The Paris Poet's Society met at Sherry's beautiful home and Sherry graciously provided iced coffee and sesame seed covered fougasse bread from Paris Bakery. We are going to try something new this month and post some of the poems that were read and discussed. I hope you enjoy them as much as we did and consider joining us sometime.
Sherry read a wonderful children's book by Naomi Shihab Nye entitled The Lullaby Raft. Naomi currently lives in San Antonio, Texas. She was elected Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2010. You can learn more about her and read some of her poetry here:
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/174
I want to say a fond hello from all of us to John Howison. Get well soon and come back. You are missed!
I think Larry has provided us with our theme poem.
Paris Square
Merchants receive genteel
buyers into their shops
Untrained actors perform generously
to uncritical linked audiences
Antique autos surround the inner square
Dazzling passersby like
a rainbow of orchids
A mythic child of stone
centers the squareg
gushing water onto arid terrain.
Towering oaks offer shaded respite
Itinerant poets vainly aspire
To encapsulate eternity in a couplet
And with each encounter the square congeals
into molten history for time to anneal
Larry Anderson
~ ~ ~
Portrait of Envy
Art as mirror
Woman as mirror
Red as red can be
A Flame-haired woman
stares into a mirror
mesmerized
She wants to become
fluid red--
a part of the wind
and what the wind means.
The butterfly collection
Snow-covered hills and trees
Plum blossoms stick frozen to the ground
Waiting for winter's passing
A sad girl waits for spring.
A butterfly on a pin.
Elaine Aiko Endo
~ ~ ~
Damn Blue Sky
I'm worried about the cello and the chickens
in this 108 degree heat
moreso than myself
while in an open car, it's exhaust spraying
heat on my legs up through the floorboard
That damn blue sky
day after day, never flagging in zeal
while the yard wilts and my old chicken
pants as hard as a dog
both digging tunnels to china in the back yard.
It's compared to the summer of 1980-
record-braking summer days of triple digits
that played around 116 for two weeks until
the grasshoppers took over
In a hot duplex on the south side of town
just after talking the landlord into a window unit
things began to unwind
as the days of fishing turned to nights, an unending obsession
and warring of the mind
until it was time to move across town
in the fall
A duplex next to the alley
with unknown neighbors and disturbances
through the walls
became a lonely place
lonelier than the heat
which I forgot about
until now
I'm wetting my dog down twice a day
letting the chickens free-range
in the backyard shrubs
and letting the wind in through my cello bag
swearing I will never drive this car again
in blinding heat
while the unrelenting sun sears
more than memories into my brain.
The Pomegranate Tree
It's fruit is green
this time of year
only splashed with red
here and there
while hot and bright outside
in California.
But come September
a different stir will be
I remember well
we climbed over the fence
into her backyard
and discovered a tree with fruit
it was
September in Texas
School days and a wind
that cooled off late afternoons
Exciting changes in the air
though we
remained blissfully unaware of the
world turning around us
After all
it was the beginning of a new year
the very first time
I tasted red fruit
that was hidden behind her house
over a tall wooden fence
Morning in September
One September morning
red flowers standing in a row
just for me
Things about to change
when something's left behind
or something left to come
Either way
the sun is out-
fall's not here yet
It's been a long time
since the beginning of school
but memories of the
first time are here
A certain smell in the air
when the wind begins to whip
the trees and separate
leaf from stem
Playground rules are all the same
Far removed from then
someone today starts
making their own
memories of song, play
and
red colored mornings in September
Sherry Scott
~ ~ ~
Cyclical Experiment
No braking on the slippery slope
of sweetest dreams we hold to cope
Cast the dice for hope and love
Prayers for blessing from above
Capricious luck chameleon
lives in finest gossamer skin
Silver mirror tells a tale
the hazardous signs to no avail
Fried eggs cause cholesterol
Acid rain our own downfall
Committed to this saddened road
sore weighed down by heavy load
Follow through the deadline looms
inexorable lowering fateful boom
as mundane as a dog with fleas
remain in shallow water please
Claimed by dirt the box awaits
There is no running from this fate
But still the soul is steel and stone
No chisel carves a scar upon
No soapsuds need to wash it clean
No jaded imitation sheen
Throw your theory to the sky
Do not pretend that you know why
Though battered, shattered, worn
the mind's eye sees beyond the storm
pulls threads of crimson, gold and blue
A tapestry of purest hue
Love sings past the aging flesh
Life cycle soon begins afresh
Is There Life After The Sock Drawer?
Overflowing, tied in knots.
Some neatly paired.
Finely wrought for finer days.
Fancy saved
For special occasions.
Black lace toe sliders.
Silky thigh climber, sassy,
But clingy,
Hoping the elastic holds.
Uppity tweed thinks itself
Smarter than it is,
Neatly folded as a page.
Woolen warmth
For colder days,
Snuggles the corner
In the back,
Behind pilled and darned
(does anyone even
Do that anymore?
So outdated!)
Old comfort sits with holes,
Wistful and forgotten
Halfway to the trash.
Lonely single hoping for a mate,
Hanging on
That just in case dream.
Faded, jaded, spilling over,
Sorting needed, old and new;
A jumble, dryer tumbled,
Multicolor metaphor
Life in a sock drawer.
What Is Poetry?
I will try to understand
what is poetry
some arch brows and
chant
meter and rhyme
and rules
and they would strip my words
to bone and bleach
pinned on the line
to flap in cold wind
until frozen they no longer fold
some say anchor your feet
with punctuation
so we know where to breath
back me up to the wall
pull my heart
out from under me
I hide the sack of exclamation points
behind my back
and hold out a handful of question marks
I would learn the ropes
and rise like steam
metaphoric clouds
blind me to the moment
I get distracted
by distant music
forgetting to sift the grains of
life as they pass
through my fingers
landing on the page
my head hurts
from all the thinking
and I will float in the sea of wisdom
bobbing and weaving
with algae and angel fish
resting between waves
ponder the knowledge
of palm trees
how they know to sway
let yellow sun warm blue water
hold my hand up to the light
marvel at bones and veins
I will try to understand
what is poetry
Dee Martin
~ ~ ~
