Stallion, carry us into the valley of hours
before us, each day another
cascade of light.
The end of spring climbs, rose-vine
tendrils scrambling the tower. Rays pared to gold,
a hue we forgot in winter.
The planet’s tilt declares a new balance of night
with day. Fresh rain and wind, bright-scrubbed glades
wheel the season like unseen magnetic fields
sweeping us around the sun.
Any Sharp serves as assistant professor and creative writing lead at Pikes Peak Community College.
TREE TUNNEL ROAD - Janele Johnson
This road they always called the tunnel road
because its cottonwoods arched sweet and green
across both country lanes, and summer
sang to them, I think, its book of days
in ways that winter never could. But still,
the everlasting wheel of seasons found them
always, always, back-seat pilgrims under,
over, sometimes in, that cradling, circling
tree’s embrace. It could be dewy morning,
noon, or night – it didn’t matter – only
that the next curve upward spilled
into their field of vision arms a-quiver spring
to shower or fall’s descending whirls of gold.
They’d shout a greeting to that tree and back-
ward glance to see its lonesome shadow leap
against the day’s horizon. And so that glance
behind them, day to day, and fall to spring,
night to dawn, and dusk to quick, became
a tether to the world they’d left behind –
cry by laugh and love by rain, sap to
sere and month to year. That cottonwood
in prime and past was, too, their childhood.
Janele Johnson teaches, reads and writes in Colorado Springs.
VELVEETA DREAMS - Luanne Rubey
Orange, orange, orange
Lickable Cheeto fingers
Translucent pepper slices
Tequila sunrises at that
Magical equator between
Juice and grenadine
Sweet potato pies made by my Queen
Seventies polyester matching
Pant suits—his and hers
Frictionless kitten furs
Colorado September trees
Your magnificent fires
On Mountain sides
Double lines
Warning signs
Alerting me to your
Jumping deer and
Falling rocks
Hair pin turns
Construction sites
Moon graced nights
Spray on tan
Asian fan
This jumpsuit reminds me
Of my Velveeta dreams.
Luanne Rubey is a civil engineer, business owner and the mom of 4 beautiful children.
NOT YET NINE - Teresa Hedgpeth
It’s not yet nine and I’m already behind.
I’ve made the lunches and done the dishes
picked up the clothes and changed my pantyhose.
The pets have been fed and reports have been read
all while brushing her hair; the pigtail goes where?
as we stand in a line, tackling curls from behind.
Out the door in a rush and back again, for the lunch,
and once more for the keys; this time could you please
grab my bag and please, girls, don’t nag.
Finally, out of the garage, last instructions in a barrage –
be sure to obey the golden rule with hurried kisses at the school.
Wow, whew, I’m beat and look at the time, it’s not yet nine.
Teri Hedgepeth is your average, every day, run-of-the-mill, wondering and wandering poet.
BLACK FOREST - Linda Parrish
It crept silent, a mission to consume all in its path,
along a bed of dry needles, pinecones, and grass.
No one was yet suspect of that devil’s wrath,
for its silent approach was not long to last.
Whirlwinds of smoke disguised what evil lurked,
born to destroy, it grew unchecked and wild.
It laughed and roared, unfeeling, only smirked,
out of control, unruly, a dangerous child.
Lapping and licking, tasting everything it passed,
a dance of wild swirling wind and fingers of fire.
Walls of searing red flames spread quickly and fast,
leaving ashes of memories, a smoldering black pyre.
The land will recover and eventually turn green,
with ashes comes renewal in the land and our dreams.
For now, all is gray, silent, barren a cold stark scene,
even now, a bed of charred needles, there is a petal of cream.
Linda K. Parrish is a Colorado Springs native.
THE JOY OF ENTHUSIASTIC PILGRIMAGES-Joseph A. Uphoff
Did not the blue trust the slope of
weary shoulders, inclined along
the journey of the march. Such
a traveler intended to believe, self
confidence, believing in the glossy
perfection achieved at the expense
of work, rest, play, singing,
uses of the wing, the engine,
the blanket of the motor, the universe
humming like wings that hugged
the flowers, a dear gesture
in the garden; it was heard through
dryness. Labor brought dark,
haunted tufts of grass beside trees
and near the walls of the house.
Next to the (tree, nest), no walls were
there; they had crumbled into piles
of bricks, a part of the first floor
and basement. The projector declared
peace to choke the armed ruination,
to leave it cold, (rusty, ominous).
The motor began swimming in miraculous
bottles of enthusiasm.
THE PANDA IS BORN - Mara Backsen
New place
bright light
cold air
the panda
cries for
his mother
loud screams
of fear
and sadness
but here
she comes
padding along
picks up
the furless
baby boy
soft fur
of black
and white
a rough
pink tongue
gently licking
and with
his mother
he knows
that everything
will be
all right
Mara Backsen is eleven years old. She loves nature and the outdoors.
SEPTEMBER AFTERNOON - Cheriesse Barr
Melting sunny butter runs along my shoulders
headmaster honks to those in an obedient "V"
blue mist spirea begins to shimmer with a buzzing honey
throated crew.
Heavy green tomatoes wait, hanging on a tired vibe.
Open the patio umbrella.
Stack the dishes on the tray.
Tonight we're eating in the garden.
Cheriesse Barr is a volunteer chaplain from the West Side of Colorado Springs.
STROKE - Debbie Klim
I lay alone
No voice to speak
My mind intact
My body weak
Forms pass me by
Yet do not see
That deep within
I am still me
I want to say
Don’t leave me here
Don’t go away
With this new fear
Yet I cannot
But hear, I do
&n
bsp; No voice to speak
My body weak
Debbie Klim is currently conducting interviews for a book about communications between medical providers and patients. This poem is an emergency room experience as revealed by a patient.
ON FLIES ON A WOODED LAKESIDE PATH,
TO ONE WHO CAN NEVER COME BACK - Hans Cox
Fewer hours to go, each wing-beat
of the dragonfly, each steady glide between
jerks through slow warm air, summer ends.
Pipes of wind stir twin gnat wings
as though the two are tied with string.
Three -- now four! -- swirl, all tied with string,
as though wrapping a gift in my face.
Seems like lots of work to achieve nothing,
but each is a gem, each wing and iridescent gleam.
There is so much about them, gnat and dragonfly,
I won't know, too many lost hours
not spent watching, and they are such pointless things,
such pointless things! They're all eaten or run-down in fall,
yet somehow come back after winter -- by the millions come back after winter,
such pointless things! But somehow are back in the spring!
Hans Cox paints, writes, studies computer science and develops software – all with his family in Colorado Springs.
WILDFLOWERS - Chris Hermes
Look at the field of wildflowers
fed by winter snow, morning dew, and spring showers
and nurtured by the sun of day.
My, oh my, what a beautiful bouquet!
Fed by winter snow, morning dew and spring showers
whoever planted these must have magical powers.
My, oh my, what a beautiful bouquet!
Until today, I’ve never seen such a splendid display.
Whoever planted these must have magical powers.
For me, getting it just right would’ve taken hours.
Until today, I’ve never seen such a splendid display.
I’ve got a lot to do back home, but now I want to stay.
For me, getting it just right would’ve taken hours.
Asters, Bluebells, Clover, Cosmos, and Coneflowers
I’ve got a lot to do back home, but now I want to stay.
Columbine, Forget-me-Not, Lupine, and Daisy
Asters, Bluebells, Clover, Cosmos, and Coneflowers
I sure would like to meet the gardener with magical powers.
Columbine, Forget-me-Not, Lupine, and Daisy
It’s so overwhelming, the view is amazing!
I sure would like to meet the gardener with magical powers.
So I too can grow some of these flowers.
It’s so overwhelming, the view is amazing!
A place where deer and antelope are grazing.
So I too can grow some of these flowers
I’ll need good seed, soil, sunlight, and rain showers.
A place where deer and antelope are grazing
wildflowers are growing and visitors are gazing.
LADY-IN-WAITING - Sandy Morgan
The high pasture, tawny
and wild as a buckskin woman,
is at rest, calm and quiet, waiting
for snow to descend like love.
Horses browse, gather close;
they share the night with elk and deer,
the Pleiades and Orion, guardians
of their wide fertile land.
The first snow may arrive tonight,
will cover the dry grassland
that looks so like an odalisque
reclining and ready in rounded beauty
between high breasted peaks.
Sandy Morgan writes words that will trot along beside you or curl up within reach.
ON MY OLD GRANDADDY’S KNEE - Frank Montoya
“Be brave, be true, be an Irishman”.
That is what he said to me,
When I was nothing more than a little tyke,
Sitting on my old Granddaddy’s knee.
“Do not forsake your heritage,
And be proud of your name, me lad.
A respected name, that has known no shame,
And it’s as good as anyone has ever had.
Treat all women and elders with high regard.
Your deportment and language must always be
Courteous and caring and don’t forget:
People only know what they hear and see.
Let the Golden Rule be your daily guide.
Keep an open mind, always try to learn.
Give out only that which is right and good;
And that which you’d want back... in return.
And never forget the Shamrock,
It’s the symbol of your land, your kin.
And always keep the faith, my son,
For that’s sure the only way to win.”
I sadly can’t recall it all,
The wisdom that he willed to me.
But I hope I can live up to what I heard,
While sitting on my old Granddaddy’s knee.
Frank Montoya is a Colorado Native, retired Army Warrant Officer, Poet Laureate of the City of Fountain, Colorado, and 86 years young.
STAMPEDE - Brittany Stolz
Front doors casually swing open,
creating a rush that blows off hats.
Tickets have been bought, and the
constant chime of registers talking
back and forth, welcoming
customers with trapping smiles.
The type of smile leaving wallets
covered in dust, completely empty.
Regardless, an exception is made
for family fun, for date night.
One hour and thirty minutes
remain, until the big premiere.
People pace back and forth,
gnawing on a pit of kernels
leftover inside buckets, just
chanting “Re-fill, re-fill” over and
over again, nothing but agony.
No worry, the projector thinks,
I’ll just put on commercials!
Ten measly minutes tick down
as if time itself were
a separate dimension that was
distorted so badly, a hole
has been ripped in the space-
time continuum, and takes
everything on the ride.
Midnight black engulfs the interior.
Be quiet, the movie is starting.
Brittany Stolz is a freshman at Fountain Fort Carson High School.
GREEN CHILIS - John Armstrong
Green chilis
Roasted green chilis
Hatch chilis
Pueblo chilis
Anaheims
Green chili stew
Green chili gravy
Posole
Green chili cheeseburgers
Torta burgers
Chili rellenos
Hot, medium, mild
Green chilis turn to red chilis
Ristas
Chili powder
Red sauce
Enchilada sauce
Santa Cruz chili powder
Tumacacori
Chili
Chili con carne
Chili con frijoles
Chili tchotchkes
Chili cookbooks
Chili cook-offs
Chili wreaths
Chili today, hot tamale
John Armstrong lives in Colorado Springs. His poetry has been published in “Kernels,” “Prune Juice,” “cattails,” and “Celtic Family Magazine.”
SALT OR NOTHING, LOVE - James Ciletti
As in love, when
we force not loving
upon our beloved.
So too when cooking
we seldom use a heap
of salt – a little -- at best
to allow the guest the
salting to their taste, and
let the bel
oved freely
rise to their passion –
nurturing a loving sweet,
or savory for their heart.
My preference?
I love to taste
the flavors of a dish
as natural as possible.
But, as in loving, sometimes,
desiring more or
in need of tasting what
is not there, I do say,
pass the salt, please.
Award-winning poet, James Ciletti served as the 2010-2012 Pikes Peak Poet Laureate.
SAYING GOODBYE TO NEW YORK - Jessy Randall
You were mine but now you’re not.
Secretly, though, you still are – aren’t you?
I know I left you, New York, but let’s face it,
the break-up was mutual.
“Don’t let the door hit ya on the way out,”
you yelled, as I drove away in the U-Haul,
the cockroaches waving me off.
Jessy Randall is the Curator of Special Collections at Colorado College. (This poem first appeared in “Snakeskin,” August 2015.)
FOR THE LOST - T.M. Bradbury
Edged, not grey.
No shade and - as light isn't –
taken not for that which it is not.
Between the form and the substance, it slithers.
You'd forgotten, somewhere.
Yet somewhere, it slivers.
Where balances are kept.
Life's shadows full.
Unheard tears, tears unwept.
What happened in that stillness?
Before light enveloped the morning?
When we weren't afraid to sleep?
To sit in the darkness, fearing nothing?
For in that final twilight,
was I alone to cry.
COWBOY DREAM - Dick Morton
When he was four the dream began
when Santa left him boots, light tan,
a cowboy hat, shirt, jeans to wear
with six shooter, holster, cuffs a pair.
He went around the neighborhood
tellin’ friends he’d do good.
Cowboys help out those in trouble
and turn the bad ones into rubble.
Tom Mix, Buck Jones Tex Ritter each his friend
after Saturday movies he’d pretend
to ride and shoot and apprehend
then go off into the sunset a good guy at the end.
Poetry While You Wait: National Poetry Month 2016 Page 2
