Poetry

by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling

The oldest, with the Cuban father…
a one-night stand in his U.N. office,
would be 55 this year.
The next, Italian, not born in 1961,
would now be aged 53,
and the youngest, only 46.
I expelled them from my womb
with no regrets.
Now, though, old and losing friends,
I think, one might have been a girl,
a loving companion, or a boy,
literary, brilliant, devoted,
or an explorer who took me along
on his adventures.

And the one I kept, now 50 and a father,
would have the siblings he
always wanted, to share in the care
of this old woman,
who asks so much.

Harriet Sohmers Zwerling, a retired teacher and former Paris resident is the author of Notes of a Nude Model, 2004 and Abroad, an Expatriate’s Diaries, 2014. She is also a cinephile and a grandmother.

by Elaine Weisburg

Learn to designate
your teeth by number,
just as dentists do.

If you mention to the doc, say,
“Number five’s a little tender.”
You’ll be met with awe and shock
especially if he’s a he
and you’re a she.

The roll call starts at upper right
(wisdoms matter, pulled or not).
A mouthful equals thirty-two.

The tricky part is this:
uppers count from right to left,
lowers, left to right.

You’ll find it’s worth a little work
to show your dentist
that you’re bright.

Elaine Greene Weisburg spent about twenty years each at House & Garden (Conde Nast) and House Beautiful (Hearst) as design reporter and features editor, eventually editing a memoir column and two memoir anthologies.

by Elaine Weisburg

Half the drawers I open cue a memory,
memories mixed with paper trash–
sorting through them takes me hours.

Here’s a card that came with flowers
“Thanks for LI lovely years
…and a few more.”
Right as usual, the years too few.

Q and A for college Willy
“When should we wake you?
What about breakfast?”
“Ten o’clock. Eggs Benedict, Bellinis.”

A guest list for the party
when our Henry made partner.
Twenty-nine friends, four of them lawyers,
of counsel now in the afterworld.

Which of my descendants
will search through these scraps
and box up my biography?

Elaine Greene Weisburg spent about twenty years each at House & Garden (Conde Nast) and House Beautiful (Hearst) as design reporter and features editor, eventually editing a memoir column and two memoir anthologies.

by Charles Troob

I love solitude; I hate to be alone.
Give me a book, a chair, a view of a garden,
half a dozen people wandering through the house,
cheerfully burbling–
and maybe someone will come by with a cold drink
or a little snack and a conspiratorial smile.

Then I’ll say “thanks,” or I hope I will, if I’m not
lost in thought, and after a while I’ll get up
and be gracious, unless people
have already left, in which case
I’ll feel a bit abashed,
but not for long,

A group of IRP members meets with Sarah White each Wednesday morning to learn from the work of published poets and from each other.  What a gift!

by Charles Troob

A round silver box
found in London
finely embossed
the lid a Persian miniature
lion ox house tree
an elaborate flowery band
on the circumference–
and only ten pounds!

Small delicate
perfect for Mother
how grown up I felt
bearing a treasure

The true treasure–
uncomplicated love–
lives on in silver
lion ox house tree
slightly tarnished
Chinese not Persian
(what did I know?)
light but weighty

A group of IRP members meets with Sarah White each Wednesday morning to learn from the work of published poets and from each other.  What a gift!

by Charles Troob

I wanted us to stop and enjoy
the view over the hill,
but you gripped the wheel,
barreled onward,
said next time, maybe, okay?

Okay, sure, whatever.

My body will stay in the car,
smiling and shrugging.
My head will take the next left,
racing through the pass into a new valley
where the air is fresher.

Whatever happens,
as we arrive together
you can count on me
not to be there.

A group of IRP members meets with Sarah White each Wednesday morning to learn from the work of published poets and from each other.  What a gift!

by Mary R. Smith

I dream him
taking the hillside
buoyed by light
I’m dazed as he lifts
his face toward me
his cap tilting.
I shadow him
into his shed:
roof of russet voile
drapes, twists
on upright poles.
He tucks his tunic
under his thighs.
In his lap, on a
a silk bound board
leopards slouch,
gazelles vault,
lacing warp and woof.
Air rouses his fingers,
threads stir
release melodies
lost in the gauze.

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Mary R. Smith

Leaf through a life of jotted hours,
root around in a nest of notebooks
in the bottom drawer, pages yellow,
memory left to its own devices:           Hollyhocks hid garbage cans along the alley.

A card found in my husband’s belongings,     Grand Turkmen Hotel, Ashgabat.

A toddler rocks in the hammock,
an owl whoo whoos in the forest,      ..    I want to go see Mama.

For sixty years the family place
on Puget Sound,              It sold today, the water and the trees ………………………………………………………..abide.

Return to Nigeria,
Igbo Celebration of Parents………...Theresa arranges for killing two cows for ……………………………………………………….the feast.

                                             Innocent salutes the kindred assembled to …………………………………………..………….petition him for favors.

Lalibella, Ethiopia, Coptic churches
hewn from stone,                         .Priests swing censors in pre-dawn mist as ………………………………………………………penitents gather.

Bruno cries when he hears music,               My heart trembles so loud.

Hidden, stuck between two legal pads,
a Story Corps recording; my daughter
interviewed her dad a month before he died.
I haven’t listened.

 

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Mary R. Smith

Mother
cigarette clenched in her fingers
hosed the patio
cedar tree flotsam
scuttled down the drain
yanked the hose
to circle the yard
soaking wild rhododendrons

Her life receded
she burrowed under blankets
marooned in
another garden
words stalled
knuckled fingers
twined in dry nasturtiums
she waited for
channels to clear.

Lake Mohegan
ice stopped the streams
the daughter walked
thin jacket
hands in pockets
stalled water
nest of broken limbs
marooned
leaf slime and forest sludge
she tripped down the bank
fumbled the edge
hands raw
yanked a burrow
of sticks and muck
back on her heels
loosened the snarl.

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Carol Schoen

Hunched against the car park
almost too tiny for humans,
the red house slumbers.

Here Melville met Hawthorne,
fell in love, inspired by him,
wrote masterpieces

and here Hawthorne named
the pine branches that bit the dirt,
wrestled and rose again.

The house smiles down
at the lake and town
across the way its nondescript look

hides desire, lust, betrayal
sin. Here the scarlet letter
got its glow. Today it stores

old music, still cherishing
its passionate past as songs swirl
among the needles.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.