Members Poems

MEMBERS POEMS

Tommy Twilite

Tommy Twilite lives in Florence, Ma with his wife, two sons, and a beagle dog. He writes poetry because he can't help himself. He is the founding co-director of the Florence Poets Society. Here's a couple of poems;
.
Old Man Super
went up the hill
they were breaking him down
taking him apart
piece by piece
he never had a chance
I was the one who remembered
no one cared
cut off three of his toes for the gangrene
Indian kryptonite
had to use a buzz saw
with a Carborundum blade
still talked a good game
but his eyes were far away
crystal blue
had to use titanium needles
to stick his blood
the bullets bounced off
"nah," he said, "that's not true,"
"I sorta just deflected 'em"
"the damn things hurt like hell!"
now he's wearing a fine china mask
and a plastic bag
he keeps his medals under the bed
in a cardboard box
they feed him through a straw
"I'm 123 years old," he said
"I thought you were born in 1939," I said
"That's right," he emphasized, ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE!"
Obviously, he wasn't "right"
couldn't really get up out of his wheelchair
we played cards for awhile and talked
he won every time
I knew he was cheating
he told me about the old days
how he'd take on all comers
work all day and kick ass all night
bend steel in his bare hands
"I couldn't really fly," he said
"everybody thought I could but I couldn't really,
it was more of a jump and glide"
pretty soon it was time for me to go
we shook hands
the old bastard still had quite a grip
then he said, "Hey watch this"
and he squeezed a lump of charcoal
into a few of diamond chips.
"Here ya go, kid, a couple a souvenirs"
I thanked him and asked him if he needed anything
"nah," he said, " just say hi to Jimmy for me"
I couldn't tell him that Jimmy had been dead for years
I talked to one of his nurses on the way out
she found him insufferable
"He's always looking at us," she said, "like he can see through our clothes"
"and every morning he wants to show us his erection"
"Yeah," I said, "why do ya think they call him the 'Man of Steel',"
she said, "Oh Christ, you're as bad as he is"
"Yeah," I said, "I guess you're right"
"Listen, why don't you lighten up a bit and show the old guy somethin',
he probably ain't got much time left"
she glared at me with a look that can only be described as disgust,
then turned on her heel and walked away.
I checked out her ass as she strode down the hallway.
She obviously didn't know who she was dealing with
warm vinyl
loving the needle
looking at your legs
big print flowers
so bright
looking into your eyes
deep, weary pools
in underground caverns
a million years old
tonight
now you laugh
you're that girl again
smile full of mischief
and crazy adventure
making your plan
for love
your hands
so quiet with grace
so perfect in form
so eloquent with rhythm
reach out
take me over
I am undone
that song you keep singing
as you play your guitar
the same chords over
and over again
that always
break my heart

Karen G. Johnston has lived in the Pioneer Valley since 1995, though on & off before then. She is originally from the Pacific Northwest and holds that place dear. Writing is not her day job, which is working in the field of family support and the prevention of child maltreatment. She provides trainings and workshops locally, statewide, regionally, and at national conferences.
She has journaled for over three decades and has written poetry on and off for many years, now at full speed. Karen is enthusiastic about writing poetry, but she also exuberant about performing it aloud for an appreciative audience (whether it's one or a crowd). In addition to poetry, Karen is drawn to the writing and delivery of sermons (she is Unitarian Universalist). She has delivered several sermons at the Unitarian Society of Northampton & Florence. These sermons can be found at www.leamon.org/kj. Many of Karen's poems can be found -- in progress or finished -- at her blog: www.specksway.blogspot.com. She believes that if there are themes to her work, they are lost love, unrequited love, and expressing love through witnessing others' life stories.
POEMS:
This poem was previously published in the Equinox

Struck Just So

feet slip under legs

sitting side by side on sofa,

mingling warmth and desire

backs hover

into perceptible touch:

sweet friction

riding the same vibration

of longing,

growing

mounting

with intensity

a giant tuning fork

struck just so

I shiver to contain

the bittersweet note that rises

when you are near.

Winter's Drive Along the Gorge

Our divorcee mother drove
the aging 1963 Valiant station wagon,
light blue (not nearing turquoise
as my older brother falsely recalls).
He and I squabbled in the backseat,
as we drove along the Gorge:
Columbia River on the left,
immediate blasted hillside on the right:
modern highway squeezed between.
It was always new, each winter week.
How could I not miss those idiosyncratic icicles?
They were singular stalactites showing off:
longer here, shorter there; dull at that tip,
dagger sharp just beside it; this one
clear as drinking water, that one white
as snow. One should fit in my pocket;
another in a giant's. Each different,
yet cut from the same once-fluid cloth:
downward motion made frigid, tactual.
Still, there was magic there,
seen through the lens of fabled child's wonder
I can still occasionally conjure.
Now, thought, it takes blessed effort,
not the simple ease of six-year-old
granddaughter on her way to the Ranch.
(c) Karen G. Johnston

HOWIE FAERSTEIN

Howie is a fine poet who always has a new idea he is honing into a fine work that is not only insightful but also emotional to the core. This is but one of many.

WHERE ARE THE RELIEF PITCHERS
(for Tug McGraw)
in real life?
I'm not saying that
baseball isn't real
in fact
at times
it's too enormous.
But where are the sparkplugs
when off the sandlots.
The firemen to get us
out of bed in the morning.
The saint bernards in the dank of a city?
If a save system was instituted
by the federales
results to be printed
daily in the press
scores would be out
loosening up.
Bus stops turned into bullpens.
Men and women
burning
for the competition.

Mary E. Shaughan

STILL LIFE
She sits at the dinner table and reads,
and cuts her food and eats.
One plate, one fork, one knife,
a fluted glass and a book –
all carefully arranged
on a woven blue mat.
Outside, mourning doves waddle,
searching for food;
gray clouds portend snow.
But tonight in this room
it is warm, dry, peaceful –
and neat:
no furballs in the corner,
no sand tracked onto the carpet,
no mangled tennis ball underfoot.
So focused is she on eating and reading
that she scarcely thinks of her recently-departed dog.
She eats and reads in peace –
and uncommon silence.
She hardly thinks of him at all.

EVIDENCE
Though I slept through the night,
and was awakened not
by the collision of contrasting temperatures
nor by a spectral flash of light,
I know it stormed.
Water is puddled in the hollow near the forsythia,
vestiges of moisture drip from tall limbs,
and in the sand washed down onto the road,
the voiceless earthworm has inscribed his thoughts.
NIGHT FLIGHT
I push open the door
and my agéd black dog tiptoes out into the night.
I follow him and stand waiting, shrunken by the cold,
hands exploring the depths of my pockets.
As he wanders, I gaze upward, and then I hear them:
the beating wings and raucous voices of migrating geese,
visible only to God and the angels.
As if by compass, they move unerringly South,
vocalizing their way to a warmer clime.
Unlike other migrating creatures
who take their leave without so much as a whisper,
the geese honk again and again,
beckoning to me in a language universal.
©2006 Mary Ellen Shaughan

Saundra Dubow Azmitia

(pseudonym Sandra James) is a versatile character
actress and writer.
She has developed award winning community education programs, and a one-woman
show about Gertrude Steinâ€™s tour of America. Saundra is currently completing
a memoir.
20 lines
APOTHEOSIS
Medea rose out of the sea green depths
in a shroud of webs and clay
And pointing her finger at me she wailed:
â€œDonâ€™t forget eternity!â€
The mist was rising higher and higher
until the sky became a sea.
Time rode the current of heaven while
Medea grinned malignantly.
Caught in the folds of her flowing robe
just as I turned to go
The lightening flashed and a part of my heart
was infected with Medeaâ€™s woe.
â€œIâ€™ll take this lightening like fire on fire
in fingers twisted with hate
And through the heart that once was mine
Iâ€™ll see him pierced on Plutosâ€™ gate!â€
The lightening rod above me poised
Stood ready to find his breast
But heaven caught it just in time
and laid Medea to rest.
Sandra James, copyright, revision 2007

HARRY NORMAN AZMITIA, JR.

Harry ‘s theme of renewal is expressed in classical poetic form.

His poetry was displayed in a Veterans Day Exhibit at Tower Square

in Springfield Massachusetts. He wrote his poem entitled "Spring in

Celebration of Bach’s Birthday and the first day of spring" for the

Westfield Athenaeum. Harry is a member of the Florence Poets Society.

Love’s Clarity

God, cast me not upon the fire

In this untimely hour,

While I wait to be inspired

By an angel within this tower.

One word that is spoken

And this word is love,

When taken as a token

The white purity of a dove.

Love in all its glory

Is to share with all people,

That they may hear happy stories

And wedding bells from far off steeples.

Love is like a song

That fills my mind with clarity,

With meaning that is strong

And with wondrous melody.

Love offers strength indeed

Messages of hope and grace,

For those with the greatest need

Love fills an empty space.

Love surpasses even death

And is brilliant as a dawn,

With love in ones last breath

Life continues on.

Stan Pollack

1 Bardwell St. Florence, MA 01062-1349 413-585-9070 Wife:Joanna; Children: Sunshine, Clara; Dog: Sydney Owner: Stan-the-Fixit-Man, handyman service Peace Activist, Environmentalist Organic Gardner Folksong writer, singer, poet Massage therapist Chess player

REPETITION BREEDS BELIEVERS

Lost your critical thinking skills?

Or never really had them?

Try repetition

Bush and Cheney

God Bless America

We’re good; they’re evil

Confused by the news?

Baffled by world events?

Puzzled by different opinions?

Just keep it simple

Repeat after me

9-11

Muslim terrorists

Osoma bin Laden

Afghanistan

Bomb

Kill

Everything seems clearer?

Feel good about yourself?

Then keep on repeating

9-11

Saddam Hussein

Weapons of mass destruction

Free Iraq

What’s that you say?

Bush just wants the oil?

You’re unpatriotic

What’s that you say?

Our bombs are coated with uranium?

And our soldiers are exposed to radiation?

And veteran benefits are being cut?

You’re a terrorist sympathizer

What’s that you say?

Ashcroft and Rumsfeld are profiting from war weapons sales?

God Bless America

Stan Pollack

Florence, MA

CARL RUSSO

Founding CoDirector of FLOPOSO he lives a quiet life right here in lovely Florence, He has even been known to write poetry when not working on various little projects for the society, He enjoys a good Christmas Poem and here is his latest.

Christmas concerns-2007

I don’t know how he does it

but I’m figuring its spies

This Santa guy sees where I spit

He’s even counted up my lies.

I’ve always thought myself so savvy

Cooler than a hip hop Daddy

Though there are certain things I’ve done

which, by the way, I thought were fun

Could have been considered ---- bad

this behavior, I dismissed, as fad

Now the bird’s come home to roost

my rep will need a major boost

To get me through the task ahead

of convincing Santa I’ve got cred (ability)

Some poor decisions have placed me; on Santa’s list of shame

I got to do a ton o’ work, to clear my soiled name

Or come the eve of Christmas day

my package won’t be in his sleigh

Why horror would reign under my tree

if Santa left no gift for me.

I’m more than in the slightest panic

my mind is surely growing frantic

I hope the Grinch can counsel me

so I’ll get gifts beneath the tree.

The great change must be short and sweet

but simple ways seem incomplete;

Surely what Santa wants is razzle dazzle

even if it makes me frazzle.

Perhaps some stroke of cunning wit

Will move my sour name a bit

From over on the naughty side

to that place where only the nice reside .

WOW it just occurred to me

to look within and try to see

The location of my generous side ;

existence of which I have denied

This is the season to share and give

and now its time I learned to live

With loving kindness for fellow man

doing everything I can

To fill the world with joy and cheer

As happy Christmas day comes near

This I’m sure will do the trick

and it was such an easy pick

Thus showing good Santa I will not terry

To make this holiday season merry

Now it time to wish and dream

that Santa and his reindeer team

Will get about their joyous chore

of filling my home with gifts galore

MERRY CHRISTMAS

and
HAPPY NEW YEAR