Published by Pikes Peak Poet Laureate Project
Copyright 2016 Pikes Peak Poet Laureate Project
Cover Photo
Dawn Bergacker photograph,
Special Collections,
Pikes Peak Library District (379-421)
THE GIRL I USED TO BE - Janice Gould
I was the girl who backed into life,
got lost, then disappeared again
under tables and in drawers,
between unused tools hung
on dusty pegs, among red lines
etched on imaginary maps.
In Spring I watched waxwings sway
drunkenly among sour berries
and found myself pushed north with them
in torn clouds, landing where rhododendrons grow
on wet hillsides, and larkspur pokes
from granite waving small blue flags.
I was the girl who bucked hay, split wood,
tore the ragged face of earth with the harrow’s teeth,
who tried to toughen up in leather boots and haying chaps,
who disappeared in snow or rain,
beat her fists on windshields, but
survived by singing late into the night,
driving deserted streets
while everyone else was wasted.
I was the girl who seldom spoke,
who slept alone fully clothed, ready to bolt
into the startled dawn. I was the girl who,
enticed by stones, one day plunged into
a clear Sierra creek, and rose gasping
from that brutal stream, terrified,
but absolutely clean.
Janice Gould was the 2014-2016 Pikes Peak Poet Laureate
PRECIOUS OTHER - Price Strobridge
Precious Other,
consider no contest between You and Me―
never was, nor
can ever be―
you see,
Uncle Walt's third line
―shines on:
“for every atom
belonging to me
as good belongs to you”.
So, Precious Other,
every star that's ever shone
burned brightly only
in its unique integrity―
no contests,
only contrasts
shining separately
yet ultimately
(in this capacious sky)
―as One,
which certainly
will outlast any
singular – brief – petty –
egoistical – statistical
―blast.
Price Strobridge was the 2012-2014 Pikes Peak Poet Laureate. He keeps busy eating poems.
CAT AT THE ALZHEIMER’S RESIDENCE - Mari Lidmark
The orange cat earns his stripes;
he tracks paisley halls, a fire-lunged train.
Residents are burning Menorah candles,
but death’s black hole vacuums cobweb breaths
all eight days,
testing his faith in his faithfulness.
He brushes dozens of resting, restless ankles
but does not pause to be petted.
Waiting is the babushka doll
with ivory pick fingers chipping
at tea-stained china teeth
and the Emerson man
with knees bulbous from bowing to gardens.
This man’s brain buffers,
processing how weeds are scratched into piles
and stuffed into black bags.
He knows the sound of roots snapping.
But the orange cat purrs, promising
‘I will wrap your memories in strings of linen.’
The forgetful will not be forgotten.
They are lightning bugs jarred
in his glassy eyes.
Mari Lidmark is blessed to be the mommy of an agel, wife of a hero and an English teacher at CSEC.
A NEEDED VISIT TO A BRICKLAYER - Paul Kellen
One afternoon about two-thirty or three
A lady bug came and landed on me.
I had been yearning for a workdays end
‘Cause it was so humid hot we could hardly see
We were ready for our homeward journey’s wend.
I looked at the ladybug and had to smile –
Somehow strength came back for a while :
Black dots on two red shells concealing wings
That take this visitor daily more than miles
To make several of these innocent callings
Was more than I could handle without a chuckle
I knew my knees would no longer buckle
I knew the day would shortly be completed
Then I watched her lift away off my knuckle
It was just the kind of visit I needed.
Paul Kellen was a bricklayer and landscaper by vocation, but is a learner and poet by necessity.
TABLE TENNIS, ANYONE? - Laura London
Memories of us
Drift through my subconscious
You draw near
You pull away
I draw near
I pull away
We come together, over and over and over
We pull apart -- never again, we cry!
Hi. How have you been?
Laura London is proud of very few things: her kids, hiking Pikes Peak and serving in the Peace Corps (twice).
DID WE? - Jane Morton
I wish just once
Dad might have said,
to his daughter, or his son
Good Job, Thanks, Well Done.
We must not have measured up,
or if we did, he never said,
so we will never know,
but we will always wonder.
Did we?
Jane Morton says, “My dad never did use two words when he thought that one would do”.
CRUISERS - Ron Truax
In the street
this cadre struts its roar
interchangeable in black leathers
beards and headwraps
tattoos and decals proclaiming
various freedoms, yet identical
in rank and file, metronomic motor revs
slow synergetic speeds so like
polar penguins approaching the sea
safely concordant
in the shell of sameness.
Ron Truax is an award-winning photographer and poet who lives in Colorado Springs.
TIME WAS - Ron Truax
Well, it's a different time now, ain't it
since Gertrude Stein wrote such babble
while men punched time cards,
hoisted lunch buckets and walked
from Ford plants against the Detroit River wind.
INDIGO, INDIGOING, INDIGONE - Susan M. Peiffer
God utters me like a
Word
containing partial
thought of himself—
a word
that will never comprehend
the voice
who utters it—
a word that will always wonder
why it was said
Susan M. Peiffer is Program Director of Hear Here. She actively encourages every individual to listen, write and share.
Mother nature’s honey
nectarous and sweet
morning dew
Sage Reynolds
15-year-old Sage Reynolds enjoys hiking, pressing flowers in books and writing.
WALDO REDUX - Teever Handal
Haze, smoke from a thousand miles away
covering our f
oot hills and mountains
still populated by charred skeletal trees
shrubs and grasses only just returning.
Fires in Washington, Oregon, California
their ghosts long preceding their deaths
stirring memories from 2012 not yet resting
eyes turning to scarred mountain landscapes
hearts turning to scarred inner landscapes.
Fire, fear, friends put out and fleeing
dark days of raining ash in the fire’s reign
the sky a black roof of smoke
the sun a swollen red eye at its heart
the nights glowing unnaturally to the west
as if dragons slept there, breathing flame
ready to rage, and burn, and feast.
Dry acidic air stinging eyes and throat
making lungs rasp and cough.
Windows and doors shut tightly to fear
as if denial would win the moment
and in its smoldering wake
nature reminds us of flames with water
flash floods off naked hills
a crying land, a damaged people.
Improvement slow but coming, and now
haze, smoke from a thousand miles away
Teever Handal is a mechanical engineer who is old to the call of writing, new to answering to it.
LEAP - Emily Forand
The creek cut a trench
wider than her jump
and yet
there she stood
by the leach-laden water
and the tree root,
toe pointed toward the bank.
I held my hand out to her,
but she is five
and full of fire
and has no need for a mama.
Brand new sneakers,
bisque baby face,
and two adult teeth,
teetering
until she leaps!
At least four parts of her perfect
body betray her on the bank.
I rub the mud from her nose,
scrape the dirt from her knee
and before the fresh plaster of fear
can set,
I place her back on her perch
and teach her to try again.
Emily Forand is a wife, mother and teacher of English.
STRUCK - Andrew Ziegler
He stood on the precipice with fist
flirting with the air around it. It kissed
as it cut through space. Like love and falling, the
impact wouldn't be felt instantly. He told
the shoulder on which his rock-like knuckles landed that
it would have to learn how to take a hit.
He told a lie to justify the next open hand slap
which landed on his son's face. Someday, I
fear that the son will hold his hands to the sky
as though trying to grasp at a reason why, clench
his fists because his jaw aches from his father's kiss and look
back on this as the lesson that first informed him
of how to be a man. And I hate
the lie that this man has just spoken to his son.
He has made affection out to be knuckles in motion; he
has stamped love on the back of his hands, making
contact with the flesh of flesh and blood, he
has made his son connect the back of his hands
with love so, one day, when his son tries to understand love
like the back of his hand, it'll be kissed with welted red. This
is no way to teach.
I want to tell him that teaching a man to take a punch
is to internalize a fist. I
want to tell him that his son will choke on his own knuckles, won't
ever know that his heart is the same size as his fists and that
there won't be enough room to heave his heart into his mouth, that
his body will perform all of his words, and he will never know the power
of a whisper.
Andrew Ziegler is a poet who performs on stage when he is not teaching.
THE SKATER - Mark Cooney
Soaring like an eagle
she glides over the ice
skyward gyrating she flies
then like a twister
spirals down
laws of physics binding common folk
bend before her power
Now she squats statue-like
the posture of a frog
then swaying slowly rises up
with grace of a charmed serpent
and again smoothly slides off
in dance of liquid flow
to and fro
appearance of flitting butterfly
Her ice time is her freedom
her art to express
minds of fans she leaves in awe
and sets them free with her
Mark Cooney was inspired by figure skaters at the old Broadmoor World Arena.
FOREIGN LANGUAGE - David Reynolds
Here in the back of the Wellfleet library
a woman speaks Polish on the phone
or, perhaps, Skypes to a loved one far away.
She does not whisper;
she speaks in full syllabic throttle
with ricocheting “ish’s” and “off’s.”
She makes sounds with her tongue and mouth
that leave me blank.
Listening to her reminds me
of men listening to women.
They hear the sound;
they sense the rise and fall;
the timbre of surprise
and the hush of rumor.
But, essentially, they do not understand.
They comprehend when a woman speaks.
They can tell if it’s a tragedy or a comedy,
but they fall asleep before intermission.
Likewise, I can tell this woman speaks with a friend or mother
about her summer here at the edge of the ocean.
But I cannot tell is she has been floating
on her back or drowning.
Dave Reynolds chairs the English Department at the Fountain Valley School in Colorado Springs. He loves words, hiking, squash and orchids.
Listening – Doris Gardner-McCraw
Listening is art
Understanding each brushstroke
Like high winds and breeze
Doris Gardner-McGraw writes haiku which she posts with her photos.
50 SHADES OF EMBARRASSMENT - Addie Forand
The day 50 shades of embarrassment waltzed across my cheeks
when a sob choking me,
nestled in my throat threatened to burst free
my teacher's words like a whip,
replayed over and over again
every student's eyes piercing my skin
with that accusing gaze reserved for the naughty ones
"Never again." I told myself.
I must have looked
as embarrassed as the word itself
"Never again."
Adeline Forand loves writing and animals. She attends Colorado Springs Charter Academy.
INSTRUMENTAL CHILDREN – Julianza Shavin
At the concert, I saw the tiniest girl
on violin and thought,
do we create children
so our instruments
will have something to play?
I had a piano before a child.
Did its little felt hammers
need something to tickle to giggles?
Did the guitar need something to strum
and demand the son?
Did the harp need some ringlet angel to pluck?
Did the children come
because the instruments were lonely
when we were busy with fights and pets
and gardens made of words?
If children are our immortality
then do we have them
/> so our songs of joy, our dirges
will have bodies to bow them
breathe them
tune them to wind water and sky?
All those boys and girls
and all in black
as if it were a funeral for us old folk
all in somber rhythm
like an accidental section
wired by design.
Jusianza Shavin’s fourth book, “This Grave Oasis,” had as a working-for-a-day title, “Octave Desperation,” which she felt sounded too needy.
DARKER - Susan Hammond
It’s darker now cooler too,
and I worry about bears
as dog and I make our early morning rounds.
A school bus passes
and I remember when our kids were on that bus
and I was young;
you were still alive,
and I didn’t worry about bears.
Susan Hammond has spent half of her life in the public library and the other half walking.
DOS MADRES - Rachael Melat-Robnett
I wrapped each Mexican glass in newspaper,
then in dishrags, laid them carefully in boxes.
I was ten maybe, my father had left by then,
(this is a way I can place the memories),
and moving was how we knew who we were.
My mother called to me from the courtyard,
she was barefoot on the flagstones, flushed.
She’d pulled a clay sun off the cracked stucco wall,
held it with both hands, Aztec face in her palms.
In the concave back, a glossy black widow
shielded an egg-sac. Isn’t she beautiful?
My mother smiled, her lashes wet. I’m not afraid.
The spider crouched on the pottery, desert sun
flashing on its body. Manuel from town,
whom my mother hired to help with the move,
stepped between us and, with needle-nose pliers,
gently plucked the creature, turning it over
to show us the hourglass on its abdomen—
the color of ripe red chilies, of blood.
After releasing the spider in chamisa grass,
he burned the white eggs with a match.
Rachael Melat-Robnett is a Colorado Springs native and a local business owner.
SUMMER OPENING
after Eunice Tietjens - Amie Sharp
Poetry While You Wait: National Poetry Month 2016 Page 1
