes are threadbare and dirty, and
his blue and brown plaid pants move like a dappled Monet
in sunlight. As I hurry past, I’m struck by the stench
of him. He mumbles something about shoes and whores,
drifting alone in waves of natives and foreigners.
I head straight to upper level room 35 to see you again, Vincent.
You remind me of him, the craggy brushstrokes of
your angry face in your self-portrait. Blueness
flows like unstable waters behind you and moves
through thick daubs of color in landscapes and in sky.
I wonder if maybe that was you drowning and too proud for heroes,
but your eyes glower at me as I step back to avoid
a solid fist in the face. I have seen you struggle with madness, dying
in a cornfield battling your painting. I have seen you, Vincent, alone,
stubborn, hot-headed and discouraged in the end.
Marilyn Baszczynski
(Published in Lyrical Iowa 2012)
Shelly Reed Thieman
Shelly Reed Thieman feels deep responsibility for capturing and sharing the beautiful and burlesque range of human emotion and experience through poetry. She is an Iowa native and believes poetry one of her co-religions; she is a disciple of vivid and unexpected imagery, a discoverer of glamour in the unglamorous, a mistress of montage.
Luxury
is not the chichi convertible
I believed I’d own in my thirties,
nor weekends away my friends enjoy
while they lounge in spas
like fat oranges waiting to be peeled.
It is not a finely-chiseled male
compeer, an explosion of rubicund tea
roses in Waterford on the baby
grand, nor the way everyone’s gilded,
buzzed, benevolent at holiday parties.
It is this old brown parka
with faux fur trim and storm flaps
harboring me like a brother
when the Buick staggers along I-80
and snow pursues, shaking white fists.
It is oyster stew tobogganing my throat
after the long walk home, an elevation
of cheese melting in the soup bowl,
a cheerful journey of apricot brandy
from mouth to fingertips.
It is letting the hair down, wood
in the fireplace snapping its fingers
while the tea kettle whispers,
this cluttered desk, my old calico
dreaming in the softened armchair.
Luxury is complex;
when it moves in it’s a hell of a thing.
Shelly Reed Thieman
is not the chichi convertible
I believed I’d own in my thirties,
nor weekends away my friends enjoy
while they lounge in spas
like fat oranges waiting to be peeled.
It is not a finely-chiseled male
compeer, an explosion of rubicund tea
roses in Waterford on the baby
grand, nor the way everyone’s gilded,
buzzed, benevolent at holiday parties.
It is this old brown parka
with faux fur trim and storm flaps
harboring me like a brother
when the Buick staggers along I-80
and snow pursues, shaking white fists.
It is oyster stew tobogganing my throat
after the long walk home, an elevation
of cheese melting in the soup bowl,
a cheerful journey of apricot brandy
from mouth to fingertips.
It is letting the hair down, wood
in the fireplace snapping its fingers
while the tea kettle whispers,
this cluttered desk, my old calico
dreaming in the softened armchair.
Luxury is complex;
when it moves in it’s a hell of a thing.
Shelly Reed Thieman
Mark Widrlechner
Mark Widrlechner has lived in Ames for more than 30 years where he worked as a horticulturist and is now an affiliate faculty member at Iowa State University. About four years ago, shortly before his retirement, he unexpectedly began to write poetry after a very long hiatus. Many of these verses are inspired by the natural world, the Iowa landscape and travels further afield. His worldview is rather totemic, and he often incorporates animal spirits into his verses. Mark has assembled two collections of poetry, "This Wildest Year" and "A Short Geography of Remembrance," that are available as e-books accessible through ISU's Parks Library at http://lib.dr.iastate.edu/ebooks/. And, in the spring od 2014, he completed a collection of 145 new poems inspired by the "Tao Te Ching" and the "I Ching."
The Plum Thicket
Her deepest thoughts emerge from the Fertile Earth
driven by the primal strength of the Oldest Tree.
No barrier can confine them.
They find small tears in the landscape fabric,
slip beneath the plastic guards that edge the bed,
even cross under sidewalks and arise in the parkways,
growing fast, multiplying into green thickets that surround us.
We cannot escape them nor do we want to.
We become the bees that service her blossoms.
We become the robins that feast on her fruits.
Mark Widrlechner
Her deepest thoughts emerge from the Fertile Earth
driven by the primal strength of the Oldest Tree.
No barrier can confine them.
They find small tears in the landscape fabric,
slip beneath the plastic guards that edge the bed,
even cross under sidewalks and arise in the parkways,
growing fast, multiplying into green thickets that surround us.
We cannot escape them nor do we want to.
We become the bees that service her blossoms.
We become the robins that feast on her fruits.
Mark Widrlechner
Lori Shannon
Lori Shannon has been writing poetry since she was a child. She particularly enjoys writing sonnets and humorous verse. She has appeared continuously in the Iowa Poetry Association's publication Lyrical Iowa since 1989 and has placed on or won several out-of state-contests over the years. Her works have appeared in Capper's, Ideals and on Faithwriters.com. Two of her works have been set to music by singer Brian Joens.
September Quilt
September days are Nature’s time to sew
A quilt with striking scenes of deft design.
With care considers where each square should go
For impact of each color, shape, and line.
She starts with flames of foliage several-fold,
Green pastures kissed with glitter of the sun,
Takes fingertips of trees now burnished gold
And fields of wild sienna just for fun.
For batting chooses clouds of sleepy fleece,
For borders the bright blue unbroken sky,
Adds acorn buttons to her masterpiece
And stitches milkweed silk to beautify.
Then pulls around the covers rich and deep,
And with a wink at Winter falls asleep.
Lori Shannon
September days are Nature’s time to sew
A quilt with striking scenes of deft design.
With care considers where each square should go
For impact of each color, shape, and line.
She starts with flames of foliage several-fold,
Green pastures kissed with glitter of the sun,
Takes fingertips of trees now burnished gold
And fields of wild sienna just for fun.
For batting chooses clouds of sleepy fleece,
For borders the bright blue unbroken sky,
Adds acorn buttons to her masterpiece
And stitches milkweed silk to beautify.
Then pulls around the covers rich and deep,
And with a wink at Winter falls asleep.
Lori Shannon
Dennis Maulsby
Dennis Maulsby is a retired bank president living in Ames, Iowa. His poems and short stories have appeared in The North American Review, Passager, The Hawaii Pacific Review, The Briarcliff Review, and on National Public Radio's Themes & Variations. His book of Vietnam War poetry, Remembering Willie won silver medal book awards from two national veterans organizations. His second book of poetry, Frissons, a collection of haiku was published in 2012. Prolific Press released a third book of his poetry, Near Death/Near Life in May of 2015. A book of linked short stories is scheduled for publication in 2016. Maulsby is a past president of the Iowa Poetry Association. More about Dennis at www.dennismaulsby.com.
Ash
When I am dead and my soul is gone,
fire my bone and flesh to ash.
Don’t put me in a box.
My bones dug up in 2000 years,
displayed in classrooms, or cloned,
an example of primitive man.
Keep me who I have always been,
a traveler in sun and wind.
Air my dust high in the great blue bowl
over fertile Midwest fields.
My particles will spread to all the nations.
And, make their sunsets red.
Rain and snow will form on me before falling
on Terra Del Fuego, Addis Ababa, Ulan Bator . . .
Plants will take me up in their growing cells
to be a log burning in your fireplace.
Or cornflakes in a child’s flowered dish,
my image reflected in a toothy smile.
My atoms may even ride the Shuttle, once loosed
to kite the roiling winds between suns.
Dennis Maulsby
Published in the 2003 edition of Lyrical Iowa.
When I am dead and my soul is gone,
fire my bone and flesh to ash.
Don’t put me in a box.
My bones dug up in 2000 years,
displayed in classrooms, or cloned,
an example of primitive man.
Keep me who I have always been,
a traveler in sun and wind.
Air my dust high in the great blue bowl
over fertile Midwest fields.
My particles will spread to all the nations.
And, make their sunsets red.
Rain and snow will form on me before falling
on Terra Del Fuego, Addis Ababa, Ulan Bator . . .
Plants will take me up in their growing cells
to be a log burning in your fireplace.
Or cornflakes in a child’s flowered dish,
my image reflected in a toothy smile.
My atoms may even ride the Shuttle, once loosed
to kite the roiling winds between suns.
Dennis Maulsby
Published in the 2003 edition of Lyrical Iowa.
Maggie Westvold
Maggie Westvold is an Ames area native and writer of poetry and memoir. She has been published for 12 consecutive years in Lyrical Iowa, the annual anthology of the Iowa Poetry Association; and in 50 Haikus in 2013. Her poem 'Singing Tomma Lou' was recognized in 2007 with an honorable mention from the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. She has, for seven years, been one of the featured poets at Third Stanza's 11 Days of Global Unity Poetry Reading in Ames, Iowa. This will be her fourth year to read in the 'Poets' Corner' as part of Perry, IA's Art On The Prairie festival. Maggie lives in Ames, IA, with husband Steve. They have a daughter, a son, six awesome grandkids, and they enjoy retirement and the 'better kind of busy' that offers.
Beneath A Waning Moon
I have your pumpkin gene, Mom.
Our puffy cheeks fend off wrinkles,
fool folks now and again. We smile,
our faces like waxing moons full
of gratitude. Your sparkly eyes,
now dimming--your smile, kind
of tired--bring to mind another
face - a little apple-head doll
carved with a paring knife,
in your kitchen years ago--you
making fun out of nothing much--
again. How you grinned your tickled grin
at her toothless smile, all puckery.
Her wrinkles were well underway,
becoming what you hoped for,
shriveling to a funny little face,
withering on a path
to a perfect place.
Maggie Westvold
I have your pumpkin gene, Mom.
Our puffy cheeks fend off wrinkles,
fool folks now and again. We smile,
our faces like waxing moons full
of gratitude. Your sparkly eyes,
now dimming--your smile, kind
of tired--bring to mind another
face - a little apple-head doll
carved with a paring knife,
in your kitchen years ago--you
making fun out of nothing much--
again. How you grinned your tickled grin
at her toothless smile, all puckery.
Her wrinkles were well underway,
becoming what you hoped for,
shriveling to a funny little face,
withering on a path
to a perfect place.
Maggie Westvold
Mike Zahm
Mike Zahm lives in Ft. Dodge Iowa where he worked as a middle school guidance counselor. Recently retired, he has been able to devote more time to writing music, poetry and creating art. Mike is a member of the Iowa Arts Council Performing Artists as a musician/storyteller and belongs to the Two Rivers Story Spinners in Iowa and the Northlands Storytelling Network. His poetry is inspired primarily from growing up in northwest Nebraska and his years working with kids
Rocket Man
Rocket Man, Rocket Man,
Can I have a ride?
Maybe go to the moon--
Talk to the man whose inside.
Shoot up to the big dipper
And circle around Mars.
Is there really chocolate
In the Milky Way stars?
Pluto--Saturn--Venus,
We’ll pass the planets one by one.
Better put on the brakes
Before we get to the sun.
My bags are all packed,
Toothbrush and P.J.’s.
I’ve got plenty of sandwiches,
Peanut butter and mayonnaise.
Rocket Man, Rocket Man,
There’s just one thing I need to know.
Is there room for three people?
Now my Mom wants to go.
Mike Zahm
Rocket Man, Rocket Man,
Can I have a ride?
Maybe go to the moon--
Talk to the man whose inside.
Shoot up to the big dipper
And circle around Mars.
Is there really chocolate
In the Milky Way stars?
Pluto--Saturn--Venus,
We’ll pass the planets one by one.
Better put on the brakes
Before we get to the sun.
My bags are all packed,
Toothbrush and P.J.’s.
I’ve got plenty of sandwiches,
Peanut butter and mayonnaise.
Rocket Man, Rocket Man,
There’s just one thing I need to know.
Is there room for three people?
Now my Mom wants to go.
Mike Zahm
Heather Ann Clark
After earning degrees in Theatre and English from Drake University, Heather Clark worked as a book store clerk and a science-actor for educational programs. She then transitioned to accounting and administrative work. Heather is torn between urban and rural life, but has found a happy medium in moving back to her small town and commuting to the nonprofit she works for in downtown Des Moines. Her poems range from remeberences of loved ones to social and economical observations. She is a member of the Iowa Poetry Association and facilitates the Winterset Writers' Workshop at the Winterset Public Library.
Physics
They’re farming wind now
to the south of us.
Red lights blinking in unison,
a long line just above the dried corn stalks
of my neighbors field.
I remember an overheard conversation
across the counter at the diner
sparked from a political sound bite
about the turbines stealing our wind
and what will happen
with perpetual motion and all that
when our wind is gone
and the earth stops moving.
If only we had an endless supply
of that safe, natural, black ooze
that we’ve been feeding on.
Clean energy to run the world
will surely kill it.
Heather Ann Clark
They’re farming wind now
to the south of us.
Red lights blinking in unison,
a long line just above the dried corn stalks
of my neighbors field.
I remember an overheard conversation
across the counter at the diner
sparked from a political sound bite
about the turbines stealing our wind
and what will happen
with perpetual motion and all that
when our wind is gone
and the earth stops moving.
If only we had an endless supply
of that safe, natural, black ooze
that we’ve been feeding on.
Clean energy to run the world
will surely kill it.
Heather Ann Clark
Staci Harper Bennett
Staci Harper Bennett is a native of Des Moines. She graduated from Iowa State University with a BA in English and from Drake University with an MBA. Staci is the author of three chapbooks- Soon is Not, Brittle Futures, and Thirty- and is currently working on a tongue-in-cheek chapbook about the joys of dating. In addition to writing poetry, Staci enjoys spending time with her pets and working at the Des Moines Art Center.
Broken
Winter is always the hardest--
deciding whether to face the cold
with wind-whipped cheeks, to brave
the shrill shrieking of the wind,
the crackling of breaking branches
who have given up under the weight,
the heaviness, the hopelessness
I wish it was that easy
to bend, to bend, to bend,
to break,
to throw up our hands
and fall apart
Maybe this is the year
to jump--
icicles shattered on the pavement
until spring comes and we melt away
Staci Harper Bennett
Winter is always the hardest--
deciding whether to face the cold
with wind-whipped cheeks, to brave
the shrill shrieking of the wind,
the crackling of breaking branches
who have given up under the weight,
the heaviness, the hopelessness
I wish it was that easy
to bend, to bend, to bend,
to break,
to throw up our hands
and fall apart
Maybe this is the year
to jump--
icicles shattered on the pavement
until spring comes and we melt away
Staci Harper Bennett
Mary Teresa Fallon
In high school my English teacher, a nun, advised me to shorten my five-line stanzas. “Poem stanzas are four lines,” she said. As a Sister of Charity myself, later, a friend stopping in when I was away, left a note: “This must be your room. There’s a poem in the typewriter.” With a Sabbatical I earned my MFA at the Writer’s Workshop. Two poetry groups, Third Stanza in Ames and Omega in Des Moines, continue to nourish my writing. I'm working on my third book. Married, I live on an acreage in Boone County.
Two Who Marry
Advisors,
heavily clothed,
surround you,
surround me.
As your group
chatters round a corner
I glimpse your
dark hair.
Mary Teresa Fallon
Advisors,
heavily clothed,
surround you,
surround me.
As your group
chatters round a corner
I glimpse your
dark hair.
Mary Teresa Fallon
Steve Rose
|
My poetry has been published in numerous small publications including "The Journal of Medical Literature" and has placed five times in the 'Lyrical Iowa's' 'adult general' category, winning that competition in 2008. I now serve as editor of the 'adult general' section of that publication and am therefore ineligible for awards therein. I also have a poem being published in "The Midwestern Review" in 2012. I was a featured poet at the Finch and Rose Society's '99 Counties' celebration of Iowa's birthday in 2009, my poetry was featured in a 2010 calendar published by the Iowa Natural Resources Commission, and my work has been displayed in numerous 'DART' busses in Des Moines. I published a book of poetry entitled 'Hard Papas' in 2013. I support my writing habit by teaching teachers-to-be at Simpson College.
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Phantom Limb
The off-treble keen of painsings the morning, running
like an octave up
my amputated arm, its
fingers wiggling against nothing.
The brain has its amusements,
refusing to give up
the parts it once marshaled:
the fingers that stroked
my nephew’s hair, parting
it like a breeze through wheat,
my palm held out to his father
as our like flesh pressed,
intimate as a hug.
I look at the space beneath
the stump, the throb shimmying
the air like sunshine
lays lakes on the asphalt
ahead, mirages as the arm
is a mirage to itself.
But all this would be
ok, if it did not also
bring back the war,
rattling its chains,
poking me with boned
fingers, and the mouth of
the boy who handed me
an orange which exploded
red and yellow, taking
away my arm and his
face in a spray of color
dampening for a minute
the dry Iraqi sky.
Steve Rose
The off-treble keen of painsings the morning, running
like an octave up
my amputated arm, its
fingers wiggling against nothing.
The brain has its amusements,
refusing to give up
the parts it once marshaled:
the fingers that stroked
my nephew’s hair, parting
it like a breeze through wheat,
my palm held out to his father
as our like flesh pressed,
intimate as a hug.
I look at the space beneath
the stump, the throb shimmying
the air like sunshine
lays lakes on the asphalt
ahead, mirages as the arm
is a mirage to itself.
But all this would be
ok, if it did not also
bring back the war,
rattling its chains,
poking me with boned
fingers, and the mouth of
the boy who handed me
an orange which exploded
red and yellow, taking
away my arm and his
face in a spray of color
dampening for a minute
the dry Iraqi sky.
Steve Rose
S. May Madlof
After decades spent in various towns and cities west of the Mississippi, I returned to my hometown, Winterset, Iowa. In high school I started writing poetry, improved in college then entered the business world and misplaced poetry. Fortunately a few years ago I found it again.
The Ladies Aid Society
I think it was in the spring, either May or June.
Ants were on the peonies; yellow iris were in bloom.
It was a vibrant blue breezy morn.
Ada was in the upstairs room making up the bed.
Down in the basement John put a shotgun to his head.
Armed with mops and rags and soapy water,
Ladies from the aid society were there 'fore noon.
The old girls entered through the back porch door –
Hobbled down the stairs - set about their chore.
Fern looked at Hazel – recalled when they were just young girls
Running through the barn searching for the newborn kittens -
Seemed but yesterday just now. They found her papa in the haymow.
Rope 'round his neck - there he hung.
Annie's heart burst again for her father.
That horrid winter was the flu what kilt his wife and oldest daughter.
She dropped from school; did the best she knew
For the young ones under her,
And the faded man, her father, too.
Lois found a shattered tooth – put it in her pocket,
To bury in the apple orchard 'neath the limestone slab,
With her other secret things - baby booties for her stillborn girl
And the corroded cracker tin of crumbling letters from Clyde Earl.
War discharged her awol lover in a flag draped coffin.
Elaine remembered the bed of vomit when her mother died.
The ladies called upon the sheriff. He told them stop their nonsense gossip.
It was just an accident – too many headache pills.
Elaine went to her aunt and uncle; labored in the textile mills.
Her father left for California with the wealthy widow Emma Sue.
Within two years came the news she had a headache.
Funny - she died too.
Mopping up the dead is a grievous thing to do,
So they chatted of the neighbor things -
The latest sale at the market –
A recipe for casserole -
Mary Staley's wedding dress –
Was it the fit or did she show?
Most all the afternoon they scrubbed away
To erase the blood reminders of the shotgun blast that day.
Each attendant to the duty of the task -
They did as neighbors do.
S. May Madlof
I think it was in the spring, either May or June.
Ants were on the peonies; yellow iris were in bloom.
It was a vibrant blue breezy morn.
Ada was in the upstairs room making up the bed.
Down in the basement John put a shotgun to his head.
Armed with mops and rags and soapy water,
Ladies from the aid society were there 'fore noon.
The old girls entered through the back porch door –
Hobbled down the stairs - set about their chore.
Fern looked at Hazel – recalled when they were just young girls
Running through the barn searching for the newborn kittens -
Seemed but yesterday just now. They found her papa in the haymow.
Rope 'round his neck - there he hung.
Annie's heart burst again for her father.
That horrid winter was the flu what kilt his wife and oldest daughter.
She dropped from school; did the best she knew
For the young ones under her,
And the faded man, her father, too.
Lois found a shattered tooth – put it in her pocket,
To bury in the apple orchard 'neath the limestone slab,
With her other secret things - baby booties for her stillborn girl
And the corroded cracker tin of crumbling letters from Clyde Earl.
War discharged her awol lover in a flag draped coffin.
Elaine remembered the bed of vomit when her mother died.
The ladies called upon the sheriff. He told them stop their nonsense gossip.
It was just an accident – too many headache pills.
Elaine went to her aunt and uncle; labored in the textile mills.
Her father left for California with the wealthy widow Emma Sue.
Within two years came the news she had a headache.
Funny - she died too.
Mopping up the dead is a grievous thing to do,
So they chatted of the neighbor things -
The latest sale at the market –
A recipe for casserole -
Mary Staley's wedding dress –
Was it the fit or did she show?
Most all the afternoon they scrubbed away
To erase the blood reminders of the shotgun blast that day.
Each attendant to the duty of the task -
They did as neighbors do.
S. May Madlof
Rebecca Crum
Rebecca Crum was born and raised along the Mississippi River in Wisconsin. She currently lives and works in Des Moines Iowa during the week and commutes to Northern Iowa to be with her family on during the weekends. Crum writes poetry and surreal short stories. She has been a featured poet at Art on the Prairie since 2012.
Clue and the Kingston Trio
The morning is long until I finally see
my brother and his girl coming up the walk.
Swinging the door wide open
my brother comes in singing.
“Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” He sounds just like The Kingston Trio.
“How about that game?” he asks. “That game of Clue?”
“He owes me a game,” I tell his girl. She smiles.
Then we play and play.
We guess every murderer and every weapon a person could ever use to commit such a terrible crime.
We discover room after room where unspeakable deeds have taken place.
We laugh and laugh and hold our
tally sheets close lest someone should see our markings and guess
who did it, with what and where.
Without thinking I hum “Lemon Tree” by The Kingston Trio and then my brother joins in.
Soon we’re all singing-all three of us.
First “Lemon Tree” and then back to
good old “Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” Singing just like The Kingston Trio
while we search for rooms,
weapons and murderers.
Rebecca Crum
The morning is long until I finally see
my brother and his girl coming up the walk.
Swinging the door wide open
my brother comes in singing.
“Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” He sounds just like The Kingston Trio.
“How about that game?” he asks. “That game of Clue?”
“He owes me a game,” I tell his girl. She smiles.
Then we play and play.
We guess every murderer and every weapon a person could ever use to commit such a terrible crime.
We discover room after room where unspeakable deeds have taken place.
We laugh and laugh and hold our
tally sheets close lest someone should see our markings and guess
who did it, with what and where.
Without thinking I hum “Lemon Tree” by The Kingston Trio and then my brother joins in.
Soon we’re all singing-all three of us.
First “Lemon Tree” and then back to
good old “Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” Singing just like The Kingston Trio
while we search for rooms,
weapons and murderers.
Rebecca Crum
Danelle Stamps
Danelle Stamps is a permaculture farmer in Southern Iowa, a beekeeper, a mother, a poet, a dreamer, and a stargazer. Danelle's art photography has appeared online at Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment and in the Portland Review. Her writing can be found at the Fifth Wednesday Review, fall 2014 issue and at Red River Review, August 2014, online. She blogs at The Stamps Family Farm.
Midday in Spring
Plastic wrap, the bloody,
crumpled clearfoil lies on
the counter dripping meat blood
down, pooling in swirls of
reds and browns.
I am browning meat in the hot skillet
for just another meal, vegetables and spices,
starch to expand it.
The cat jumps up, dirty paws
to lick and lick and leave
bloody meat juice paw prints
across the dirty kitchen floor.
I stir.
The wooden spoon
warms as I caramelize,
crisp sweet on the inside,
cayenne and aleppo and thyme,
kick at me from my rib cage
like my own heart beating a lie.
Our children are playing.
I am a ghost to them, they pretend
my calling to them is the wind in the trees.
They climb higher to escape.
I watch them through windows,
catching glimpses through branches and sunlight.
Their laughter and singing and dancing
like windchimes in the sweet warm breeze.
My pot hisses with steam and I turn back to the stirring,
wooden spoon churning the stock.
It is almost time.
Danelle Stamps
Plastic wrap, the bloody,
crumpled clearfoil lies on
the counter dripping meat blood
down, pooling in swirls of
reds and browns.
I am browning meat in the hot skillet
for just another meal, vegetables and spices,
starch to expand it.
The cat jumps up, dirty paws
to lick and lick and leave
bloody meat juice paw prints
across the dirty kitchen floor.
I stir.
The wooden spoon
warms as I caramelize,
crisp sweet on the inside,
cayenne and aleppo and thyme,
kick at me from my rib cage
like my own heart beating a lie.
Our children are playing.
I am a ghost to them, they pretend
my calling to them is the wind in the trees.
They climb higher to escape.
I watch them through windows,
catching glimpses through branches and sunlight.
Their laughter and singing and dancing
like windchimes in the sweet warm breeze.
My pot hisses with steam and I turn back to the stirring,
wooden spoon churning the stock.
It is almost time.
Danelle Stamps