miller's pond

Spring, 2002
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Volume 5, Issue 1, Web Edition
Poets in the pond:
Patricia Wellingham-Jones Pug Marr
Freada Dillon Linda Sue Park

Patricia Wellingham-Jones

CONTINUUM
(previously published in The Acorn, Spring 2001)

. . . and in the spring when the greens are sun-flecked
with newness and the earth
opens her hungry loins for fresh seed,
all the promise of the world floats
from clear blue skies and the petals
on the apple tree shimmy
with hope and the farm boys
pursue joyously chased girls and the sun
spins its ripening rays

. . . and at summer's end seed pods burst and rainbows
fill water-starved hoops in the sky and the juices
flow and the farm boys are sweaty and the girls
chaste no more and autumn's fading light
turns the leaves to red and dry brown

. . . and by winter's longest night when owls huddle
under a snowy moon and robins get drunk
on pyracantha berries and hope
seems more than a globe's rotation away,
the farm boys hunker with the girls
by a glowing fire, the earth gapes
black and cold, and waits.

- Patricia Wellingham-Jones


Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a former psychology researcher/writer, turned to writing short stories and poetry. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been published in numerous anthologies, journals, and internet magazines. Books are River Voices; Don't Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer; and Labyrinth: Poems & Prose. She lives in rural northern California. She was recently named Feature Writer at www.OutStretch.net

e-mail: pwj@tco.net

Freada DillonSARGASSO 
from the collection Southern By Birth: Bi-Polar By the Grace of God 

Winter whispers prickle flesh.
Sunrise dances dunes before us,
casts delicate hallows,
gilds the lighthouse.
Your tiny hand in mine,
we scavenge delight.
Sea treasures shawl the sand.

Recurring tempests subside
but calm is deceptive.
This place,
this peace will not last the season.
Red-sky morning already signals
destructive squalls.

You will leave.
Run headlong into life
while I sit in solitude,
awaiting courage to speak.

-Freada Dillon 
Freada Dillon grew up in Pensacola, Florida, and traveled the southern U.S. while raising 4 children. Currently living in Metro-Atlanta, she has served on the staffs of Habitat for Humanity in Atlanta, The Atlanta College of Art at Woodruff Arts Center and The High Museum.  She is the Poetry Editor for Beginnings Publishing.

e-mail:  freada@bellsouth.net

Pug Marr

Lament of the Wolf

A day past and I shadowed you
behind the black screen
of a storm, saw you turn

from the rain and cower
amid a hiss of beaten leaves.
Has it become too much to be

even touched by the sky? Once,
we felled herds, now you tend
them in fields, and your tracks

sink pointed, like hooves. I sleep
the bear-months warm in laurel hells,
dream us again whispering the crooked

deer-paths, though you have become
to me a hard God: of sudden rifled
and slant-eyed in the blind. I call

silver from the mountain to light
the long slope of dark, deep, rising,
between us. What do we share now

but the moon and a path winding
ghost through the trees, fading
at the rails of the pasture fence?

 - Pug Marr
Pug Marr is just some guy. His poetry deals with stuff. He has posted on just
about every poetry board he knows of, but each time with a different name,
personality, and voice. You probably know him. He is who you think he is (and 
also, he is not). He has been published, but won't say where. 

e-mail:  Pug1632@aol.com

Linda Sue Park

Armchair Journey

Invited me to dance today--a word
Iíd never met before.  Right off the page
it leapt and took me with it, through a maze
of possibilities--a stone?  a bird?

We took a turn or two,until I knew
its shape;  a noun of venerable years.
It lacked the crisp intent or sleek veneers
of newer words, its patina imbued

with strata laid in other times and lands.
I tongued its strangeness:  azimuth, then found
a book to ask, its answer neatly bound
in columns first, released by clapping hands

within the maze again--a twilit place
of arcs, horizons, planes!  A double-flip
toward astrolabe--another breathless trip,
my terminus:  the inner lip of space.

- Linda Sue Park


Hyphen

Its power
almost invisible--

The power to change
the parts of speech:

Mail order.
Mail-order bride.

The subtlety
of the disguised command:

Stay at home.
Stay-at-home mom.

The power to weld
across miles and years:

First-generation
Korean-American.

Etched with acid
into the skin

until the small 
horizontal scar

becomes in the end
a badge.

 - Linda Sue Park
Linda Sue Park won the 2002 Newbery Medal for her third novel, A Single Shard.  Her other novels are SeeSaw Girl, The Kite Fighters, and When My Name Was Keoko, published in March, 2002.  She has five picture books forthcoming and poetry and short fiction in journals both print and on-line.  A selection of her short fiction and poetry can be found at The Alsop Review, http://www.alsopreview.com.

Visit her web site at: http://www.lindasuepark.com

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