Thursday, 22 August 2019 09:14

More poems

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Today I'm posting some more poems by our Creative Writers - Karen Crowson, Katy Galica, and Pat Peckham. Our group meets biweekly on Wednesday at the Rancho Bernardo Library from 1PM - 3PM. Join us and get your creative juices flowing

A GOLFER NAMED JORDAN SPIETH

It happens many Sundays on TV

Jordan Spieth falls apart

From leading the golf tournament

With a wonderful start

Too much stress during the final round

His golf ball lands at a place on the ground

Out of bounds! Out of control!

While his brain takes a nap

He finds a sand trap

What else can I say?

He ruins my day

I am a previous member of his fan club.

Then I changed my mind

I will try to be kind

Because Jordan Spieth, a golfer extraordinaire,

Is struggling to be the best and to stay there

A young golfer to admire and emulate

He is caring, persistent, and humble; a joy to contemplate

At least three times he won majors in the past

Yet that championship significance doesn’t last

Here’s to Jordan with respect, “Please do the best you can.”

For the rest of your career, I will be cheering as your fan.

                 By Patricia Holman Peckham

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TOO CONNECTED

I know that you reached out

And that I can recall

I was supposed to do something

But can’t remember at all

Don’t want to admit

That my memory’s amiss

I’ve a lot to remember

But I can tell you this…

It wasn’t a phone call

My cell log is clear

The last text you sent

Was sometime last year

I searched through my emails

And didn’t find yours

But dozens of others

Now they’ll be more chores.

Wait…was it SnapChat,

Messenger or What’s App?

Yikes! I’m gonna start cursin’!

Oh, now I remember. You told me in person!

            By Karen Crowson

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ode to the tree frog and the music they make

tree frog song surprised me... in itself unexpected delight... 

     and then more!

the height of the pitch the tangible urgency the careful censorship…“shhh she's coming!”.

the epitome of resilience; with blood that never freezes even when the water below beckons skates.

disco beating melodic screaming exclusive but loud but secret… translation not available.

I imagine this giant tiny frog song might be

     a natural serenade,

biology singing its symbiotic poetry. 

     or perhaps, their song, it is a harkening…

announcing a valuable find,

an invite to better bark implied…

     I think it is most likely, (tho still a guess)

quite homer-esque, 

a sirens song, 

     to the insect not yet frozen, even in spite of icicle walls.

these wolf- n -sheep’s clothing tree frogs beckoning… 

offering, irresistibly, the alluring warmth of their lily-pad hearth.

“come to me my sweet “says the froggie to the fly

or maybe they inquire more simply still, “please, might I have this dance?”

     ribbet

By Katy Galica

--------------------

AND HERE I THOUGHT I LIKED CHANGE

My lap has grown larger, that I cannot deny

Yet napkins at restaurants are smaller. But why?

Where once one could do, I now need so many

A half-dozen later, did they really save any?

Once we had fewer channels when watching TV

And I always found something of interest to me

Now I burn up such time, perusing what’s there

I seem to lose interest and not really care

I had spotted a movie to hold my attention

But can’t recall where, now that you mention

Was it Hulu or Netflex or Amazon Prime?

It’s eluded me now, and I’m out of time.

If my TV’s so smart, why doesn’t it know

Everything that I watch, lined up in a row

I’m certainly missing that simple old knob

With a quick little turn, it just did its job

But the fact more apparent I am sorry to say

Is the lack of our children outside as they play

Our world is less safe than it once used to be

For protection, our kids are a little less free

Their playmates are often just one click away

A cell phone, or game app for anonymous play

Their worlds are much smaller than ours used to be

Is it all for the good? I’ll be anxious to see

So many things have been, adopted by me

But it’s hard now with the sheer rapidity

I would never have thought, one way or another

That’d I’d miss the old days, just like my grandmother

By Karen Crowson

Read 559 times Last modified on Friday, 23 August 2019 09:59

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