Poetry While You Wait: National Poetry Month 2016

by PikesPeakPoetLaureate

  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.