June 19 Poem

Ode to My Backyard Garden

O mighty, O valiant

flowered phalanxes,

patrolling the patio perimeter!

Sharp-pointed hostas flank

two imposing hydrangeas

holding pride of place,

one uniformed in periwinkle,

the other, salmon pink,

their blooms thrusting

purposefully toward the sky.

Snowy-petaled Shasta daisies

with bright lemon centers —

the next line of defense —

gently wave in formation,

gathering intelligence,

heads pressing together

in silent exchanges.

Outermost are the sturdy sentinels,

daylilies hued in saffron and amber,

their ranks constantly replenished,

ever watchful for marauders,

especially Inscrutable Thomas,

the neighbors’ orange tabby,

a stealthy, persistent intruder.

O carry on, carry on,

my intrepid army

of blossoms!

— Martha Golensky

May Poem 2019

Four Egrets at the Reservoir

Four great egrets,

the wands of their

slender necks waving,

wade through tall

reeds and tranquil

water to the sound

of a kingfisher’s

call. The tops of

surrounding trees

are lit from above,

and the ground below

them, shadowed.

All is serene, from

the gander swimming

in circles to water

striders, skating

across the reservoir’s

still surface. In

summer, lilies

bloom and multiply,

their petals a delicate

shade of pink. But

the wedding-veil-

white of the egrets’

feathers is stark

in early spring,

against umber,

sienna, and olive,

and the evening air,

cool and weightless

here, where egrets

come and go — like

darkness and the light.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

April Poem

The Heaven of Lost Umbrellas

They have to be somewhere;

those ribbed and fabric

servants who have held

off storms so grandly, quietly,

and with such solemn

unassuming elegance.

They come to us

in colors but mostly

that ubiquitous black.

Plaid, polka dots, birds,

butterflies, Monet’s

water lilies . . . he must

be laughing at the irony.

Van Gogh’s sunflowers,

one grand, glorious sun

of yellow.  We have

monograms, advertisements,

golf ones big enough

to cover a room

of golfers . . . except

it never rains on a golf

course. Nor in this

way out of the way

heaven of lost things.

Here umbrellas lie

folded in resting pose.

They hold their own

handles, their work

for the moment

completed. Yet

they wait to be

unfurled

and walked

wherever

they need to go.

— Ruth Moose

Poem March 2019

Tilt Toward Spring

Night’s frozen mantle sparks

in early morning rays, luminous

as a bride’s new diamonds.

Tree’s crystalline coatings

slip soundlessly from drooping

branches, twinkling fairy lights

pirouetting to the ground.

Ice sheets slide from the eaves

dropping iridescence on unsuspecting

tender daffodils waking from winter

slumber.

Air comes alive with birdsong

and fluttering wings.

Lawn strewn with early robins,

pecking for sustenance, puffing

their breasts for warmth.

Signaling Earth’s inevitable tilt

toward spring.

— Patricia Bergan Coe

February Poem 2019

Why Poetry?

A robin comes 

to my yard in spring, 

breast like sun,

bead-black eyes,

slate-blue wings.

He cocks his head,

this way and that,

listens for breakfast,

grubs and insects

rustling in fresh soil.

No promise in those eyes

how long he’ll stay.

He may follow other birds,

songs from somewhere far away

muffled in the gusting wind.

He may leave when cold

begins to mute the green,

or morning frost spreads

sparkling icing

on the ground.

Winter comes, steals

my memory of spring.

But I return to this poem’s page.

The robin never flies away. 

– Sarah Edwards