WestWard
Quarterly
The Magazine of Family Reading
Winter 2016
2
To our readers . . .
Until now, our winter in the Midwest has been relatively free of snow, certainly compared with the major storm that blankets the East Coast as we write!
Winter days here in Illinois are often gloomy, but the poems our contributors have
submitted for this issue project a brighter note — even the poems about winter, of
which there are quite a few (see pages 7-8, 15-16, 25-28). And frequent contributor Elizabeth Howard offers a welcome preview of spring (page 13). Of
course, our readers in warmer climes don’t have to deal with this phenomenon,
nor do this issue’s contributors from Brazil (Edilson Ferreira) or India (Pushkar
Bisht).
Contributor Dr. James Piatt (page 7) writes to tell us of the publication of his
new poetry book entitled Light, available through Amazon.com or Barnes and
Noble. It contains some poems that first appeared in WestWard Quarterly and are
so noted.
Curtis Vevang of Illinois is our Featured Writer in this issue. His interesting
“bio” and several poems appear on pages 4-5.
As always, we call your attention to the notice at the bottom of page 29
concerning subscriptions to our magazine, their expiration dates, and the need for
new subscribers to be enrolled. Please read it and consider appropriate action so
WestWard Quarterly can continue to serve you as an outlet for your work.
Shirley Anne Leonard, EDITOR
WestW
ar
d
estWar
ard
Quarterly
Shirley Anne Leonard, Editor
P.O. Box 369, Hamilton, IL 62341 USA
[email protected], 800-440-4043
Web site: www.wwquarterly.com
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WestWard Quarterly showcases the best work of upbeat writers and poets. Our
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it.” Reflect an uplifting, positive or gently humorous attitude in your submissions.
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3
In This Issue
Featured Writer
Featured Writer Poems
Betrothed
A Father
The Winter Reverie
I Will Be Beside You
Canadian Émigrés
Winter
Hush
Haiku
Family Getaway
Memorable Envy
The Moth
Earthquake Country
The (S)catbird
Propaedeutic Noumenon
The Cusp of Spring
Blue Moons
Being Poor
Enduring Lovers
A New Freedom
One Cold Night
Winter Birth
New Birth (Photograph)
From My Vantage Point . . .
Creative Quotations
Plains Eulogy
Haiku
“egregious (adj.)”
Sometime
The Life of Gratitude
Forgotten Songs
When I Am Old
Daydreaming
Sure Enough
Thank You TMC
Take It From Someone Who Knows
Hooked on Coffee
Speculation
Monet
Forest White
Magical Creatures
Ice Storm Art
Dormant Volcano
Copasetic
How Pride Goes
Eviction Notice
Ice Storm
Discouraged
When Winter Comes
Winter Song
Writer’s Workbench
Ads
Vevang
Vevang
Storni/Feeny
Kaniecki
Stuart
Piatt
Sheehan
Gruber
Waring
Flory
Kolp
Oberg
Singer
Zapletal
Salzmann
Gallucci
Howard
Peters
Goven
Ferreira
Bisht
Salihue
Leonard
Malmgren
Chester the Cat
Kirby/Anonymous
Luftig
Olinger
Woodside
Mastor
Walker
Meadows
Hay
Leonard
Kipps
Waring
Benn
Parnell
Leiper-Estabrooks
Blohm
Bensinger
St. Pierre
Dotoli
Grey
Heyder
Hamilton
Scheinoha
Dawidowicz
Sherrill
Shallenberger
Granger
The Editor
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Cover Image: Steamtown USA Train, Moscow, Pennsylvania, January 2008
Photo by David V. Leonard
Featured
Writer
4
Curt Vevang
Illinois
Recently I had occasion to look up the definition
of the word droll. I found it intriguing in that it seemed
to describe me so well — whimsically humorous, amusing in a quaint or odd way. While most folks wouldn’t
like to be defined as such, I believe it is probably a
pretty good description of me.
I enjoy expressing my thoughts, my feelings and my opinion and writing poetry provides a
great outlet for doing just that. I am very pleased when I find folks who like one of my poems, but
they don’t always exist. In that case I take solace in knowing that at least I enjoyed the time I spent
writing the poem in the first place.
For years I was quite content to write only rhyming poems. But as many of you know, rhyming
poetry has a tough row to hoe in the contest and publication market place. So I caved under the
pressure and began to write some free verse. And surprise, now I enjoy writing free verse just as
much if not more so.
I often tell people that during my working career I never took work serious. While that’s not
entirely true it probably explains why the poetry I write ranges from lighthearted to serious,
weighted toward the lighthearted. My poems are either based on life experiences or on humorous
situations that I conger up. Whether humorous or with a sincere message, I believe that my poetry
is always accessible. By accessible I mean that I don’t want someone to have to struggle to
understand what my poems are about. I try to be clear as well as entertaining. On the other hand I
am pleased if I leave the reader with a concept or problem to think about, I just don’t want them
walking away wondering what my poem was even about.
I am a member of three poetry workshop groups which meet monthly. The purpose of these
groups is to provide a sounding board and critique of an early draft of a poem. I say early draft of
a poem because once your poetry group gets finished critiquing your poem that you thought was
polished to perfection you suddenly become aware that it is simply an early draft. I take to heart
every comment and suggestion that I receive, combine it with my judgment and edit and rewrite
accordingly, many times. Of course I ignore some suggestions and some conflict with other
suggestions, but all in all I find these critiquing sessions invaluable. I would recommend that any new
poet join at least one group (or form a group). Experienced poets are already in many groups.
These groups consist of anywhere from one to fifteen other poets and I find they are often overrepresented with teachers — which is a wonderful bonus.
I am a Chicago native and a retired industrial engineer. My wife Susan, of fifty years, and I have
two daughters, two sons-in-law, and six grandchildren. In addition to writing poetry, I teach
woodworking, hike, travel, maintain the websites of a couple non-profits, and enjoy crossword
puzzles. I am a product of Chicago Public Schools and a graduate of the University of Illinois. I
have recently published two rhyming children’s books on Amazon.com. One of the books carries
a message of thinking for yourself. The second book is centered around a message of treating
others the same way that you would like to be treated. I enlisted fourth, fifth and sixth grade
students from a local grammar school to do all of the illustrations.
My poems have been published in anthologies, poetry magazines, newspapers, newsletters and
various poetry websites. Many are also published on my web site, curtvevang.com. Along the way
my poetry has won honors from the Illinois State Poetry Society, Poets and Patrons, and the
Journal of Modern Poetry.
5
When It’s All Said and Done
Can a Caribbean cruise provide the romance of
navigating a wooden row boat through still waters at daybreak?
Can the music of the world’s great orchestras compete with
the emotional high of a high school concert choir?
Can tickets to the World Series compare to the excitement of
a little girl with special needs knocking a baseball off a tee and
scurrying haphazardly to first base in the heat of a Miracle League game?
Can the best hotels of London and Paris compete with
your own bed at the end of a long day, a crossword puzzle in hand?
Can the finest restaurant in the world compete with
a fried egg sandwich at the kitchen table?
Can the glitz and elite status of the social world compare to
the mundane simplicity of an old friend?
Picking Up the Pizza
Picking up pizza, our Friday night treat.
I’m standing in line at Lou’s Pizza Place.
Last name? phone number? my address and street?
Can’t find my order? Not even a trace?
I try once again, name — address — and phone.
The line grows longer. I get glares and stares.
The guy behind me, I hear a dull groan.
Some places today, seems nobody cares.
There’s my son-in-law, I see at lines end.
I smile and wave hi, but he hides his face.
A pizza for free? You’ll make to amend?
I stare at their sign, the name of the place?
I’m glad I stayed calm and didn’t get sore,
‘Cause it just hit me, I’m at the wrong store.
Balloons
As a child
I wanted most things I saw,
balloons were no exception.
I never had many balloons.
Whenever I would ask for a balloon
my father would tell me to wait.
“Wait until next time I go downtown,” he would say,
"I'll buy you a balloon that doesn't break."
I was good with that.
My father never went downtown.
He painted houses in the neighborhood.
6
7
This Winter Reverie
Betrothed
Dr. Jane Stuart, Kentucky
Alfonsina Storni
Translated by Thomas Feeny,
North Carolina
Seated in the cool breezeway
that overlooks the valley
with the tiniest of stitches
I sew the white cloth.
From time to time, I glance
at the dove that flutters about
and the golden insect caught
in the sheer curtains.
Some little children, barefoot,
come near, and in a tiny nostril
much like translucent silk,
I jokingly insert my thimble.
We laugh. One child pauses beside me,
bearing a basket of quinces.
In the distance I see the cacti,
huge and thirsty amid the hot sands,
and the noisy cicadas and calcinated rocks.
They show up during my long siesta,
never disturbing my slow parade of stitches.
Now and again upon the breeze
that caresses the apple trees,
two sentences are repeated.
You are mine. I am yours.
Alfonsina Storni (1892 – 1938) was
one of the most important Argentine
and Latin-American poets of the
modernist period.
A Father
John Kaniecki, New Jersey
Every man
Walks a road
Every man
Carries a load
A father
To love and nurture
Teaching tenderness
Hope for the future
An example of righteousness
Let it be known
We never journey alone
Every step is taught
In memory caught
So be cautious
Where you tread
So be cautious
In what is said
Understand
The future is in your hand
The joy and pride
That walks at your side
Forever you are
a father.
You follow me with a child’s dreamy eyes
through winding pages of our picture book.
We follow history when we walk
under gold stars and a silver moon
across unseen worlds, between lost planets
shadowed by blue mosaic globes that turn
inside the tinkling chime of windblown bells.
You live, I breathe, under each silver moon.
Glass bells chime in the wind,
sky pulls back from darkening clouds . . .
to be this ethereal is not unusual
but we are part now of a reverie
where dreams are frosted by a hidden hand
and early winter breathes
on all that autumn owned . . .
leaving us creatures of October’s moon
lost in the stars, part of the spirits’ dance —
a quiet touch, a northern kiss, dark hills
this leafy wind . . . you follow me in song.
I Will Be Beside You
Dr. James G. Piatt, California
When you are weary, I will help you,
When you are lonely, I will take your hand,
When you are blue, I will amuse you,
When you are happy I will rejoice with you,
When you have dreams, I will dream with you,
When you are ailing I will comfort you, and
When the days get dimmer and our memories
Become like clips from a silent movie, I will
Be there beside you, for you are my only
Love, my dearest friend, and my solace.
8
9
Canadian Émigrés
Hush
Tom Sheehan, Massachusetts
Vernon Waring, Pennsylvania
Onstage, from behind
the Laurentian Shield,
abundant of wing and body,
came tuxedo gray geese,
white jaunty Fred Astaire
scarves around necks
black as top hats.
Now we wait
for the whisper in the universe
the voice to transcend all other sounds
They declined low
over the lake, their single
file pattern close as buttons
on a tunic front, choreographed
by a seamstress. A scrutable awe
trailed behind them.
Time has ceased
All creatures of the earth are still
The birds are sleeping
The fish are at rest
All seas are calm, undisturbed
All warriors have replaced their weapons
with prayers and thoughts of peace
The glittering components
of all the celestial galaxies
are in perfect alignment
We hush to hear the message
Someone will speak to us
Someone’s voice will embrace us
in our darkest night of despair
Dance hall precision,
what comes to us by rote
and to them being what they are,
built parapets of that awe;
unerring decision
and accuracy in maneuver,
mastery of thermal lift
from an open December
lake hip deep in water,
ankle deep in food.
But too quickly these victors
of flight strike upon the very air’s
dominion further south, where
swamps stretch feet under
cypress and yellow pine,
and secret morning mists
are quietly infiltrated
by design and the guarded
odor of gun oil.
All of the people in the world
have gathered
hopeful, longing
lingering on the edge of possibility
anxious to find
the majesty of forgiveness
the mystery of our purpose
the meaning of our lives
Everything in place
Everyone waiting for
the whisper
in the universe
Winter
John F. Gruber, New York
The bare branches of the ash
are attacked by a gust of wind,
some snap and swirl
onto the sodden ground.
On this dank day a squirrel is out
of its drey.
Black clouds
hang low,
Snow is on its way.
Haiku
Raymond J. Flory, Indiana
Snowflakes
softly falling . . .
no two alike.
Soft Saturday snowflakes
settle on the bird bath . . .
sounds of silence.
In the sanctuary
of winter woods . . .
deer tracks.
10
11
Family Getaway
The Moth
Laurie Kolp,Texas
Dr. Roger G. Singer, New York
The log cabin is angled
between the Colorado river
and lines of Ponderosa pine
zipping up the hill
like the lanky teen who bolts upstairs
two steps at a time
rushing to shut his bedroom door
as if followed by a mob
of angry peers.
The fireplace’s sparks and pops
go unnoticed as, cocooned in his room,
he shoves earplugs to eardrum.
Downstairs the mother
knits at the kitchen table
while the father chops wood out back;
all oblivious to the scent of cedar
filling the night air.
Behind the snow-capped
mountains, the sun
a dying memory.
In time,
underlined words on paper, the favorites
of phrases, become illegible, though not
forgotten as our temperature to change
thoughts creates undercurrents from
a thick darkness within.
The answers to our delicate puzzles can
be fragile, larger than what there was.
Every chance attempted is an epic motion
within our history; trying times
can easily succeed without trying.
We need to focus on what is missed, creating
a covering like the flame resistant moth.
Think quiet. You don’t have to reach for
What’s already there.
Earthquake Country
Dawn Zapletal, California
Memorable Envy
Carol A. Oberg, Michigan
I see from here in our company
filled home the snow fall
light and thick straight down
a magical cleanser
shaking down from the sky so later
when I do sneak out
the clean cold air
will burrow into my coat
hold onto my skin so
I will carry its freshness
back inside
for everyone there
to stop what they are doing
and for a pensive moment
wish they were me
First published in the Spring 2015 issue of New Planets Review
A cookie jar past its prime;
. Lid cracked half way across,
Rim chipped and crumbling
Like the cliffs above Big Sur.
Unable to hide its fatal flaws
Its surface reads like a map of
Earthquake faults cross-hatched
With lines and fissures threatening
Imminent disruption or destruction.
The flora and fauna
Painted on its base are happily
Oblivious of their unstable garden
Of delight; no longer safe for
Cookies it brightens up a comer
Of the kitchen counter
Its best face turned outward,
A lesson to us all.
12
13
The (S)catbird
The Cusp of Spring
Kenneth Salzmann, New York
Elizabeth Howard, Tennessee
Those believed to best know birdsong say
and say again the catbird lacks a song of its own
to broadcast from the crest of a winterberry tree.
In some way the critics know nature’s error of orchestration
that leaves this bird only to sample the proper sounds
of the wood thrush the magnolia warbler the red-eyed vireo
even the spring peeper, even your neighbor’s lawnmower.
In some way they know that the catbird’s mews
and whistles and squeaks, nasal moans and throaty
gurgles, count only as illegitimate borrowings from
the walls of sound that delimit his woodland home.
But we lack such certainties and, for the gift of lacking,
we still can make with innocent wonder the critical mistake
of marveling at the catbird’s discredited scatted inventions.
Propaedeutic Noumenon
Raymond Gallucci, Maryland
A preliminary inkling that can never be described.
A precognition twinkling, if not grasped, can’t be revived.
A feeling in your gut devoid of logical defense.
Conviction you’re abutting next to something quite immense.
A sense of déjà vu somewhere you’ve never been before
Descending upon you and drilling to your inner core.
Perhaps some former life within you trying to up well,
Some pleasure or some strife from long lost echo of a bell.
We all have such experiences we cannot explain,
Dismissed or taken seriously like a threat of rain.
Akin to realm of dreams forgotten but for their effect
Upon the streams unconscious that too often we neglect.
Mid-February, the air warms, ice on the pond
melts, a crocus blooms, a green aura covers
the earth. It’s spring, we think. And then
the weatherman talks of change, drawing arrows,
circles, and lines over his maps. In the night,
it begins to rain, rain changes to sleet, sleet
to freezing rain. Morning dawns gray and
overcast, a coating of ice on trees, lines, roads.
The big maple cracks, limbs falling in slow
motion, the house dark and silent.
We turn primitive, lighting antique oil lamps,
creeping around in the shadows like wraiths
in granny’s fireside stories. As temperatures
plummet, we don long johns and woolen scarves
and huddle in blankets. Overcome by hunger,
we light the camp stove on the porch to brew
coffee and cook hamburgers, steaks and
chicken wings we find thawing in the freezer.
After several frozen days, the melt begins,
grows from tentative drips to torrents running
across the yard, filling ditches, branches, creeks.
Eventually the electricity comes on again,
and everyone is busy, bathing, washing dishes,
doing piles of laundry, restocking the fridge.
The air warms, daffodils bloom, a green aura
covers the willows. Spring peepers sing in every
ditch and puddle. Perhaps it’s spring at last.
Blue Moons
James Peters, Tennessee
In the blue moon of winter,
While the day’s dawn hangs
Over the hills
We walk towards its setting.
On this holiday
Which should never end,
Let us find a path to walk
Under the blue noon of coming spring.
14
15
Being Poor
A New Freedom
Janet Goven, Pennsylvania
Pushkar Bisht, India
My mother said that being poor would not be a disgrace
if we had enough to make ends meet, we’d wear a smile upon our face.
We’d behave ourselves and be content, always dressing in good taste
since there would only be enough, there’d be nothing left to waste.
As children, we remember moving to this wonderful neighborhood,
everything was all brand new, it really felt so very good.
Paint on walls was barely dry, the grass still growing in.
Our parents were so happy, this was where they could begin
to raise a family, make a home, so much to hope for way back then!
We could walk to school and grocery store; the little church was in the glen.
The buildings now where we grew up are barely standing there.
When they were built so long ago it was not to breed despair
but to lend a helping hand to folks whose knowledge of great wealth
was a happy child in a well kept house, and all being in good health.
With Mom and Dad watching over us until we were full grown,
working together to see that we would make it on our own.
So being poor to you may sound a little strange to hear
but as we look back, we were not poor in things we now hold dear,
a family close with lots of love, we willingly did share.
The blessings of God’s greatest gifts back then, they all were there.
Enduring Lovers
Edilson A. Ferreira, Brazil
A priest at the church’s aisle wears black,
welcoming boys and girls wearing white.
Priest’s black cassock makes counterpoint
at boys’ suits, short pants and knee socks;
girls’ dresses, veils and gloves, a full display
of rich splendid whites.
They arrive holding in hands lighted candles
and small (white) prayer books, lucent faces
shining more than the candles, yet more than
some big full-lighted ceiling chandeliers.
A touching image of former times, happy ones,
the celebration of one First Holy Communion,
testimony of pure minded a children’s faith.
Then, life ran simply, giving us fewer choices,
like only black telephones and white fridges,
along dear black and white films and photos.
Moreover, time to encounter enduring lovers,
that endure life disillusions, jointly reaching,
so many years ahead,
colorful and unsettled contemporaneous days.
A new freedom
Everybody wants to fly as a bird,
Nobody wants to remain in chains,
Because everyone has a new freedom to live merrily,
But some cruel take our freedom away
And make us their slave.
Freedom is a god-gifted gift
Which nobody can destroy from this earth.
Freedom is not made for rich
But for innocent poor dwelling in slums.
Freedom means peace and love
Not fear around us.
Freedom is what brings a nice smile
On everybody’s face.
Freedom knows no boundary
Of happiness and sprinkles its grace
On everyone wonderfully.
Freedom knocks at every door
And kisses everyone in the early morning
As a nightingale sings its lovely hymn for each person.
Freedom walks from door to door
To visit so that no one
Can be deprived of it.
One Cold Night
Aishah Salihue, California
The moon shone sapphire blue in the chilly winter night,
An awe-inspiring sight,
For those who saw that light.
Tall trees slowly yet surely sway in the gentle breeze,
Worn out branches with pale green leaves,
Hoping to last one day, and leaving another to grieve.
Small creatures scurry across the grassy field,
To a creek, where they kneeled,
While using the darkness as a shield.
And on this very night,
A person just might,
Have the chance to make things right.
16
17
From My Vantage Point . . .
by Chester the Cat
“The New Birth”
Find “Through the Eyes of God,” Photography
by Terrence A. Malmgren, on Facebook.
Winter Birth
Shirley Anne Leonard, Illinois
What’s this —
that up through February’s
cold, unknowing ground
pushes living-green,
sight unseen?
What profound knowledge
exists in this
bulb — shriveled, brown —
to stir itself awake,
shake off slumber so profound
and raise its head above the ground,
while winter wears her icy crown?
What’s this —
what declaration of pure faith
built into cold, hard earth
to show in seasons of despair
how all creation longs to share
the wondrous news,
to all who wait in sleep
in the abysmal deep,
that a Seed was sown
that transcends the cold,
and in God’s time will unfold
a plan majestically defined
to give them riotous rebirth
in resurrection life sublime?
Listen to the voice of God
that thrusts up through unyielding sod
to burst through winter’s iron hold
and raise new life out of the old!
What was that? I thought I heard a noise in the kitchen!
I have to stay alert at all times for strange noises. Otherwise, who
would warn our Editor and Publisher — or Callie, too — about potential
dangers?
There it is again! That clicking, clanging, banging sound. Do you
suppose it’s something at the back door? Maybe some horrible monster
is trying to get into the house!
On second thought, I’ll let Callie fend for herself while I run to the
back bedroom — just to check things out there, of course. I’m not
afraid of strange noises.
Uh oh, I heard the noise again! Maybe the house is collapsing, for
some reason. We might all need to run for it. Maybe if I go first, the
others will get the idea.
I just heard it again! It could be some stranger, or a family member
who doesn’t visit very often. I’d better make a dash for the bedroom,
and find a place to hide!
Oh, never mind. It was only our Editor putting some pots and pans
into the cupboard. I wish she would warn me when she’s going to make
noise like that.
They say I’m just a nervous cat, but somebody has to be on guard at
all times. We have to protect this magazine, you know!
18
Creative Quotations
What a Poem Is Not . . .
With some significant exceptions . . . most of the poems that are being
written today are not characterized primarily by rhyme or a fixed metrical
scheme or a set number of lines. The problem is that it is so much easier to list
what a poem is not than to say what a poem is that one is tempted to fall back
on the old reliable (and only partly facetious) definition of a contemporary
poem: a poem is the literary form whose lines need not extend all the way to
the right-hand margin.
There is actually a lot of hidden truth in this playful definition, however.
The point is that the poetic form today must be free to do what other contemporary literary genres and the poetry of the past cannot do. Recently I asked a
class to read some contemporary poems; I discussed the individual poems in
detail but I did not provide any sort of theory, and when we were finished, I
posed the following question: “What good is poetry?” One student wrote,
“Poetry can say things that other literary genres would have a hard time saying — rhythm, images, diction all help to convey underlying thoughts.” The
key word here is “underlying,” since the compression of most poems guarantees a greater proportion of subterranean material than is normally found in a
story or play, for example, where plot and dramatic action dominate. A good
poem burrows under the surface.
A second student wrote that “poetry evokes mental images which seem to
unlock thoughts that were previously being suppressed for one reason or
another.” Because we don’t know what these thoughts are before we think
them consciously, we cannot unearth them by simply using some tried-andtrue method that has always worked; this fact alone accounts for the dazzling
variety of poem types which have appeared in the last hundred years.
A third student wrote, “I feel that because there are no rules about the
structure of a poem that the author can say exactly what he feels in any way
that he feels like saying it.” (Wisely, this same person wrote, “I’m not saying
that I like all poetry and that all poetry is good and wonderful.”)
Finally, one student said that “poetry is good for people who can look past
the paper and the ink.” If there is nothing on the other side of the paper and the
ink, of course, then there is no poem.
— David Kirby, Writing Poetry: Where Poems Come From
and How to Write Them (1989), pp. 6-7
Dissipation in Literature . . .
Literary dissipation is no less destructive of sympathy with the living world,
than sensual dissipation. Mere intellect is as hard-hearted and as heart-hardening as mere sense; and the union of the two, when uncontrolled by the conscience and without the softening, purifying influences of the moral affections is all that is requisite to produce the diabolical ideal of our nature.
— Anonymous, from the New Dictionary of Thoughts (1964 Edition)
19
“egregious (adj.)”
Plains Eulogy
Sandee Woodside, New Jersey
Dr. Richard Luftig, California
For Peggy Woodward (1925-2015)
It’s no surprise that she grew to love
the tastes of words, hailing from
the Colorado plains where her mother
told stories of other times, other lives:
Sweden, Maine, their trip through
the heartland, over the Mississippi
just before the depression dug in its heels.
How she learned to skim poetry
off the hoarfrost of new-frozen ponds
or find its magic in morning chores,
holding it close like a love-locket
at her throat while growing up,
leaving for college then teaching.
ironically, illustrious
came to be
appallingly derogatory
around 1653
positive or negative
matters less
when pretence dictates
lack of common sense
roots and etymology, aside—
if you stand out
from the flock too far,
you oft risk
being branded by pride
Sometime
John C. Mastor, Washington State
Her poems county roads
that run parallel, a topography
Sometime
of images, curving, but always
I will write that book
you know that somewhere,
of poetry
up ahead, even if you can’t see it,
short stories
they converge where the mountains begin.
a novel
And it was the mountains that joined
Sometime
them where the wild olive grows
I will write that book
where they dreamed, made a life,
of essays
traveling when the wind called
a memoir
but always returning to that special place
nonfiction
where love resides: pinyon, canyon,
Douglas Fir, living their best parts,
Sometime
I will write that book
leaving her poems that might last forever.
Sometime
Haiku
Ellen Olinger, Wisconsin
reading
in a sunny corner
of the house
I could be
any age
20
21
The Life of Gratitude
When I Am Old
Steven Walker, California
Dr. C. David Hay, Indiana
While reading in my hometown
about a year ago,
I was reminded by a favorite writer
that the next best thing to having what you want
is learning to want what it is you have.
Now, like the way the wind moves
soil and stubble across farms
in this central California valley,
my mind has changed, come far
and deepened.
The life of gratitude
I feel that I am now approaching,
the abundance,
it reminds me of much:
of all the days I would write
and walk down famous southern streets,
When I am old and weary
And my hair has gone to gray
I’ll consider it a blessing
If God gifts another day.
of how my father’s love of watching airplanes
was not weakened by his eventual enjoyment
of riding on them,
of all the loads of fruit
to be found near the Pacific,
and still my mother could not be happier
than to sit at home,
with a proud basket of their own local peaches,
a bowl and a sharp knife, sugar for sweetening,
milk for cream.
Forgotten Songs
Melody Meadows, Vermont
The chaos spreads
but I see hope
rising like a phantom
in the fog.
I hear it singing
in the distance
like a haunting song
we sang in youth
and then forgot.
We struggle to give birth
a second time
to the song reborn
on spirit wings
and sing of things
forgotten
for too long.
I hope to use the given time
Before my life is through
To try to make amends
For some things I didn’t do.
The letter never written,
The tears I caused to flow,
The debt that went unpaid
On the love I didn’t show.
The road that went untraveled,
The friendship left to fade,
The deeds of goodness missed
From the effort never made.
When I am old — may I be consoled,
If peers reflect and say:
I left the world a better place
Because I passed this way.
Daydreaming
Shirley Anne Leonard, Illinois
The busyness of life
gets in the way.
I want to laugh with you.
I want to dance with you.
I want to walk with you
through a sunlit lazy day.
We hurry through time,
touch dreams with fickle fingers,
clutch reality, carry yesterdays
on our backs, and in our pockets
plans for our tomorrows.
Life is what happens
in between on desperate days,
exhausted by our toil
and inspiration only found
in brief flashes of light
at dawn or a haunting song
that stirs the soul at night.
23
Sure Enough
Mary Kipps, Virginia
I just knew this would happen. Sure enough,
I’m the only future “Little Miss Broadway”
who can’t make her feet do a shuffle or scuff.
I’d have tap-danced like Shirley right away
if only my outfit was black like the rest,
not this baggy, piglet-pink thing I detest.
And now we’ve been told our end-of-term dance
won’t be tap. Instead we are going to prance
round the stage to a nursery rhyme tune,
holding a dolly. And we’ve got to pretend
she is skipping along. I’d just as soon
eat a lima bean. And at the show’s end,
as reward, we get a box of Cracker Jack,
which I hate. At least all costumes must be black.
Thank You TCM (Turner Classic Movies)
Vernon Waring, Pennsylvania
I like a classic movie
One with Bogie and Bacall
Kate Hepburn in her heyday
John Wayne in a barroom brawl
A Cary Grant comedy
With Irene Dunne at his side
Furious Bette Davis
Or Frankenstein’s scary bride
I think of Ingrid Bergman
As the perfect nun onscreen
And Mae West’s sassy manner
As she lit up every scene
We all fell for Fred and Ginger
And Doris Day’s sunshiny grin
And Jimmy Cagney’s tough guy smarts
And the classic “Gone With The Wind”
Gable, Garbo, Powell, Harlow
All made Leo the Lion roar
Great stars and great memories . . .
The movies the world adores
Take It From Someone Who Knows
Raymond Benn, Illinois
Do you have all your ducks in a row?
If not, you had better go slow.
Does your clock run a little bit fast?
Can you be sure it is going to last?
The computer that is inside your brain
Runs on a track like a train;
If you run it off the track
It is hard to get back —
Take it from someone who knows.
Does your elevator make it to the top?
Or is it likely to call a stop?
Do you ever get weak in the knees?
Does your breath ever come in a wheeze
When you are tying your shoes,
And your face is turning blue?
Take it from someone who knows.
When a slip of the tongue spells disaster
And you try to cover it faster,
The roof won’t fall in —
Just give them a grin
And pretend you meant it that way.
Go on with what you are trying to say.
Take it from someone who knows.
If your sleep time is being invaded
By gross TV shows poorly rated,
It is time you took action.
Choose a better faction,
And improve the views you see.
Put that channel under lock and key.
Take it from someone who knows!
Li The
gh
S i te
de r
Li The
gh
S i te
de r
22
24
Hooked on Coffee
Charles Parnell, Pennsylvania
The first cup in the morning is best:
It gets the body going!
And throughout the day there’s several more;
Such comfort in the knowing!
The tasty brew invigorates:
I sip and sip some more.
The hotter the better, I must say.
So let the java pour!
No matter what the time of day —
morning, noon, or night —
A cup of joe will fit right in,
And make the moment bright.
Like an old friend or confidante
The pleasant cup invites us!
We feel its warmth, and, once again,
Its satisfaction ignites us!
A cup of coffee and a book,
And a comfy chair in your favorite nook
With music playing on the radio nearby
Are some simple pleasures on which I rely . . .
Speculation
Esther Leiper-Estabrooks, New Hampshire
My looking glass looks back at me.
But from its side, what does its see?
Though it may tire of my reflection
It never starts an insurrection,
Plus when I gaze past my small face
My bedroom seems a special place.
With colors, softer, deeper, richer,
As if some full, enchanted pitcher
had just poured forth a magic spell
(And all I view’s reversed as well).
If I got within, what could I see?
Supposing myself looked back at me?
Monet
25
Eve J. Blohm, New York
Monet in Giverny
Impressionist of a
lake or pond
The lilies in pads
Impressionist of a lake
with brown water
and rowboats or canoes
Monet painting
dark mood impression
of someone losing his sight
Do the Impressions we have
live in our hearts and souls
of mountains and lakes,
immovable, never changing
except for the light and
shadows of clouds and sunlight
Nowhere in the world is
more susceptible to shadows
than the paths we walk
in Central Park and the
mountain trails with ferns and fossils
twigs, rocks, stones, and a brook
with clear, clean water
Impressions which we find
are the images and perceptions
of the observations we make
Forest White
Joseph L. Bensinger III, Nevada
The arms are still open to the rays of the sun
though sagging in blankets of shining-white snow
and nodding and dozing will winter is done
A slumbering quiet — but watch out below!
Slipping off boughs to fly through the air
from branch to branch in falling faint crumps
small packets of snow dropping here and there
Finally hitting the ground with dull muted thumps.
I wonder: who’d I become if hurled,
Enchanted, to that mirror world?
Floating silver wisps can also be seen
slowly wafting downward with sparkling shine
The grains of snow slowly sifting between
the fronds of needles — the crystals combed fine.
Still it seems since I can’t get there
What’s best to do is stare and stare!
The wind sighs so lightly while Nature is sleeping
Awaiting the dawn that springtime is keeping.
26
27
Magical Creatures
Copasetic
Pat St. Pierre, Connecticut
Gerald Heyder, Wisconsin
Snow, snow, snow —
it’s everywhere.
Wind gusts like a sand storm
trees bend and stretch
skeleton-like.
Moaning wind deposits snow
on branches
turning bony trees
into magical creatures.
Ice Storm Art
Gregg Dotoli, New Jersey
thick ice coated cracked mosaic
reflecting hues of unfallen stubborn leaves
yellow maroon red and orange
oak twigs and branches
crackle and click in the cold wind
natural wind chimes playing quiet notes
for the dawnsun and high moon
Dormant Volcano
John Grey, Rhode Island
It’s raining
in the high country,
and, in the depths of the crater,
putting out ancient fires.
Through gaping jaw.
storm floods nature’s throat,
the frozen flame,
fused bare rock, cold lava, mute ash.
Below, it pelts wary birds,
furtive ground squirrels,
trees tentative
but inching up the mountain’s sides
I now have peace,
all negativity has been
released from my
heart and soul.
I now know what
to do and where to go.
My spirit is free
no longer in captivity,
on the wings of a dove
my Savior’s love
will guide me
and I will be
grateful through eternity.
I am copasetic,
no more static
to short circuit
my emotions to the bone.
I am no longer alone
for I’ve been shown
that path that hath
made me copasetic!
Blessed be peace
for eternity!
How Pride Goes
Carol Hamilton, Oklahoma
A pity, people say,
no one lives up
to beliefs.
I always thought
those I knew
better than their dogmas.
We argued with
our parents’ prejudices,
our children against ours.
Virtue is a heady thing,
the velvet of spring’s antlers
proudly borne, a scarred
and brittle autumn at hand.
Eviction Notice
G.A. Scheinoha, Wisconsin
Sometimes, the mind
is a vacant apartment,
abandoned by
the tenant
next door.
Eyes are
a stairway
to nowhere
on which you
ascend
desperately,
think all the while:
is anyone home
or should I
simply leave
a note?
Ice Storm
Renata Dawidowicz, Michigan
The icicles hang low
Like sparkling chandeliers
Covering the earth
Like an ice palace
I stare in disbelief
Enchanted by the sight
The trees covered
Dazzle all of us
As the traffic
Goes along the road
All the people
Grin and bear it
Always remembering
The beautiful surprise.
28
29
NEW AMERICA: A NOVEL
Discouraged?
Homer Sherrill, Illinois
“If you save someone’s life, they belong to you forever.”
Do you often feel discouraged,
and at a loss for what to do?
Does it seem like skies are dreary
and work is piling up on you?
Does it seem like people are grumpy
when you’re walking down the street?
Do you fail to see the humor
and jokes of people you meet?
Does it seem like people choose sides,
opposing your point of view?
Do you find people criticizing
the things you say or do?
Maybe we should ask God’s help
when we are feeling down, this way.
Maybe he would give us hope,
and help us have a better day.
Maybe we need to listen more
to what is done and said.
Thinking good thoughts and helping others
could put our troubles to bed.
When Winter Comes
Carolyn Shallenberger, Illinois
When winter comes my heart soars;
I really miss the great outdoors.
When you look out, all you can see
Is a wondrous thing of God’s beauty.
We scrape and clean, shovel and gripe —
All we want is to get rid of the white.
Snowmen are fun, but we don’t see
How God made them a picture of you and me.
Deer and rabbits track the snow through.
They enjoy it; shouldn’t we, too?
Winter’s long months will be over soon;
Then summer’s heat sings a different tune.
Count your blessings for the things you see;
Winter’s a gift of God’s majesty.
by Richard Leonard
Winter Song
Larry Granger, Minnesota
Will you sing along with
winter snow and ice.
Birds do! Why not you?
You can catch snowflakes
on your hands or better yet
on your tongue while you
sing then a song with a
smile on your face.
You can add some percussion to
your song by using icicles as drumsticks.
You can also speak out on cold days,
“Is that the best you can do?”
But keep your stocking cap on.
Remember cold has a limited shelf life.
Joyful bird singing can shorten
the frosty season if you
choose to listen.
Try making a snow person rather
than being a winter martyr.
And sing along while you do
your work and play.
Birds will join in.
(From Chapbook Winter Worries)
Russia might want its territory back. Should New America, the fledgling
Christian nation on Siberia’s east coast, pursue a defense treaty with its
decadent mother country? Sent to the United States on a fundraising
mission for a New American presidential candidate, a young lawyer confronts a dilemma. A woman whose life as an abortion survivor is endangered by the Fugitive Fetus Law appeals for his help. There’s only one
way he can rescue her, and that way will jeopardize his relationship with his New American girlfriend. Advance through time
to the closing decades of the twenty-first century for a story of
adventure and intrigue offering food for thought for today.
214 pages - List 14.95. - ISBN 978-1-884454-58-5
Lampstand Books P.O. Box 369, Hamilton, IL 62341 - 800-440-4043
Follow “New America: A Novel” on Facebook.
Nordstrom
Nakefish
and the
Great Flying
Noodlenergle
by Richard Leonard
Young Nordstrom saves the day when the Great Flying Noodlenergle
runs into trouble during its long-anticipated visit to Crackerville! This
humorous tale will amuse both children and adults.
18 pages, illustrated by the author. – $4.95 plus $1.00 mailing.
Order from Laudemont Press, P. O. Box 369, Hamilton, IL 62341.
A Word to Our Subscribers . . .
Please check the subscription expiration date on your address label. If your subscription
expires with this issue, renew before March 1 and receive an extra issue. If your subscription
expired with the previous issue, this is the last issue you will receive until you renew.
. . . and a Suggestion for Non-Subscribers
You may be receiving this issue free of charge because you have a poem published in it.
Please consider subscribing to WestWard Quarterly. This magazine is a non-profit operation; the Editor and Publisher receive no compensation other than the satisfaction of
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Thank you. — The Publisher
30
31
Writer’s
Workbench
A Poem Transformation
Originally Published in the Summer 2003 Issue
A writer started a project with the following idea:
Grimm’s Complete
Fairy Tales
OUTLINED IN RHYME
by Ron Larson
The fairy tales of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are the
world’s best loved fairy tales: Cinderella, Little Red Riding
Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Snow-White and the Seven
Dwarfs, Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin,
Tom Thumb, The Frog-Prince, and many others. Retired
college professor Ron Larson has put them into verse to
encourage readers to read the original stories. Here’s a
sample from his book:
Dawn transforms
The slumbering town on the bay
Into a mural lacquered with sea
And dusted with flowers
Forever changing color.
It’s a lovely image as it stands, and an apt metaphor. We visualize the sleepy
seaside village as if in a painting; the artist has lacquered his completed work with the
transparent sea, then “dusted” it with wild flowers from the surrounding fields, which
now stick to the lacquer (in our mind’s eye) for a colorful textured effect.
Can we improve upon it? Perhaps not, but we might be able to transform this image
into a short traditional verse. Let’s try:
The village hugs the misty bay
in slumber through the shadowed hours,
awash in tint of ocean’s gray,
as yet to know its Artist’s powers.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
In the old town of Hamelin, Germany,
Millions of hungry rats had taken over.
The people wanted to see their town set free,
So they hired a pied-piper as a rat-catcher.
Hamelin’s mayor reneged on the bargain.
He refused to pay the agreed-upon price.
The angry pied-piper wanted to get even,
So he again played his magic pipe late on night.
This pied-piper played his precious magic pipe,
And charmed the rats into the Weser River.
Here they sank under the water out of sight,
And they all ended up drowning together.
His music charmed Hamelin’s kids out of bed.
Where they ended up, only God now knows.
Their kin never learned if they were alive or dead.
The piper vanished in his many-colored clothes.
Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales Outlined in Rhyme
is available from Amazon and CreateSpace
for $10.00 US plus shipping.
Comes now the Painter, rising slow
from beyond far horizon’s mist,
then climbing higher, all aglow
and casting color with each twist.
Your ad could appear here! Our rate is only $4.00 per column inch.
An ad the size of the one above would cost you just $40.00.
For details, phone 800-440-4043 or email [email protected].
His canvas spread across the town,
he daubs his final dab with glee
and, with a smile of pride, scoops down
to seal with lacquer of the sea.
Coffee-Ground Breakfast
(New Northwoods Journal)
With one more touch the Painter’s through —
he dusts his canvas all the while
with flowers of ever-changing hue
to give it feel as well as style!
A Family Magazine with Poetry, Essays, Photos, Features and Ads
Subscription $20.00 USD for six issues per year (single-copy price $6.00). Profits support
the production of Pancakes in Heaven, a magazine distributed free of charge to the elderly
and nursing home residents. Write to:
The poem adds another dimension, casting the sun as the Artist and portraying its
post-dawn movement across the sky as the work of a painter. Also, it makes explicit the
texture or “feel” aspect of the “dusting with flowers” that was implicit in the image. Not
an “improvement,” but a different creation.
Happy Writing!
—THE EDITOR AND PUBLISHER
Cory Meyer, Editor
Suicide Mosquito Publishing, 8275 Lost Lake Drive West, Saint Germain, WI 54558
The Oak, edited by Betty Mowery, is a quarterly publication that prints
poetry submissions. For subscription information, or to submit your
work, write to The Oak, 1530 7th Street, Rock Island, IL 61201.