Welcome to the Gryphon's Nest!
The gryphon lined its nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of women and men
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Sense and Sensibility
by Janice Schroeder
Can the blind man see
the shooting star in his memory?
Can the deaf man hear
his mother's voice in his mind?
Can the lame man run
through the fields of his childhood?
Can the mute man speak
with his heartbeat?
When the tree falls in the forest
can the deaf man hear it in the distance?
Can the blind man see it in the darkness?
Can the mute man scream when it falls on his brother?
Can we really see the stars?
Can we really hear the truth?
Can we really speak for the silent?
Or are we all blind, deaf and dumb to indifference?
Copyright 2000 by Janice Schroeder. (schroedermusic@snip.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Found Poem
by Richard Denner
just a transformer
passing through
you through me
me through you
I stop—interchange—
inner core—data—renew—
just a transformer
Copyright 2000 by Richard Denner. (rychard@sonic.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Richard's poetry, visit his website at dPress
Naming
by Terri Rolan
It is said
Among the children
Of an older Earth
That there is a name...
A true name,
For each and every
Spark of life.
It is found
In vision,
Rite of passage,
Or the wise heart.
Once learned,
It gives power -
Each self must rise
And follow
When the true name
Is spoken.
This gift of naming
Binds us to
The Namer...
That which
Sees
And
Knows
And
Loves
The Named.
Copyright 2000 by Terri Rolan (TRolan@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
A Green Leaf
by Thomas J. Acampora
A green leaf
stirs in the strong wind,
shifting, changing
and yet still
unsure and puzzled.
Autumn approaches.
Another leaf, a friend
Has made his choice;
Though all other leaves
turn Yellow,
proudly he wore Red.
Shall this green leaf,
follow his maple peers?
Must make a choice;
Yellow Or Red.
Orange?
Will he be trapped
as Evergreen or
turn brown--snapped
before his time?
I felt the strong wind
on yellow veins;
a smile on red lips.
The green leaf
was Me.
Copyright 2000 by Thomas J. Acampora (LrdTarus@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
To Slant Towards
by Ward Kelley
If I turn my cheek against the sun
the light could catch the nearly
invisible down on my chin
and show you something
revealing about my body,
something I carry always
right there under your eyes . . .
but you seldom have strength
to consider, for hidden there,
is not in truth a girlish trait;
instead it is mortality, a desire
of my body to slant towards
ancestors indistinguishable
behind countless eras, and
only visible when the light
will bend a certain way.
Artist's note:
Sylvia Plath (1931-1963) American poet, published her first poem at the age of eight. Suicidal from a young age, she endured, at various times, electroshock and psychotherapy. She married the poet Ted Hughes, who went on to become England's poet laureate. The marriage lasted seven years, but failed when Hughes left her for another woman. Months later, Plath killed herself with cooking gas. In a macabre twist of irony, the woman for whom Hughes left Plath also gassed herself to death. Another poet-suicide, Anne Sexton, wrote of frequent drinking dates at the Ritz with Plath: "Often, very often, Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicides; at length, in detail, and in depth between the free potato chips. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of a poem."
Copyright 2000 by Ward Kelley. (Ward708@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Ward's poetry, visit his website: Ward Kelly
Daddy's Girl
(We are all still children)
by BRBADPENNY
Inside I know that we are all still children.
Off to the Drive-In.
Packed in the backseat of Dad's old car.
Although at times we forget where we came from.
And pretend to be all grown up.
It takes a Funeral to remind us and see the children that we really are.
For even though he has passed on I will always be Daddy's Girl.
On display my heart will forever be encased in glass.
My life is a museum of large rooms and treasures.
My father's strong but gentle hand has led me around every corner.
The exhibits are the moments of my past.
This is my first tooth. Here is my first bed time tale.
My first frightened day at school.
The first test I failed.
My first pet. My first fall. My first big girl dress.
My first dance.
My first kiss. Now I recall.
He was there for every first experience.
And gave me every second chance.
My first car. My first date. The first night I stayed out too late.
The first big affair that we walked arm and arm.
My first broken heart.
His brave but sad face in a captured photograph outside
our house on the night of my senior Prom.
Life's subtle surprises and how he always tried to
give me warning. And that secret smile that only I seen
when I was the first to wake on just about every Christmas morning.
Inside I know that I will always be that child.
Asleep at the Drive-In cuddled up in the front seat
of Dad's big car.
Although life's pressures force us to become scattered
individuals. Little by little we become our parents.
But it takes a Funeral to remind us and see the children
that we really are..
Copyright 2000 by BRBADPENNY. (BRBADPENNY@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Poems on Parade
by Vivian Cassina
Been waiting for you to come by.
Sitting on the curb, watching down the road.
Then words came, marching four by four
Never missing a step, in perfect unison.
Lyrics like balloons, floating in fine tune.
I ran to find the camera.
Click, click, click, click
A thousand words worth a picture.
Marching on, past judges' stands
With no time for band reviews.
Been waiting for you to come by.
Sitting on the curb, watching down the road.
Then words came, marching four by four
Never missing a step, in perfect unison
With your parade waves on paper floats.
Copyright 2000 by Vivian Cassina. (PoemsbyViv@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Drop Dead Cute
by Rodney D. Coates
Eyes, gentle browns, gazing
into the depths of my soul
spoke of both the pain and
joy of another love.
Silently, lost in the moment,
eclipsed by the radiance
of a half-smile lingering on
strawberry colored lips
Promising nothing, yet
moving me to another dream.
Bronzed, sweet rhapsody
harmonizing within, beauty.
Veiled, questions refusing
to be ask, answers refusing
to be heard within the
mid-morning sun.
The hint of Alchimie
in the air, a touch of
peach on the cheeks
And that look
- drop dead cute.
Copyright 2000 by Rodney D. Coates (coatesrd@casmail.muohio.edu).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Rodney's poetry, visit his website at : A Collection of Poetry Writing
Table of Contents
Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).