Poems from the WFOP Calendar

Fiesta in Blue
By Phil Hansotia

Spring equinox.
The sparkle of sun
brings a bouquet of blue.
Blue skies, deep blue lake,
fields of flax and rows
of Dames Rockets along
roadsides and beaches.
Rich greens and blues
flirt for a few weeks
then, like estranged lovers,
drift apart.
Next year, if all is right,
it will happen again.
The Siberian lilies,
caged in our gardens,
will watch their wild friends,
unabashed, dance their

By Phil Hansotia

Somewhere between faraway and forever
lies autumn.
Last summer you were busy
fussing over things.
First your keys, then your glasses,
then your coat was lost.
You seemed confused, left the stove on,
and read the paper upside down.
I saw you in a fog
not able to find your way.
Estranged from the moment
you drifted off shore,
Eyes wide open with fear,
at winter’s coming.

Poet Late in Winter
By Barbara Larsen

North wind cleans house in the tree tops
while I, downstairs maid,
sweep fallen branches into the woods.

Icy nettles sting my face.
Is it Lilliputian archers
releasing arrows in the cold March air?

Blood stirring, lungs aired,
I return inside to write this poem,
a fire lit under my hibernating brain.

Black Elk Remembers
By Barbara Larsen

In the Moon of Falling Leaves
Red Cloud signed a treaty
with the Wasichus:
the country would be ours
as long as grass should grow
and water flow.

Many moons have passed.
It is not the grass,
it is not the water
that have forgotten.

Pilate, Over Supper
By Peter Sherrill

… another “messiah” today.
This one came out of the wilderness –
no crowd, no banners, no lame lineages
to Abraham rolled from a scroll.

Truth be told, I hated to let this one go
to the cross. Could have gotten him
some menial job – you know –
doorman, footwasher. Herdsman –

Just to get him away from that rabble
so he could lose those wilderness eyes
and get his feet back on the ground
– wasn’t in the dice. They wanted this one.

I swear, if their messiah ever did appear
they wouldn’t know him.
Nor I.