PoetSpeakusa

Little Women

2012-01-04T19:17:00.000-08:00

yawning through fairy land

my backyard
little girls conquering fears
and women
leading the way
with a hand
a hip
an its ok

to go
off the trail
its a little steeper
on the way down
you will end up
with
just a little
dirt
on
your
behind

a little giggle
tucked
in your pockets
its that easy
to warm up

finally
you will run
far too ahead
and fast
but stop
when necessary
god's light filtering
city and woods
meeting in the valley
fairies exist
here
mamas are a village
the end

the beginning

-Liz Getty, Portland, Oregon

PoetSpeak salon 2011-12

2011-10-29T12:04:00.000-07:00

We will host small monthly gatherings at our home in Sherwood, Oregon each month, during the winter of 2011-12; typically with 8-12 people who, either write an occasional poem, read poetry occasionally, or are interested in a poetic manner of thinking. We will gather on a Saturday evening from 5-10 P.M. when enough people have contacted us via email. This is a private gathering by invitation.

If interested, please email us with some background information for you, a contact email, phone, address, and reasons you are interested in attending a PoetSpeak Salon. If you have a recent a poem of your own-or a special poem you treasure, please paste it into the body of your email. We encouraged brief poems that, essentially, fits on one to two 8x11 pages.

A literary “Salon” hails from ageless practices of people meeting to share, discuss and critique art, community and life in a safe environment while enjoying some good food.

PoetSpeak Salon is a great opportunity for discussions on livable communities, environment, trails, parks and similar passionate issues, viewed through a viewing glass that 'somehow it all has to fit together like a piece of music, a great song-or, a poem in a manner that allows all of us to understand".

We provide home-made soup and bread, and a relaxed environment, with a cozy fire place. Participants are invited to bring fruits, wine, cheese and similar morsels.

Participants are, generally, a mixture of active artists, their friends and spouses, as well as other creative and proactive people. Occasionally a musician will sing and play.

We pronounce the word “Salon” as “Saloon” to emphasize, in part, the relaxed atmosphere and our casual attitude to literary endeavors. Poetry, and art in general, ought to be " Useful, Enjoyable and Accessible."

Artists are invited to bring a folder of new work and be prepared to share their work with the group, reading one poem at a time. This forum emphasizes listening and suggests silent approval or brief, positive comments, rather than analysis. In the interest of historical continuity, each event will have 1-3 writers who have attended previous PoetSpeak Salons, or have performed at a PoetSpeak performance. It is our intent to support and nurture new and occasional writer of any age, gender or background; young people are encouraged to attend with a parent.

Other creative people invited are musicians, song writers, painters, teachers, philosophers and community activists who may briefly share their passion in the context of comments to a poem, a song or a piece of music.

We will confirm your attendance when sign-ups reach 12-20 interested people, and remind you 7 days before event to see if you are available. We will, at our discretion, invite 6-10 people that appear to share interests, background or passions in a context we feel will be safe and enjoyable. If you have a spouse or friend that is a good listener and a soul mate that you wish to bring, please let us know. If you are unable to attend the first scheduled gathering we will contact you for the following month.

Please email PoetSpeak with your comments; put the words PoetSpeak Salon in subject like along with your full name

Helpmate

2011-10-29T12:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered about

the attributes of a great helpmate?

He’s the one who actually listens

when she talks.

She hands him a hammer

when they’re building shelves.

He bags the groceries

while she pays the cashier.

He holds her tightly

just because he knows her need for it.

She lets the silence hang

while he puzzles out life’s newest challenge.

He calls home to let her know he’ll be late—

he knows how she worries.

She doesn’t make a big fuss about

the muddy footprints, or the toilet seat left up.

He hands her a drink as she walks in the door

from extra hours at the office.

And she thanks him for histhoughtfulness.

They snuggle on a regular basis,

just because it feels so right and good.

Help Mate: Helping each other with no

expectationof reciprocation.

It’s done out of love.

-Evy Kristensen, Portland, Oregon

The Magnificence of it All

2011-10-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

Itis 21 degrees on the farm this morning.

Theback frosted black cows

Standin silence by the corral gate

Waitingfor us

Tohaul them a bale-de-jour.

Thereis a mauve whisp of clouds

Pinkingthe marsh,

It'scattails frosted.

Allis still.

Youare here with me.

Ihear your words lingering

Inour brain.

Wehave said our morning prayer

Theheat from the wood has set

Atone through the house

Warmingus enough

Todress in the first wool of the year.

Let'scollar the dog and go out into the day.

I'llshow you around, though you've seen it all before.

But,today we'll point to the magnificence of it all

Together.

-Ron Crete, Callaway, MN

A Lobelia Sky

2011-10-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

Lobelia breaks my heart
with its beauty.
It is the color of hanging the wash
on the line
to the tune of morning’s hush,
the perfume of just-waking air
and the sibilant gossip of small birds.

The sun brushes my hair and shoulders
like an admiring mother
as I pin up the towels and cloths
to be made white
by its magic.

There is something sacred
in the walled garden of the wash,
the free pass that lets the housewife . . .
out of the house . . .
in the guise of work.

Oh what a wonderful ruse this is!
Revelment among the percale!!!
-Marcia Myers

A Place of Belonging

2011-10-19T20:02:00.000-07:00

Everybody needs
a place to belong . . .

Where you are
more similar . . .
than dis . . .

I hang with
Poets in The Hood

They could rap,
but they don’t,
They could rock,
but they don’t.

They rhyme,
sublime,
They alliterate
and onomotopoea-ate

We look at life
through crystals
sparked by heart and soul

Ears pricked to
false steps
that need shouting down

Canaries in the coal mine
we’ve been called

But there are far worse things
than Poets
to have in your
neighborhood!
-Marcia Myers

Musicale

2011-10-15T20:09:00.000-07:00

Alone with my memories, I watch
and listen to Harry Connick, Jr.,
in concert, on public television,
rendering 40’s and 50’s tunes—my
nostalgia—along with his own songs.

Shades of Sinatra, Bennett, Dino,
wander through my consciousness.
Did those old guys perform with
five o’clock shadow gracing their faces?
Harry’s curly hair softens his face.

He wears a suit and tie, no holy
jeans, twists no contortions

While I hear those old tunes
the lump in my throat stays.

His finale—a New Orleans
jazz jam, lightens my heart.

-Barbara Hamby, Portland, Oregon

Through the Glaze

2009-05-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

Through the framed glaze,

False landscape.

Inside looking out.

Deceived bird;

You cannot enter

My glass house.

You cannot fly through

The reflection of your transparent

Sensual world.

I watch from inside,

Unsure your fate

Lying numbed and silent; dazed.

A twitch...

You fly away.

I open the window to cheer you on.

The breeze is cool,

Spruce scented.

We are free.

-Ron Crete, MN

The Secret Language

2009-04-25T18:08:00.000-07:00

My grandfather thought the language
that tied him to the "old country"
was the vernacular of his oppression.

Our youthful tongues
accepted the offered English eagerly
without thinking to inquire about traditional speech.

Later I longed to be inside the mystery
of that language but it was not allowed.
Except for a few afternoons of coffee,
rye bread and secret lessons.

A few phrases were all I learned,
" How are you?" "I am fine!"
and a little song are all I remember.

His culture, translucent as smoke,
vanished over two generations
disappeared into the fire of assimilation
leaving its empty echoes in the back of my throat.

-Maralee Gerke
Oregon, USA

Recovering

2007-03-18T02:24:00.000-07:00

Pushing and pulling.
Slamming from the inside,
"Please let us out!"
My body cries as I am drifting away,
Going, going, falling, falling, away, away.

My mind wants to race my heart.
Who will get to the finish line first?
My tongue will out-talk them all.

I have no control as of now.
My body wants to rest.
The rest of them want to wonder.

I drift away, O I drift away.
My mind leaves them all in dust,
In the dark he goes and smokes,
Puffs away his long day.

My heart goes and takes a bath,
She needed to soak away her ache.
My tongue finds a way to speak to the midnight owl,
She wants to spread the words of yesterday.

Just before the morning light,
All gather together and say goodnight.
They had a long night,
But well recovered to face the world tomorrow.
-Serena Theberge

Waiting on Morning

2007-02-25T14:58:00.000-08:00

The fire is roaring
with a lush
wild energy
that plays on
every string in my body . . .

Life is about
to begin,
again;
with a bright
new day.

Across the bay
the sky opens up,
shy, hesitant
but resolute.

Clouds hold still;
there's a celstial awe
in the air . . .
as I wait
with an open heart
on morning
to whisper in
a good day.

-Kurt Kristensen

Letter Listing Reasons

2007-02-25T13:33:00.000-08:00

There are reasons I love
the fence-climbing rose,
the night-blooming jasmine

you planted beside the front
porch, their scents
emerging in the spring air.

I know I should love
the dark green speedwell,
tiny white watercress,
flat mudwort exposed
on sand bars, in summer
low tides, wapato, yellow

water-flag that scatters hard
mahogany seeds in late
fall, small flowered forget-

me-nots transplanted by the pier,
purple loosestrife, heavy-
headed nodding beggarticks,

bog trefoil, pennyroyal, toad-
rush, cow parsnip, the brief
pink nookta rose of early

May. But enough, these too
are reasons I love your domestic rose, your night-
blooming jasmine settled
by the porch, their scents
gracing the still evening air.

-David FilerPortland, Oregon

The Eternal

2006-11-19T10:40:00.000-08:00

How contentedly thou forage on
through paths of trees ungiven
to find a place where noise is gone
a place beside the river
And none shall seek and none will find
what passes through thy lifted mind
great revelations, so to aspired
by all the wise ones throughout time
From thou, they flow to root's connect
and then disperse to waters teeming
much greater, much without defect
to thy capricious, gentle being
And though the eons do descend
thou ashes flung to ripening sky
forever whisper, round the bend
eternity grows in woods nearby
-Amanda Hiland
Sherwood, Oregon

The Happy Place

2006-11-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

Mornings delight is present with the laughter of children.

Streets are full with the pitter-patter of little feet
that are out and about.
Each home with a gift on this street! Many seeds with many sprouts!
Laughter and joy fill the air allowing the child in you to cheer again.
Little hearts pound with excitement from all
that is complete and
genuine.

Streets are full with the sounds of our own innocence,
many screams with many shouts.
Little lives engaged with the will
to thrive on this street, not one
with a glimpse of doubt.

"The Happy Place" is what I see,
a place of comfort that carries us back
to where we've already been.

"The Happy Place" holds many things!
The warmest images are portrayed by the innocence of a child's smile.
"The Happy Place" holds many memories.
The face of authenticity is what this child's smile brings.

"The Happy Place" is our gifts in the world
from a most precious child.
Genuine smiles that at once give this world
some truth with our most
pure honesty!

-Anne Rice

Broken

2006-11-02T20:31:00.000-08:00

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Dreamlike silence shrouds my sullen world
With loneliness keeping me company
A feeling of dejection creeps inside me
As a moment of mourning shares the tearful reality

I find myself in solitude
in the vast expanse of immense emptiness
Queries overflowing, wailing and wondering
for things still left unspoken

All the things turn out to be
bleary, bleak and dreary
As tears trickle tenderly
Knowing failure has come my way

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Rage

2006-10-29T19:52:00.000-08:00

by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

Peace…now flickers
Almost an exile
As a ruthless blare
Of spectrum red blinds me

My blood
Stirs restless,
A sea of wailing hunger,
Pulsing hate

I'm nearly stripped of reason
Gentleness is mauled
Stuffed with heaps of
Unshed, hardened tears

Words now come, cropped and quick
Sharp as knife glimmering cold
In smooth threat of
Steel and stealth

Lava surfaces on my brim
I can no longer fight it.

The Quilt

2006-10-21T01:24:00.000-07:00

I was scouring through my old closet the other day
when I found the patchwork quilt Granny once gave me.
It looked soiled with a tinge of orange and yellow
and a portion's torn out just a little down below.

The black triangle that served as axis to the rest
had turned to grey with a whitish crest.
It was surrounded with greens and soft earth tones.
Quite a hard mix, it seemed overblown.

The colors on the left are quite a delight,
an array of pastels all stark and bright.
The patterns vary from yellows and blues.
What a slew of exclusion and excellent hues!

The orange swatch made all the overt difference.
It was so dark and vivid, it gleams with luminescence.
While the block at the right stars in beaming pride
with all the reds and pinks sewn in gleeful vibe.

Whatever the reason why Grandma made it for me,
be it a legacy or a mere present for my birthday.
I would forever hold it close and shall never part
for this is how much she loved me, she gave me her heart.

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Dregs

2006-10-16T22:44:00.000-07:00

Last fire of winter, first fire of summer
Built with dregs of last pickup load of firewood
Smudge the room
With Datura, rosemary, lavender and mint
Throw a pinch of sand from Chaco Canyon
On the coals

When the flames are high
Gently lay the last notebook on the logs
Send prayers up with smoke

by Frank Vehafric

You

2006-10-15T04:19:00.000-07:00

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

You are a silhouette, hazy and gray
But a vain creation of lover's memory
A fair illusive vision everywhere displace
With a shady luster away from my yearning embrace

You are a lamplight glimmering with surprise
A semblance of beauty that surpasses the skies
Endowed with charm in a form of airy grace
Embellishing the black immensities in a peculiar maze

You are an innocuous moonlight angel
With the loveliness exceptionally real
Across the cold and misty moonbeam
Where no twinge of conscience can deny in any theme

Oh, you're but a being matchless to compare
A creature so alluring, how I love to touch your hair
But alas! You glided away and faded out from my vision
And only the whispers of your heart beats in slumbrous fashion

In the nocturne rhythm of the night
Where my perception was deceived by my sight
I was swept by the waves of realization -
You are just a dream, a product of my imagination

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Breath

2006-10-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

Front door open, summer evenings
To catch a cool breeze
After the sun goes down

Every once in a while
The dogs bark and bristle
And we listen together
Then go back to what we were doing
My book, their naps

Two or three times a week
A slight whiff of skunk
On the night air

Each of us
Is carried on the breath of the world
Following the rise and fall
Of the mother’s breast
Skunks a part of it all, too
Making their rounds

Turning the wheel

by Frank Vehafric

Incubus

2006-10-13T02:21:00.000-07:00

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

There's a sudden strange silence
Amid the busy whirl around me
Disclosing the scars of my innocence
From a dreadful yesterday

Shadows paint the spectacle
Of a vision that used to be enchanting
Catching me half a miracle
While a song consumes my thinking

Gradually I drifted into another reality
Like a wind from nowhere blown
Lost in a paradise of adversity
Only to find destiny on my own

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Chimera

2006-10-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

I can't tell my exact post with mere intuition
I am completely lost, uncertain of my destination
It all seems that I'm only running around
In an endless circle without a cutoff bound

I've been searching everywhere but I can't find
The threshold of the hub is way too far behind
I feel so lost in the midst of darkness
Where I'm left alone contending every sadness

All the way I strive in an incessant maze
But all I could find is a cloud of struggle's haze
I'm almost certain to give my hopes up and everything
When finally I see a ball of light shimmering

I trudge slowly to find out the spectrum's origin
Hoping to finally escape from the torment's scene
Rushing towards the source of hope that silently awaits
I was gob-smacked to find... Heaven's gates!

by Rachelle Arlin Credo
http://zyphe.blogspot.com

The Way of a Nightmare

2006-10-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

i
tried to search
a meaning
for life
when
i didn't care
find
myself.
a
sojourn
without direction
a direction
without bearing
in countless walks
in endless circles,
picking
up the pieces
along the way
but never
patching them up
just collecting
nodding
existing
knowing
i've failed...

by Bryan Clayton

Still

2006-10-06T03:10:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm screwed up
Or maybe just a bit confused
About what's going on inside me
That I can't seem to muse

Maybe I'm surprised
Or maybe just not used to
But I know this brewing
Has something to do with you

I can't seem to forget you
No matter how I try
And the more I attempt to
The more that I backslide

Sometimes the feeling just hurts so bad
That all I can do is sit and sigh
And when the pain just seems so much
I can't stop myself from starting to cry

I know I can't do anything
To bring back our past
But still I wish that someday
We'll be one in heart at last

Now, I have to forget you
I have to go my way
I know I must move on
And keep the past at bay

But though we part our ways
and sorely say goodbye
I will and love you still
If I must keep it belied

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Power

2006-10-05T23:15:00.000-07:00

The first thing when I come home after work
I let the dogs out
And turn on my computer
To check e-mail messages
Having done that
I make a cup of coffee
Take it outside
Walk through my garden

Now, the datura is blooming
When I touch it, it leaves a distinctive smell on my fingers
Potent, almost toxic, peppery
It’s hard to describe

I keep going back to it
There’s power there

Some days it seems
That the world is vibrant with power
The plants, bees, hummingbirds, jays and air
Shimmer with it

This is the contrast
This is the discontinuity in our lives

We go from work to home
Home to chores
Chores to our beds
Our beds to work

At any moment
We can step outside
Outside of it
All of it

by Frank Vehafric

Torn

2006-10-04T06:21:00.000-07:00

Pang vanquished all my emotions
Clutching my heart causing unbearable pain
Tearing my past behind desperation
Refusing to halt its wrath leaves me forsaken.

I struggled away from the sad reality
But I ended up distraught and desperate
As I wait for the old pomp to revive with victory
I was left in an ebbing crave's state.

With poignant memories casting a light of endless gloom
The incessant mourning eventually drives me insane
Only to break in a lonely ember's doom
I find myself cowering in so much pain.

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Have I Missed Something?

2006-10-01T21:25:00.000-07:00

I walk this little corner of land
And pretend I'm in another country
Because, you see, I've only stepped
Across the river into Mexico
For a short time
And drove a bit of Canada
One long night

I've never walked
Rod's sandy beaches
Nor sailed his oceans

I've not had as many loves
nor
Loved as many lovers as he

I was content with my one love
I only wish he were h ere now.

Norma E. Mizer

Vulcan's Child

2006-10-01T21:23:00.000-07:00

A raving beauty relinquished
From the earth's molten sheath
Vents her wrath
Upon a spellbound victim

Like a monster enraged
She strikes a frail creature
Without mercy
Without thinking twice

Strewn with rippled light
And furnace's soft flames
She vanquishes
His resistance at will

With her hands clutched
Tightly into her captive
His freedom is
All hers to hold forever

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Conservation Calls

2006-09-14T16:53:00.000-07:00

By Jeffrey Kee

They came from the city wad in hand,
Wanting a horse and a little piece of land.

The realtor painted a rosy picture,
One acre, two horses o’ sure.

In June, green grass tall and dry,
Come December the water got high.

Horses to their knees in mud,
Good ranch management hit with a thud.

Out for a visit here came District staff,
Winter in the field, where is our raft?

Keep those winter hooves out of your field,
Avoid wet pasture you’ll have better yield.

Catch that rain water before it hits the ground,
Easier water can not be found.

Buffer with grass those wetlands and seeps
Protecting clean water will help you sleep.

Plant a hedgerow to catch those weed seeds,
Use wild rose and robins you will feed.

Slip a new cedar next to your stream
Good fish habitat starts with a dream.

Protecting clean water will help you sleep.

In my Mouth

2006-09-14T16:39:00.000-07:00

By Jeffrey Kee

Sea birds everywhere.
Gulls bobbed, dropped and pelicans cut the water.

Cape Disappointment glowed to the North.
And from the 10 buoy East, man had come.

Some to guide, some to fish, some to see the mouth,
Enticing fish to come aboard.

Fog whitecaps, and barges test courses,
Many have braved into the waves.

In pursuit of a legend, a story, a myth.
The big Salmon river of the Pacific Northwest.

A spirit of man sliding seaward,
Seeping into his Columbia.

The Dance of the Columbia

2006-09-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

By Jeffrey A. Kee

The estuary surged and pulsed with life, a natural rave.
Like an enlarged muted Phalarope it spun circles dredging life to the surface.

The gulls and pelicans and murres flew and bobbed around the choppy watery stage,
Picking up the little silver slivers of baitfish lightly streaking the surface.

Mammals drawn to the feast slid over and under.
Man and animal searching for salmon sustenance and spirit

A thousand boats rocked, enticing with flashers and fish,
As the sea lion ripped the belly of a lone Chinook.

Coho, cutthroat and King danced amid the forces,
Pushing, pulling, slipping and sliding.

Pushed by the river pulled by the tide,
The fish changed partners called out by the moon.

The hum of the motors and bang of the hull couldn’t interrupt the partners.
The gala of the year for many ending in August.

Baitfish flashed like a mirrored ball around the dancers.
The pulse of the players less synchronized at ebb and slack.

Forces of the natural swinging for survival,
Same players, same partners, same ancient steps.

Summer Sounds in Maine

2006-08-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

For a while,
in the early morning
I hear only
the silence,
occasionally breeched
by a ducks' solitary calling
to a mate.

For a while,
in the early morning
I hear only
the whisper
of the water
as it meets
the first breeze.

Just, for a while
in the early morning
I hear only
God's music.
-Kurt Kristensen

Invitation to submit poetry.

2006-07-28T22:13:00.000-07:00

We'd like to invite anyone reading here to submit poems for posting. You may send your poems to Frank Vehafric at fvehafric@comcast.net.

If you submit a poem or two and are interested in having direct posting privileges as a blog team member, simply ask, and it shall be done.

Fishing The Lower Deschutes

2006-07-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

Fishing the lower Deschutes
The canyon green with sage
And mock orange
The river, glassy and dark
At the fly shop in Maupin
They don’t like the color
Of the water this week, and it’s true
We don’t catch fish
I try three or four flies
Stoneflies, and a few Dave tells me to use
But I can’t name
I’m learning how to cast
Happy to get the fly on the water
Instead of in the trees
Once, just shaking out my line
The fly dropped near the bank
And I got my only good strike of the day
But I was so unprepared
He was off the hook before I caught my breath
We missed the salmonfly hatch by about a week
And the May flies were just coming on
I should have been nymphing
But dry flies float and I watch them on the current
And the fish strike where you can see them
The river is glassy and dark
Like I said
Who knows what goes on down there?
When we’re done for the day
We fix steak and baked beans
After dinner, Dave has a rye on ice
I can smell the whiskey across the fire
Amber, in the glass
Dark, like the river

by Frank Vehafric

Kenai River in July

2006-07-03T07:42:00.000-07:00

Side by side we stand, my brother and I,
waist-deep in our Gore-Tex chest waders;

Rushing waters stacked fin-to-fin with hordes of teeming salmon,
shoreline stacked elbow-to-elbow with well-equipped, excited fishermen,

Casting brightly-colored fly upon fly upon fly
to the slow-moving mass of flesh making its way upriver.

Homeward they migrate, unwavering in their determination,
past the open mouths of bears, the sharp talons of swooping eagles,
and the millions of hopeful hooks,

Oblivious to our presence and to the egg-eating rainbow trout
that follow patiently behind them on their pre-programmed pilgrimage.

A sudden flash of silver and my rod doubles;
“Fish on!” I shout, and the sea of fishermen parts to give way to the battle.

Beneath the surface, if fish could talk,
mine would be yelling “Human on!”
as his finned friends gathered ‘round to watch.

Humored by my efforts yet worried nonetheless,
he makes a valiant run, ripping the backing off my reel;
first a bee-line to deeper waters, then a powerful thrust
followed by aerial acrobatics and violent shaking.

Still unable to dislodge the fly from his mouth,
he realizes that this is no game, that his adversary is serious;
launched by a powerful tail,
he rockets skyward once again,
glaring defiantly as if to say “bring it on.”

Engaged in a battle of wits and brute strength,
this handsome sockeye and I fight it out.

No wonder they call it “combat fishing,” I think to myself,
perverting the meaning of the phrase.

“Amateur!” is all the fish can think to say,
with mocking distain for my lack of prowess at this new game,

As if my knuckles, bleeding from the fast-spinning reel handle
and my excited cries of “Holy %&@$#, get the net!” didn’t give me away.

But the experienced fly-fishermen who surround me are gracious,
and perhaps even a bit jealous -
as I finally land the shimmering, silvery eleven-pound sockeye.

If not for brother, older-wiser,
master of the art of fly-fishing and expert timer of the salmon runs,
we would not be here -
snow-capped mountains
reflecting on the waters of the vast Kenai,

Catching one magnificent, muscular salmon
and hard-fighting pink luminescent rainbow after another,
and already planning our next Alaska adventure.

-Paul Heldenbrand

What pleased me today?

2006-06-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

What pleased me today?
The first small handful
Of raspberries from the garden
My morning coffee sipped in the car
A silky smooth rush of acceleration
On route 26 driving west
A tuna sandwich
Leaving work an hour early
Mexican food with my wife
Greetings from the dogs
Short nap spooned with Emily
A report from Corvallis
On successful organic chemistry final exam
A small wedge of aged cheddar
On ritz cracker
Robins in nest on back porch
Lapsang Souchong tea
The evening air when I let the cat in
The wood grain of the library table
Where I sit at laptop to write
The touch of keyboard
This
Doing this

by Frank Vehafric

Late Evening

2006-06-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

The moon hangs low in the sky.
A gleaming golden scimitar
suspended just below a shining Venus,
it lingers close to the horizon
as though wanting to touch
with crescent arms
the belly of the earth.

The realms are close tonight,
evoking desert sands
and ancient gods.

From planet and moon
an inverted question mark
forms against a deepening
purple sky.

But here, at ten o’clock
on a western summer evening
is a moment not to question
but only to absorb,
to really see,
to form lips
in a blessing and a prayer,
to breathe in
the essence of a scimitar sky
and inhale the purple
of being alive.
-Suzanne Graham

After Work

2006-06-21T21:24:00.000-07:00

After work
And a day of driving
With stiff groaning turns of wheel
Lift rusty hood of old pickup
Hinged with springs that squeal when raised
Add power steering fluid to low reservoir
Truck built 1968
The same year I graduated high school
Even though older, I have fewer leaks
But more miles

by Frank Vehafric

Energy Footprints

2006-06-20T07:15:00.000-07:00

You can see footprints in the sand

Some are small, some are grand

There are other footprints you can’t see

They are just as important to you and me

They measure the energy you and I use

And convert it to the land you and I abuse

If everyone had large energy footprints like the USA

You would need more than one earth to contain them today

A small energy footprint is good you see

To make the earth fit you and me

-Barry Kennedy

Meadowlarks

2006-06-19T07:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I read
that meadowlarks
are an endangered species
I hadn't known - - -

Though they do not
populate Portland
where I now live

they inhabit my heart
three notes ascending
a trill descending

morning songs from my
childhood in the high desert
that made my waking up a happy time

How I wish for them
to awaken
my grandchildren
and my great grandchildren

and all our relations

-Margaret Kirschner

Soup

2006-06-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

You know this slow place
It's where you go when making soup.
Soup is a slow place.
Soup has a slow pace.
Soup all mixed up
And colorfully blending,
Seasonally intending,
Sluggishly rendering; soup.

You know in your heart
What you're head cannot divine
The moment you place the ladle
Deep into that pot of summer
Vegetables and swirl
That last twist of pepper down
Down into the brew.
There in the lazy spinning
You see Thyme
Leaving the patterns of your life.

Your nose knows.
Your eyes close to savor
The images of later
When you'll bowl this bouquet
Break and dip the rosemary bread of peasantry
Until the rich color of tomato
Soaks in paced by deep inhalation,
To honor and control your salivary response,
Raise your favorite spoonful
To advancing lips and begging tongue.

Swallow slowly
Savoring the wallowed confounded
Vegetable mead
You have concocted from memory
Over the years of dreaming
The life of soup.
-Ron Crete

Grief

2006-06-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

Ancient legend states
“When a just person dies
God cries two tears
And they reverberate
throughout the
universe.”

If this is so--
do you comprehend
why the oceans
are encroaching . . .

After Auschwitz
Buchenwald
Dachau

And now Darfur?
-Marcia Myers

Scraping Our Bowels

2006-06-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

I heard the hum of the big diesel engines first.
The sun made the gravel barge glow.

Ancient rock scraped from the bowels of the mighty Columbia.
Scraped and dug from pits that never heal.

Like a picked scab on a schizophrenics arm,
Chewed from our banks, our protective brush discarded.

Open sores on our landscapes,
Bandaged with the fluff of hollow words, and empty promises.

Open sores on our land.

Open sores on our hands.

-Jeffrey Kee

Oregon Glaze

2006-06-12T18:46:00.000-07:00

The snow made things brighter.
Nine inches in the Tualatin Mountains.

Add an inch of ice, make it 10.

Everything had a glaze on it.
Like the sugar water we froze on a salmon before shipping.

The wind moved and the trees crackled like the electricity in Young Frankenstein.
I fell a couple of times, checking it out when I should have been inside.

The ice crust would hold my 200 plus lbs in some spots.
Other places I broke partially through, pushing my balance back and forth.

I chipped the ice off the door of the car.
Started it up and melted things out.

When I got back to the house, I watched a robin fly across the yard.
It lit on the car, joining three others.

Drinking the water drops. Off the hood and windshield.
Some stood underneath snagging water drops as they dripped off the stabilizer bar.

I hoped I didn’t have a leak in my radiator.
I took down a bowl of water and set it on the car.

The structure must have been wrong because they preferred the single drops on the hood.

A little water must lube a robin’s colon, much sign was left.
Its raining now at 4:30, but it sounds like another day at home tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll write a poem.

The 8th. Things look a bit more icey out there today. A thicker glaze.
I looked up our road and noticed the leaning hawthorne was now touching the ground.

I heard some crackling up in the woods, but by the time I looked out everything was still again.

A long crack again as the neighbors non-native dropped about a 10 inch limb that bounced on the power lines and then blocked Riverview Drive.

If I went down to move it, I may not make it back in the house today. If we tried sledding on the cardboard today, we might end up in the Channel.

A robin sized bird flew across the shiny whiteness and into a tree below us. Crack and there went another 3 foot section of limb.

Kays got a number she called, apparently building trucks is very important to the Germans. Nothing planned again, I have to choose what to do.

Get up, build a fire, check the water, make some coffee, take some pictures, contemplate life, ah to be 40 again.

There’s a Towee freaking out cause he’s got a little piece of ice froze to his tailfeathers, hanging about an inch from his pooper. If he doesn’t stop twitchin this could be the end of him.

The Flicker made his first appearance, slipped into my view when I was checking out the Towee. I really should knock the ice off the feeder perches. Don’t know if I could make it back.

The young thrush doesn’t seem to be moving in and out of the feeding and watering area like the other birds. He needs a big thaw.

We all need a thaw.

-Jeffrey Kee

On The Job

2006-06-12T18:41:00.000-07:00

On the job
We walk through
New buildings, punch lists still
Taped to elevator doors
And old cluttered corridors
Basements crowded with detritus
From loading docks, laboratories
Filled with graduate students
Wielding pipettes
Cork bulletin boards in hallways
Newspaper clippings
So old, yellow and cracked
Advertising seminars so long ago
The speakers may be dead by now
Every once in a while
An unused room
A freezer rattling in the hall

At the top of a long flight of stairs
A door open to the roof
Step out, just from curiosity
See the view from the top
Bridges over the Willamette
From Ross Island to Fremont
Mts Hood and St Helens
Almost cloud height here
The mist wraps around us
We stand
Torn away
From the day’s work

by Frank Vehafric

Tadpole Nursery

2006-06-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

Wow!

Must be hundreds of them.

Fat little bodies wriggling

Their itty, bitty tails

To dig into their mud home.

It’ll be awhile

Before they’re full fledged frogs.

They have some incubating to do yet.

Imagine the sound of joy

When their bullfrog voices

Reach maturity.

I’ll have to come back here

For that symphonic croaking.

-Evy Kristensen

Camelia Rain

2006-06-11T06:58:00.000-07:00

Even though the sky is clear
it has been raining from the camellia bush
as a brilliant Stellar jay knocks drops
out of the pink blossoms.

The bright drops fall
from the petals and the jay
thinking nothing of it
tips more blossoms.

The jay flies away
thinking nothing of it –
the wind comes to chill
the bright blossoms.

-Dennis Bleything

The Long Canoe Quest

2006-06-10T15:28:00.000-07:00

The first day of summer
we hit the water
with dog, canoe, shorts,
good books,
one and a half paddle,
a small electric motor,
a battery that worked
and one that might.

It was a glorious time!

We saw silent owls,
big, swift unimaginably elegant herons,
duck pairs so faithfulto oneanother
their dance mesmerized us!

We saw beavers cutting across the stream,
occasionally smacking a tail
so loud in the quiet green
it sounded like the universe cracked!

It was a Quest
beyond words.

-Kurt Kristensen