Babushka, by Adrien

 

Adrien Helm, 2022

Babushka

                                                                             

Like a tree he stands

Camouflage coat brown

Against the snow.

 

Icy wind spirals

Crusty dust of drifts,

Needles against bare skin.

 

I tug the knot of my scarf,

Take gloved hands from

Pockets, pick my way forward.

 

“Son.” My word softens

His shoulders, eases tension

From his neck, swings his gun aside.

 

“Step back, grandma.”

“Your mother wants you home;

Leave my land and go.”

 

He scoffs behind his mask,

Looks away. “Listen to me, child;

You need to go.”

 

Anger born of fear blooms,

Eyes bore into mine. “Go, grandma.”

We stand, steely pillars of conflict.

 

“Da. But look, carry this in your pocket.”

I extend the handful of seeds.

“Your body will leave beauty where you fall.”

 

My back absorbs his gasp.

I think of blue skies, better days,

Fields of sunflowers.

 

                               Adrien W Helm ©2022

Warring, by Ellen Mass, in response to a prompt for poems on that subject

 

    Warring

                         Ellen Mass                                                                           

Ellen Mass in autumn, 2021

  

        When a real war is forefront

 

with beloved human blood flowing,

 

      oozing into our day,

 

like today’s contention, fed

 

blaring to us on YouTube --

 

       sacred life, lost

 

battles of enmity bring down our stars,

 

 one pitted against another;

 

      daggers drawn,

 

trampled dignity of all peoples

 

including the perpetrator

 

 

From Tigris to the Euphrates, Ukraine rivers

 

        Donets to the Don, East

 

divided by the Dnieper,

 

from the Valdall Hills to Black Sea,

 

flowing migrants, refugees flee

 

        ubiquitous warring on earth.

 

 We must see who lurks behind crazed troops.

 

Killing machines disperse through the world,

 

not just there in Central Europe, of course,

 

        because we know the other places,

 

spreading like unnoticed dandelion seeds in spring

 

 that always go where winds blow,

 

perpetuate conflict for avaricious beings.

 

They settle noiselessly into lives of you and me --

 

even me with myself, embattled,

 

 familiar in everyday life --

 

        a sad life of strife -- but secure

 

 with extraordinary gifts,

 

stocked with nutrition and shelter, unspoken munitions

 

        of death,

 

wrought ruthless upon people;

 

     disputes unsettled

 

 embedded evil for personal gain

 

 prolonged conflict and greed,

 

 

 Insistent media drones on

 

      without purpose but to terrify,

 

beat drums of war, carrying

 

carnage, suffering to heights unimagined;

 

cares not if any human is left with only one arm

 

           on a rich green earth.

 

Mercy is beseeched by tiny voice; no mourner replies.

 

Submission is the goal so no one thinks

           

                 it may be a lie.

 

Real time history of what just happened!

 Doesn’t really matter in 21st century

 

governed and blessed by madmen and

 

       profit-seeking machines.

 

________________________________________________

Poems for our season by Helette and Adrien

Helette Gagnon

 

HALLOWED GROUND

Jesus lies on my front lawn                   

Middle Eastern roots

exposed, shrivelled,

bone frosted…look…

 

Crown of thorns askew,

sandy hair dishevelled,

hemp sandals lost,

loin cloth in tatters.

His hands and feet

wine coloured gashes.

 

What will the neighbours say?

Test, curse, warning, blessing?

 or, Magic realism?

I feel the Lions lurking.

 

I could extend a vinegary sponge,

an olive branch,

find ways to repent or

play it festive with strings

of multi-coloured lights.

 

Maybe, I should wrap Him in

burlap, let the earth receive

let the season bury as it pleases.

 

Instead, veiled behind curtains,

I stand alert watching for a Resurrection.

 

All I need is a nod or a wink

to take this Bearded Wonder in.

                                                                by Helette Gagnon

**********

and from Adrien Helm,

Adrien Helm

 

 Christmas Memory

              by Adrien Helm

 

A touch of Italian Renaissance

The plaster figures appeared

From Christmas-drunken

Impulse of my Manhattan

Working father – store window

Display transfixing his

Passing glance and capturing

Some part of his wallet!

My mother’s eyes lit up –-

Her imagination surged—

Where to put?  How to style?

A wooden berry basket

Became the stable,

Hay was found,

Boughs arranged,

The sideboard

Magically swept Eastward

From commonplace buffet

To holiday display.

Shepherds crowded

Stunned and musical,

People hurried by, or

Turned their backs—

Animals knelt beside

The penitent innkeeper,

Come to worship the fuss.

The empty manger only

Peopled on Christmas Eve –

Magi lurked in the wings

Awaiting Epiphany’s cue.

 

One Christmas Day we left

A candle lit as we fled

To church, four spirit-drenched

Children in tow.

Returned to find

The crèche a little singed

From careless fire

Less than holy. Mary’s

Flowing blue and serene mien

As tarnished as Cinderella’s;

Joseph very much worse for wear

Than casual fatherhood imposed.

The Babe survived and I,

Ever on the look out for

“Back ups,” scour tag sales

To people this family treasure.

It sprawls just now

Within my sight. A fancier

Structure, complete with stalls

Replaced the charred basket.

As I bring the figures

From their tissue nest each year

I look into their eyes and

Let their gaze hold mine,

Focusing again across the years

Of this Christmas memory.

 

                                                                        January 2019

something old (and older); something new (and newer)

 For babes and candle makers

December 12, 2021

 

Children at deep blue hem
Our Lady of Guadlupe’s, maybe,
maybe today, her day now and then
here and there

there as cherubim at her hem
seeming safe maybe even at play yes
displaying baby sense of happiness
more than awe or reverence

a day to note her appearance,
her beauty, the new world inherent
in her being in the sky,
mother of god, indigenous, and us
grand children of god, then,
to be regarded as such,
hidalgos of eternity
if any be or ever were

worthy of candles
lit for her sake, today,
and for all candle makers
here and there, anywhere

[and for the dead in Mayfield, Kentucky]

 

            Sylvia Manning, Dec. 12, 2021, Glover VT

December 12, 2011

(as noted for Our Lady of Guadalupe)

 

black cat crosses

backyard winter rye

            (crayon kelly green

covering after long

awaited latest autumn

            rain

the obscenely sad losses

of other grasses

            beneath pecan trees

            alive but just

            and this year

            giving us

            no fruit)

                                         Sylvia Manning

                                    published in Waterways, Dec. 2020
                                                        written 2011 in journal, Seguin TX 

                                                                                                

Bringing in the Buddha

(in response to Huffstickler’s poem, The Way of Art)                                    

         
Dear poet my friend
it’s not cold enough yet
to bring the buddha in
from slab of granite
beside little river some will call a brook.

Last year a man (yes, a friend)
without an understanding
for our need in our spiritual poverty
            for ceremony,
            its poetry

lugged the buddha in like a piece of rubbish
without so much as a fare-thee-well.
Winter (an easy one, some will say)
           was hell.

This autumn has been kind.
There is still no cure
for hot and cold
as Pema Chödron knows

 

but a day may be left
when we are not bereft of Light and Love
from, in reality and poetry,    
          the heavens.

 

If we can bring this broken buddha in
even when the doing requires due care
for the cracked and patched
            piece of resin it is

will we call it dear, dear poet friend?
May we call it art? When we bring the buddha in

be s/he Jesus or a medium just sitting
            to take a stand

for beings in the millions to some true magnitude
some many (if not most of them) Magdalene-hued.

 

                                     Sylvia Manning, 10-27-21, Glover VT,                                                                                                                             published with changes suggested by

                                             Richard Spiegel in November, 2021 issue of
                                            Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream (NYC)

The Wildcard, poem by Scott Norman Rosenthal

 

                           The Wildcard

 

When I pulled it from my sleeve, it was a small deer,

  a “hart."                                                                                                                                    

With a wild song and a lasso

 I chased it;

It turned into a cricket

 and regarded me

like a lover, suddenly gone cold.

 

 When I picked it up,

it was a Queen of Hearts,

 too late to finish the hand.

 

                (Scott Norman Rosenthal;, 1977)     

                                                                                                                   

Mark Creaven, a sample of his work

 

Mark, in Barton Library

A Cure

 

what we once called love

flames with soul searing heat

that fades in frosty silence to an icy shoulder

the dichotomy of fire and ice

drives us to seek our special one

but should we hang on, dangling by our heartstrings

when the solid middle is what brings us peace

and we throw another log on the fire

on a cold winter’s night

Mark is sitting on the left in a different kind of session for work he does.  This photo is from VT Digger, in an article about Covid in Orleans County.  Mark has worked continually with testing and vaccination sites throughout the pandemic.

Mark's poem, A Cure, was written in our last in-person meeting, October 27, 2021, in the Barton Public Library, where we meet alternatively with a virtual meeting every other week.  The prompt was from The Pocket Pema Chodron, reading number 61, There is no cure for hot and cold.  We had about 10 minutes to write.   

Leavings from summer

Time for some poems that have been waiting to be posted.  Ellen Mass had to be convinced that this poem, The Good Life, was hers.   Ellen's returned to Cambridge now that summer's gone. 

Ellen Mass

 

The Good Life

Grant each other peace                                    
Weave our lives together                                           
Notice another's dilemma
Produce for the Commons
Appreciate loved ones
Love beauty
Make beauty
Create art for beauty
Block wrong/bad energy/hatred
Invent new ways to give and cope
Understand human beings, creatures
Learn right way every day
Recognize history
Accept to work with good/bad reality
Choose good mental and physical habits
Lie in the sun
Watch the moon and stars
Be part of it
Spider webs have answers for you
Wolf families do too
Accept every life's pain and sadness
Marvel at butterflies
Watch nature closely every day
Fight injustice
Care for your body
Volunteer for good causes
Say no as easily as yes
Eat well for everyone.

                                                                         ***

And here's a poem Adrien wrote in meeting/workshop, September 22 -- last day of summer or first day of fall?

Poetry Workshop 9/22/21                                      

Adrien Helm

 

We were like cherries in a blue bowl

Shouldering each others’ curves,

Turning upward to claim our moment’s

Undivided attention. Red as we read,

Modulating breath, curling tongue

Against teeth’s back.

Exhaling the poem into air electric

With anticipation and appreciation,

Vowels round wound around us

Cherries, in a blue bowl.

 

                                    AWH/9/22/21

                                                                          ***

                 

Eileen Kennedy

Eileen Kennedy joined us again this summer

after some years away. 

Will the Circle Be Unbroken

                      by Eileen Kennedy

                     I.

I’ve forgotten how to write poetry,

 

but today in a large open field

 

walking slowly around the path

 

cut into wildflowers

 

I realize it is poetry that is

 

the last tether to what is real

 

All that I see in nature now

 

begins to feel like

 

a last postcard

 

 

Then, as I circle round

 

I see 2 Monarch butterflies!

 

Like a child, I watch them

 

a long, long time

 

I know I may not see 2 more

 

next fall

 

             II

 

I see the damp blonde curls

 

falling from my forehead

 

I was a girl once

 

The Milky Way was there every night

 

The milkman came in the morning

 

Things circled back then

 

                  Newport, Vermont

                   September 5, 2021