Saturday, December 1, 2018

Wednesday Poets meeting through winter!

First time ever!

Sylvia hears the take-away is a poem with just dialogue, and even though her poem posted here is not just dialogue, and besides is very old, she misses the stalwart Northeast Kingdom Wednesday poets so much she's posting it anyway.  (It was written in Quebec City, winter, 2009.)

Very few out and about

in the alleyway or even
Sylvia Manning on the right behind Judith Janoo, autumn 2018.
Grande Allée, so far as
I can see.

Greg comes, though,
the neighbor in apt. 6.
“I hate this country!”
he says in a charming
English.  “46 years of this!”

(the formidable snowstorm)

“I can’t believe you’re 46!
You look like a kid!”
I tell him.  “So this country
has kept you young!”

“Maybe,” he says, almost
smiling, but then adds,
“or maybe it’s the beer.”

Thursday, November 15, 2018

Moira C. O'Neill

We don't have a picture of Colleen (who is also Moira C.) but we have a poem.  Here it is, written to a prompt of "Cool," and so it's titled ...


                                             breathing on its own
                                         low down -- understood
                                          whispers comprehension

                                                             That's cool.

Colleen knew Baba Ram Dass.  Many, many knew this.  (In lieu of photo.)

Thursday, October 25, 2018

NEK Wednesday Poets on October 24, 2018

And the poems were just as handsome!

Left to right:  Scott, Stephen, Mark, Jed, Carol, Peter, Carter, Jerry, Jean, Joanne, Judith, Sylvia

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Mark Creaven from last summer, just found in a notebook

Mark handed this over a long time ago, just after a major illness.  The photo is from last summer, when he was barely recuperating.  He's fine now, as is this, without title:

It slowly crept up on the heart on me.
I can't remember when
I used to move so easily,
Just every now and then
A twinge a pull or maybe a tear,
A slowing down for just a while.
I still moved without a care.
But now each day brings a new pain,
A deeper more distracting thought,
A memory once held so dear now lost,
A skill once learned, now untaught.
So now the end stares me in the face.
As my spirit still tries to soar,
My body still calls to end the race.

Monday, October 22, 2018

Adrien Helm's poem for Sister Gail of the Green Mountain Monastery

Adrien Helm
Sister Gail

Flower sprigged dress 
Below lacy blue bolero,
Solid trim figure, pixie cap of curls and
      those eyes --
Blue lanterns of pure light
Reading of Jesus 
In green garden boots.
Our open mic nun
Setting a toe-tapping beat
In recalling childhood street
And soda can dancing.
A perfect last voice
In sunlit brick and wood
Cathedral of disparate songs.
You set our feet tapping
With perfect punctuation
To close our program --
Poetry and natural beauty
Our imperfection on display.
We couldn't help but smile
As you lifted our moody
Congregation to rollick with you.


Adrien Helm has co-led the Wednesday Poets for six years.  She read us this poem after the group held a poetry reading session with open mic at the Green Mountain Monastery in Greensboro, down the road some 15 miles or so from Barton.  Sister Gail of the monastery impressed her.


Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Purr, by Jed Feffer

Jed Feffer

The sunshine basks my face.
I feel an affinity with Cheshire, the cat.
I can't stop grinning.
Old Man Sun has something
                             to do with that.

He's been shining for eons,
and thank you very much for asking,
so have cats been basking
for a very long time.
No wonder they are so mysterious,
lying around flicking their tails
and preening their whiskers,
finding the laps of so many chairs,
breathing, stretching,
finding the gracedfulness of air
to skirt around the stodgy legs of things.
Everyone looks so serious to a cat you know.
Everyone so busy with someplace to go.
And me just puddling up in the sun.

Look, I'm disappearing.         

Friday, September 21, 2018

More from Scott

Universe shimmers, Reality perceives
Perception fountains...
Vibration sounds, World roars.

In our September 19 meeting the prompt for writing in session together was simply, fear.
Scott produced this:

A good space                                      
Scott Norman Rosenthal

in a bad place ...

Farms on the road,

and tragic beefalo ...

cry, whine, shout,

nowhere for movement
but out ...