Poets in the pond include:
Mary Carter Ginn
Carole J. Heffley
Katharyn Howd Machan
Frank Van Zant
by: C.J. Houghtaling
On a day scraped clean of summer make-up,
we both can see the old base is crumbling.
Boulders knuckle the asphalt skin,
poke their fists through failing tar.
Where the surface gives,
arthritic spread of cracks and lines appear.
Once taut with run of marigolds,
trimmed with bark mulch and stone,
our tidy path now gutters and sprawls,
decays beneath rolls of chickweed turf.
And when we try to strip those mattressings
of fat green weed, there comes a spill
of rice-white eggs, a fall of crumbs
from marriage bed of busy-footed ants.
Oh, it is not beyond repair. But we are
more tired now,
not so flexible as we once were. And it
and rained and rained this joint-biting
The skies grow mute and bald of palliating
And thereís been neglect, so much neglect.
Day after day, year after year, another
a new strain, an unexpected roll
from endless gulpings of gravel and stone.
Yes, weíve fought to hold that line with
shovel and pick,
lifted with pry-bar and hoe, stretched
against failure and break, puffed and
against winter growths. But the earth
and not a single boulderís lost a bit
Dizzy from sweat and coal pitch, we cannot
to tucking road patch into flabby underlay,
or cover up weak-muscled sand
with weave and flourish of dissembling
Exhausted, we let our progeny scurry and
on clattery shoes, chalk and
lay their white-dotted claims
on the softening body of the drive,
and trundle up the long, bony path, staggering
the yawning bedroom door to shuck our
Pulling thick green covers up,
our unwashed bodies sink and twine,
soiling the bed with fresh-turned earth
we wrap ourselves into the cool, winding
sink and fill with breach and show
of trollís stone-hearted sleep.
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we should always plunge through woods,
mayonnaise and onion sandwiches
in our lucky pockets, ears
full of battered tunes of rusty trucks
and braided cries of the whippoorwill
we should have the ocean, its woven quartz
at our feet--& coiled inside the stones,
songs of our only-skin: we should always
be the one who says, look, Dad, no handlebars,
& Iím driving to the show & itís
a double feature
& may we always slip out the back
as the last music leaks from the tent,
us all laced up & wading through
the press of timothy & sea grass
to the big oak branch hanging over the
swinging as far as the rope will take us
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Poetry Conest Winners
Adrianne has had over 300 poems published
in such publications as The Atlantic Monthly, Ireland, Paris Review,
The Nation. She has three books of poetry: The Moon is a Marrying
Eye (Red Clay Press), Faced with Love (Copper Beech Press),
and Child Earthquake Country (New World Press), as well as two chapbooks,
Lying, Cheating, and Stealing (Pteradactyl Press) and Journeys,
Destinations (Small Poetry Press).
by Adrianne Marcus
Elaine is a Professor of English at the Western
Campus of Suffolk Community College in Brentwood, N.Y. Recent awards
include first prize in The Devil's Millhopper 1996 Kudzu Poetry Contest
and first runner up in the 1996 Wild Poetry Contest. Her work has
appeared in ELF, NY Quarterly, Mississippi Valley Review, Peregrine,
Comstock Review amond others.
by Elaine Preston
Falling off the Edge of
Lynn has contributed to several popular anthologies,
including When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple (Papier-Mache
Press), and If I Had My Life to Live Over I Would Pick More Daisies
Press). She is the author of two books of poetry:
Phases of the
Moon (Papier-Mache Press) and Catching the Light (Pocahontas
Press). She began writing in midlife after retiring from her career
as a registered nurse and makes her home on the south shore of Long Island.
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by Lynn Kozma