(Poems by PPS members —Electronically-shared)copyrighted by authors

28 lines or less,

formatted and illustrated by Ann Gasser with digital paintings, digital collages,

and other shared images.unless stated otherwise

PPS members are invited to submit.

Deadline for receiving—1st of each month, poems appearing in order received

Target date for sending out—10th of each month

“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”–“Pennessence”– The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS,The Essence of PPS, (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..) (Pennsylvania Poetry Society, Inc..)

February2014201420142014

1.

Doris DiSavino....6

Marilyn Downing...12

Lynn Fetterolf...4

Ann Gasser...7

Mark Hudson...10

Nancy Henry Kline...2

Richard Lake...3

Carol Dee Meeks...8

Marie-Louise Meyers...9

Jacqueline Moffett...5

Lucille Morgan Wilson...11

2.

GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN

—by Nancy Henry Kline

I had a hip replacement in New York.

I came home from the hospital today.

I tried to do my straight leg raises, but the

pain was almost more than I could bear.

I lay on my left side upon my bed,

and she lay on her right side facing me.

She barked encouragement to spur me on;

raised her left leg each time I raised my right.

This funny clown helped me forget my pain.

She understood her role, and played it well.

She made me laugh; helped me to persevere.

She knew that I would walk without a limp.

She's my empathic pal; we're paw in glove.

There are no strings attached to canine love.

3..

THIS DAMN OLD I CANNOT BE

—by Richard Lake

Too much sun

and winters cold

wears us down

to burnished gold.

4.

LOVE IS THE UNIVERSAL NEED

—by Lynn Fetterolf

Love is the universal need.

It comes from our Creator,

is meant to be given away.

None can live without it,

young, old, tall, short; we wither at its lack.

Watch blind kittens nuzzle mother cat,

or flowers wilt without the gentle kiss of rain.

Watch children, smiling broad, run gleefully for Grandma’s hugs,

friends wrapped in happiness at greeting.

Watch lovers, eyes astar, cuddling in circled arms.

Watch me, the light I radiate when you approach.

I could not live without the sound of your dear voice,

your scent in rooms we’ve made into a home.

Without your love they are but empty shells

and paradise I never would have known.

photo from damndirtyrino.com

4.

VALENTINE’S DAY AT THE MALL a prose poem

—by Jacqueline Moffett

I am widowed, weary, and lonesome. Married children seldom

visit. Elbow on table, hand on cheek, I ponder my present

dilemma. Perhaps a long walk or a shopping trip to the local

mega-mall, will instill a change of attitude. Car keys in hand,

I quickly depart. Wandering through lingerie aisles, peeking

in busy beauty shops, staring at gems in jewelry store windows,

brings a release of tension to my posture. Center Court is

filled with the fragrance of baking pizza and stir-fry Chinese

food. Crowds stand patiently in line, waiting for ice cream cones

and nut-sprinkled sundaes. Handsome, gray-haired gentleman

smiles at me. "Want to share a table?" he inquires. Undulating

feelings immediately take hold. I return the smile and sit down.

6.

VALENTINE’S DAY AT MORTY’S MARKET.

—by Doris DiSavino

So

I’m on a check-out line, the ONLY ONE

with a woman disputing the expiration date

of a Twenty Five cent Coupon

which of course requires “OVER-RIDE!”

An olderly* man behind me leans forward

and says, “I like your hat.”

I

smile my thanks. casually, as if

someone admires my hat every day;

and then I turn and ask him , “Why

is it men notice women’s hats anyway ?”

He

leans closer and whispers,

“Because there is always

a pretty lady underneath.”

I got a Valentine! I GOT A VALENTINE!

*Yes, I do mean OLDERLY - Jolie Gabor coined the

phrase.

Hope you get a valentine as nice as the one above.

7.

THE POETRY SEMINAR

—by Ann Gasser

"Poetry is a tree", the workshop leader says,

"Its roots must be invisible--

planted just below the plane of consciousness."

"A poem's best when not generally understood--

Coleridge", says the workshop leader, ruffling his notes,

tapping his memory bank,

brushing back a lock of grizzled hair.

"Do not describe the moon, describe the piece of broken glass

in which it is reflected!--Chekhov, I believe!" he tells the group,

"There are no rules a genius cannot break!"

"In any good poem you must crack the shell--

Eckhart," declares the workshop leader;

(and I wonder, EGG or NUT-- or does it matter?)

He rambles on. I listen, wrapped in images,

his silver cadences embroider all my similes with satin thread.

But when he speaks of walking naked through the depths of self,

I pull my metaphors a little closer, hold them tight,

and gently close the door of mind;

I've stood before that full-length mirror shivering

too many times before.

-- Early Bird Prize in a Florida

Convention and published in

THE RISING COST OF

GETTING BY

8.

OLYMPIC DREAM

--by Carol Dee Meeks

While shopping for boots, I selected a suede turquoise pair.

As the salesman tied my laces, a magic spell filled the air.

I arose --tall, young, and thin, and the shoes in the shop

became spectators in the stands, then crowds from the streets blew in.

The carpet turned into a sheet of ice. I took one step, then two,

background music erupted and I was ice skating,

my lifelong dream come true.

I stroked the ice, strutted into a figure eight,

spun and whirled into the opening double axel.

The triple Lutz, where you skate backwards on a curve,

then turn, awaited my execution . Those watching

have to look close to see a high risk burn.

I've completed four elements, just four more to go.

Had wonderful speed as I flowed into the triple toe loop.

The sit-down spin almost spilled me and I felt my age,

then I regained composure and nailed another triple toe loop.

(not one, nor two, but three) and triple flip jump, good air position,

swoop into a second sit-down spin; hard to rise, the knees are aflutter,

skip the double and triple axel; the height made me shudder.

Another figure eight, I moved like a swan, artistically--soulful grace on ice.

I stole the gold from Michelle Kwan, surpassed all youth

in my Olympic dream night, joined the likes of Carol Heiss,

Peggy Fleming, Dorothy Hamill, Kristi Yamaguchi, Tara Lipinski

and Tenley Albright. The rink was ablaze with cheers, applause.

My score was posted and there were Tens, tens, everywhere I looked.

Then someone was saying,"I think a ten is too large for you!"

I blinked at the salesman who was holding a size 9 boot.

My Olympic Dream vanished like ice in July!

9.

WHITE-WASHING

—by Marie-Louise Meyers

Darkness descends on farms like a giant bird of prey

without benefit of streetlights that convey security.

How to chase away the gloom

of the fading afternoon.

Swiftly he worked spreading his cheer

white-washing the barn interior every two years

as if brush strokes alone could conquer winter fears

of enclosing dark and dreary,

spiders and wasps’ nests and whatnots that appear

hanging from ceilings like gross chandeliers,

and crawling like encroaching doom,

A cover-up was needed for abraided walls, his calling

before the white chips began to fall.

A sudden snowfall surprisingly warm when recalled

infused with breath of cows in stanchions,

horses in the stall,

erasing the dirt and germs gathered in interiors,

elevating the psyche.

He was a Smith of brightness,

creating an incense of innocence,

illumination was simply whiteness.

We have lamp-changing moods today,

outlandish dreams of colors that eradicate

the dullness of our plight,

but nothing like the white-wash

that eliminated the night.

MARK AND THE HARE

—by Mark Hudson

Mark was out shoveling snow,

when he cast the snow off to the side.

It fell on a rabbit in the bushes below,

The rabbit stayed still, it did not hide.

Into the house, Mark decided to go,

to get some lettuce that he could provide.

He left the lettuce for the rabbit and so,

the rabbit ate, where he might have died.

From the furry hairs came eyes aglow,

the creature comforts were not denied.

It's easy to hear this story and know

man’s caring nature can be his guide.

Thinking of creatures is a good game plan,

but it's also good to think of fellow man.

10.

DRAINING THE CORNUCOPIA

—by Lucille Morgan Wilson

Even in childhood

I recall scraping the mixing bowl

for the last vestige of cake batter,

reluctantly yielding the dry bowl for washing.

I learned to read rapidly, sponging up

assorted facts and ideas, consuming

stories greedily for vicarious experiences

I could not otherwise crowd into a lifetime.

I still squeeze the tube hard

to get the last squirt of toothpaste,

savor the last spoonfuls of broth

when the roast is gone,

and lick the drip-sticky sweetness

of chocolate cherries from my fingers.

I like large windows that disclose

broad views, plan trips to include

all possible points of interest on the way,

wish for a double existence

to encompass more adventures, learn more skills,

achieve more goals.

Now I try to calculate the years ahead

to stuff each day full of living,

fearful some corners will be left empty.

And now and again some niggling doubt

makes me wonder if I have spent a lifetime

eating crumbs, missing the banquet.

11.

11.

SEASONAL CHANGES

(A Visser Sonnet)

—by Marilyn Downing

Today two robins flew into the yard

as early messengers of spring's approach.

Some things are more compelling than mere dates.

Perhaps they knew the crocus had sprung up.

They could not guess their songs would win our hearts

caught in mood swings by February's winds.

Strong wings had brought them from some southern clime

renewing all our hopes for winter's end.

We suddenly regret forecasts of snow--

the Doppler's expert glibly points at charts--

a winter storm is on its way, he says.

Will blasts of frozen flakes send robins back,

uncertain of their choice to venture north,

to warmer climates they had left too soon?

OnOnOnOnthethethethe

Lighter SideLighter SideLighter SideLighter Side

February2014201420142014

Richard Lake...15

Prabha Nyak Prabhu...17

Susan N. Vernon...14

13.

Marilyn Downing...19

Ann Gasser...18

Nancy Henry Kline...16

14.

An apology: Since the beginning of “Pennessence” I have been asking members to submit poems in the body of an E-mail, not in an

attachment because there some versions of Microsoft WORD are not compatible with my programs and I could receive only part of a poem

and never know it. When someone would send an attachment I would not know I was not seeing the whole poem and this is what happened

last issue with a poem by Susan Vernon. I apologize. She has re-sent the poem in the body of an e-mail am reprinting the poem here in its

entirety.

AND ALL THAT PIZAZZ!

—by Susan N.Vernon

Switch on the bright lights!

Bring up the footlights!

Tap your spiky click-clack entrance,

form flashy chorus lines of dance!

Put on your top hat and haberdashery!

Pour down all your style and flare on me!

Operatic melodrama, theatrical climax

bring forgotten dreams to emotional max!

Turn blasé to celebrite’!

Make every day a holiday!

With candles blazing, people gazing,

fill the room with choral phrasing.

Orchestral movement in ascending score

boost audience to resonating power!

Jazz piano, rhythmical slate,

oh, my heartbeat syncopate!

Provide us with some divertissement-

“the show must go on!”

15.

EVER-GLAZE

—by Richard Lake

The ice is on the highway

and the snow is under that.

I think I'll head to Florida

and wrestle with a cat.

And if the Puma does me in

it's gotta spit me out,

for I am indigestible,

of this, there is no doubt!

16.

I WONDER (prompt from Carol Roberts)

—by Nancy Henry Kline

How did these things get in here?

They should be frozen this time of year.

They enter through the nooks and crannies

with dozens of cousins, uncles, aunties, and grannies.

They nestle in flannel sheets on my bed.

They even invade the hair on my head.

They crawl on my orchids, then fly to the light.

When they get there they are zapped in mid-flight.

Our schnauzer won't kill them

'cause they taste so bad.

They'd be the worst snack

that she's ever had.

With no natural predators

they can't be prey,

so by millions they multiply

every day.

For this poetry prompt I thank you, Carol,

but let's drown these stink bugs in a rain barrel.

17.

SECOND THOUGHTS

—by Prabha Nayak Prabhu

She was not happy with her face

And so she thought she’d change its shape

But when the doc began to trace

Strange contours on a masking tape

Cried ”Halt” and said that she’d embrace

Her old look like a known landscape.

IT'S CONTEST DEADLINE TIME

AND YOUR WORST HEAD COLD EVER

—by Ann Gasser

When you feel a toboggan

is slicing your noggin,

your nose is a faucet that's dripping;

a razor-keel boat

is stuck in your throat,

half-sunk with an anchor that's slipping;

there are two long-horned steers

jammed tight in your ears,

there's a green furry coat on your tongue,

and your cough is the bleat

of a walrus in heat,

as you barkingly hock up a lung,

but your Muse is still fine,

and it knows the deadline,

so you pick up a pen and begin.

Then these rhymes tumble out,

they gurgle, they shout,

and you hope they will help you to win.

18.

JITTERS AT THE MIDDLE SCHOOL HOP

—by Marilyn Downing

She steps into the crowded room

heart full of gloom.

What is her fate

without a date?

Is she the wallflower no one will pluck?

With just her luck

these seconds might

stretch out all night.

But then a lonely boy walks in

and with a grin

he takes a chance --

"Ya wanna dance?"

19.

photo from zazzle.comau