Let's both

just say

"I'm Sorry,"

I was wrong to

be unkind,

erasing the sting

of painful things,

we'll both gain

peace of mind.

By Carolyn Dyck-Maynard


I have a daughter that just loves to bake

Her favorite is her Texas Cake

She bakes them for every occasion

Birthdays, weddings and graduation.

On bake day she has Texas Cakes everywhere

On the counter on every table and up the stairs.

She even bought a new SUV

To deliver cakes to you and me.

Her Texas cakes are famous far and wide

Her sign outside reads, "Don't bother me

Baking Texas Cakes inside"

By Bob Cripe

Impressionist Seurat

There was a young man named Seurat

Who painted his pictures with a dot.

His pictures, they'd say,

Were like a bright sunny day.

Sat Seurat in the park with his dot.

By Michael Chernik

Craft of a Gondolier

There is a field of mercy

Which cancels entropy —

For a little while. But nothing bound

In this frame is fixed. Going

Off the deep is hugely splash-prone.

Better to ease in smooth

As a gondolier on the Grand Canal

With a song on his lips.

You may sigh. It is a moment to hold

In the palm — a wisp of gold

Shaped like a ring whose lace-work sings

Of the gondolier’s craft of care-driven art

Fated to live for less than an hour. Dependent

On the tone and weave

O the mercy sewn.

By VA Levine

Wing Language

A serif is a wing, in fonts

Of characters in a text.

They carry the eye more easily

From one word to the next.

I first feared this was beating

A dead horse; let it rest.

Then recalled a book of my father's:

A Winged Horse Anthology — the best

In poetry to nineteen thirty

With Pegasus, winged horse, as theme.

Poetry, words, flying accomplishment

Wings, (serifs), leading on it does seem.

Trodding leafed Mendota paths

I listened to fragments passing by -

Elemental, words reach an ear, like

Angel wings wisp from the sky.

Our words have wings, written or spoke.

How they may lift, or sometimes, suppress.

Take delight in the presence of seraphim:

Words fly to us, God's angels', "Yes!"

By Marilyn Jaeger

Be Respectable ....Why?

Told to be respectable is like

being told to wear clean underwear

because you might be in an accident.

I'm afraid it would be an accident

if I were to be respectable.

I think I am too old to be respectable

jovial, maybe

at times, likable, part time remarkable

older than hay

maybe near normal

in a disrespectable way

usually not moody nor sulky

unpredictable, I hope

I often don't mope

Maybe I am set in my ways

but I've had a long time to set them.

Funny, sometimes on purpose

sometimes not

but either way I welcome a smile

and I'll return it to you

in a respectable way

or not

I'd rather you liked me

know that I care

and that I'll always

have a smile to share

By Cal Lambert

The Stroller

One granddaughter was four

The other nearly two

We decided to take them

To the City Zoo

A two-seater stroller

By their parents we were lent

They would ride in comfort

Time would be well spent

Day turned into evening

Always as it must

Sleeping girls pushed to the car

Gently with no fuss

The stroller needed collapsing

To fit into the back

Hard as was tried

We could not make it flat

We strained and struggled

Pushed every single lever

You’d think it was an easy task

We must not be that clever

A young man happened by

Offered to assist

Still the thing would not collapse

A monster in our midst

Grandpa started cussing

I wish this wasn’t true

Good the girls were sleeping

The air was turning blue

Suddenly the thing went flat

It could be packed away

We never did know why

Still don’t to this day

We never told their parents

That’s as it should be

They’d wonder how in the world

They were raised by such as we

By Kat Hakanson

A Poem for Summer

The truck speeds across the desert

parched soil behind it

gathers today'e heat

into dust devils

spiraling up the mountain sides

the driver is oblivious

mountaintop the observatory

at night, swivels

the white dome opens

those inside manage the stars

seen from below, a little seed pearl,

the dome rests

above trucks and dust

it sends questions to Mars

our heat below

full of questions unanswered

never quite reaching

the mountaintop

By Ingrid Lynch


Don't want to grow old?

"Growing old is not much fun,"

they say, "but better

than the alternative," they say.

It's a nagging dilemma.

Doesn't it depend

on one's prospects for living

actively, pain-free?

Well, sure, but there's more to life

than just tiresome survival.

I think one key word is


to see what's ahead,

in Earth's climate, in the lives

of loved ones, in politics.

You like to wonder

about those and other things,

but it's also fun

to see the revelations

of little stuff, day to day.

"Will I be able

to finish today's crossword?"

"What's the lunch special?"

"What else is by this author?"

"What's on TCM tonight?"

Besides, a pleasant

perk of being really old

is that anything

you do, even half-ass well,

elicits admiration.

Yesterday my friend

tossed me the compliment

of "You're walking well!"

As if I might soon collapse

into a powerless heap.

A vital question

for aging you to ponder:

"How can I enhance,

even just a little bit,

someone else's happiness?"

Each time you succeed,

you'r heart will thump with pleasure

over your kindness,

and your brain with twinkle with

the rewards for growing old.

By Richard Ramette

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