WFOP Poets Calendar Selections

For this, the second issue of April, we will continue to feature poems that have appeared in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets annual “Poet’s Calendar” composed by members of the fellowship.

1 By Sharon Auberle
Some Things You Must Do

find a dead end road, a small beach
at the end of it, lie on sun-warmed rocks
drink in the day, the lake
the fine wine of a summer afternoon
laugh, listen to the music
of beach and sky and wind
on the way home
pick berries from the roadside
crush them on your tongue
understand each taste is a prayer
paint your lips and hands with sticky red
nectar like blood, like wine, like roses…
savor the moments of your life
for as deep and forever as you can

1 By Estella Lauter
The Way Back

Three days of trying to cross the lake.
We sail west for Rock Island
but give up just past North Fox
in waves that pitch us forward
and back until our teeth hurt.

We turn south to the Michigan shore.
Next day the same. We go still
further to make the shortest crossing,
longing for the empty sand dunes
at Sleeping Bear State Park.

Finally, light wind, calm water.
In mid-lake, a nuthatch lands on our boom,
walks up and down the mast
looking for pine pitch before he flies.

We sight Wisconsin shore at noon,
by three pass under the bridge
into Green Bay, ecstatic, and decide
to push on home to Eagle Harbor.
When we reach Fire House Dock
the sun flames brilliant orange.

2 By Sue DeKelver
Intoxicated

I sit on my porch step
swaying and praying
my head will not clear.
Daffodils nod, yes, yes.

My mug overflows
with hyacinths shouting:
Pink. Pink. Pink.
Lilacs dribble into my lap.

Under the influence of spring
I am too drunk to drive so I fly
with red wings and red breasts
and red-headed peckers.

We sparrow swoop, hawk dive,
gull glide and ride the riotous
joys of April higher and higher
till we are zoned, stoned and
so mellow we soar.

If a Unicorn Sees Its Shadow

then time waits for no sleeping dog
and a bird in the hand will gather no moss.

People in glass houses who gather rosebuds
while the horse is out of the barn shouldn’t
bite the hand that turns over a new leaf.

Remember, if you spring forward you’ll save
a stitch in time but only if you close the barn door
before you fall back into the spilt milk.

June May be busting out to beat the band
but it takes a different drummer to teach
an old dog how to cry into the wind.

Laugh and the world will have 30 days.
Don’t spit into a gift horse unless it saves nine.
An April fool and his silver lining are soon parted.

(after Paul Muldoon’s Symposium)

Sue DeKelver’s poems have appeared in the Poet’s Calendar for 23 consecutive years.

2 By Donajean Durkin
Birchwood Hall,
October 2003

Daylight shrinks
to early twilight.
Like a dying fire
the sun’s heat dwindles.

Even now the fading light
sets autumn leaves ablaze.
A quilt of scarlet, gold, and tangerine;
the pillowed patterns on the bluff
stitched in yellow, orange, and aubergine.

I seek country lanes and byways where
still-green meadows and fallow fields
are framed by wooded borders
awash in brilliant color
even in the rain.

Autumn flaunts her majesty,
Her glowing, royal canopy
outside my study window
will not survive winter snow;
but what a splendid song she sings
before her final bow.

Blue Heron

In the moist, morning shade
Uncle trundled me through the swale.
A cardinal caroled a convocation
while I squirmed in expectation
from my queenly perch in the barrow.

Suddenly, through marsh reeds,
blue-grey feathers ruffling
in the soft May breeze…
proud neck stretched to the sky,
there stood the preacher
knee-deep in the pond,
preparing his sermon.

2 Haikus By Michael Farmer

Alternate snowflakes
gather on evergreen branches
for balsam kowtow

I once asked a friend
How to read haiku aloud.
She said keep it short!

2 By June Nirschl
Dear L. L. Bean,

Thank you for everything natural you’ve brought
into my life: 100% cotton pajamas in which I
float each night, a lilac over a mountain stream,
and 100% cotton pants that breathe, even as I, of
Lake Michigan’s spray and gusts of northern wind.

However, I am especially grateful for the 96%
polyester and 4% Spandex of my raspberry-
colored fleece cardigan, because today a hum-
mingbird mistook me for a flower.

An ecstatic fan

Show of Colors

Red-nosed, I sniffled through December,
white-knuckled January and February,
blue-juiced all of March.
If anyone believes this show of colors
matters, here in the frozen land of the free
and keep-the-fire-stoked home of the brave,
I could create a bumper sticker,
declare myself a patriot.

2 By Judy Roy
Articles of Faith

When springtime comes
pale green lace will edge cedar branches
the south wind will sing counterpoint to the waves
sunshine will stream thickly through the woods
and songbirds will fill the air with courting calls

These are my articles of faith
during short white January days
when frost glazes window panes
and my world is monochromatic

Hear Me Out, says Snake

So I gave her the apple. Big deal!
He created people in His image,
gave them the free choice He enjoys,
then punished Woman for taking my advice.
But look what he did to me!
Took away my legs, and lovely legs they were,
sexy and muscular with iridescent scales,
Made me slither on my belly
like an overgrown worm.
Made woman my enemy,
screaming and running at my approach,
then calling Man to kill me,
a well-practiced craft for him.

3 By Jude Genereaux
Lac Du Flambeau

Four yellow finches
played tag, racing
through pine trees
etched in autumn

Three otters somersaulted
in the white water river
rounding bends of
mystery

Two solemn travelers
ply the dark waters
the silence
thickening
between them

One canoe drifts
on into evening
following finches, otters
and other promises.

October Sunday

What more quiet can there be
when the house empties
little ones climb into cars
the girls’ voices gone, sons’ exit to
lives as husbands.

There is then the profound silence
of the forest, emptied of summer people
the lake exempt from boaters
pontoon partiers, fishermen
and loons.

I stand on the deck, leaning
forward into the trees
there is no sound
    no motors
          tires on pavement,
                 voices.

A squirrel runs through
crackling leaves
      creates a ruckus.

Spring Garden

Old woman digging in the dirt
plants herself down,
flatass down
in the dirt
of a garden
turned over
out front the weathered house
its siding dulled with need
the sprung spring screen banging loose
in soft April air, blowing
her white hair awry

sits herself down
in a garden
bordered by apple’s white buds
the new green of meadow
alongside the busy highway,
and
rakes her fingers through soil
holding the sins of centuries
watching
traffic bulleting through her solitude.

Old woman, what sense do you make of this life?
What memories do you unearth
watching time
pass you by
What hopes do you have yet to sow?