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poetrytrek.com poems
Poetry Matrix: the Poems
Copyright © 2005 poetrytrek.com. Rights to indvidual poems are retained by the authors. All rights reserved, except as otherwise noted. Reproduction done for other than personal or internal reference use without the expressed permission of the author is prohibited. Authors may be contacted at: poets@poetrytrek.com
Poetry by Genevieve Sargent
Goodbye, Honey Man
He painted her life
with the honey
of his words,
and like dry bread
she crumbled
without his sweet sustenance
until she discovered
that honey grows in trees.
Nourished by other nectars
she shook off old crumbs
and plunged
into the toaster.
Genevieve Sargent
Published in Prize Poems of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (anthology) 1981.
Those Were The Days
The days when life
was like April flowers
an unmatched scent
gathered in the woods
The days when life was
summer succulence
like cherries and plums
peaches and pears
The days of autumn harvests
from corn to crisp apples
The days when life
was snow
the season’s first beauty
under a full moon
Genevieve Sargent
Published in Sandcutters, Vol. 38, No. 4, 2004.
Ingénue
She’s such
a little fish
and you . . . experienced
as fisherman. Please gently toss
her back.
Genevieve Sargent
Cinquain Award Winner, Arizona State Poetry Society Annual Contest 1993. Appeared in Sandcutters, Vol. 27, No. 4, 1994.
 Poetry by Joseph Harris
Poems: What They Mean To Me
Poems, you talk to me when I’m all alone,
You understand me, give support to my bones.
You offer forgiveness for transgressions
I, with other homo sapiens, indulge,
Our aneurysms stretched to an extreme bulge.
Poems, you become a map when I’m lost,
Guideposts, through the maze of life, to home.
Making up for my mindless neglect,
Saving me from that vast silence of death,
With songs of words, the mourning blues.
Poems, you give a presence to me for those I have lost.
You make certain to raise my curtain of neglect,
You save me from my forgetfulness.
You give voice to what I do not say, but feel.
Poems, you are what makes my day,
You weave stories, catch up with my dreams,
Make it all what it seems.
You mold me, free me of grief, guilt,
Fear, or failure as I face the mirror,
Accept what I’ve seen,
You make me see truth, realize the beauty of life.
Poems, that is what you mean to me!
Joseph Harris
Published in Caliche Echoes 2003.
An Elegy To Poets
The curtain of darkness resolutely down,
Our fellowship in poetry broken,
Our colleagues, friends made silent, no sound.
Geographers of innate feelings of life,
Provide mirrors to reflect a barrage of light,
Of truth, as a verbal collage, of that which
endures and that which changes.
We celebrate the spirit of your lives, of poet words,
Words to outperform the silence encircling us
as we “let evening come.”
Your words, now your legacy to remain ever with us
Your legacy now a phoenix bird
whence new poets rise.
Rest in peace; your words continue to abide.
Joseph Harris
On behalf of the Arizona State Poetry Society, November 9, 2002
Remembrance In Joy
For Irene Dorothy Harris
You left me here on earth on the order of a Higher Authority,
Half a decade ago and sadness replaced my mirth.
Yet I continue to see you in the glowing color of the rainbow,
Clearly see you, reflected in a mirror
Of my thoughts, in my actions, and at times, in my dreams.
Your presence continues to pervade even in your absence.
I feel your warmth, your compassion, your grace,
And see your beauty, your radiant smile, at times
Admixed with tears of pain, as the light of the sun
Obliterates them. I hear your song, your melodies of cheer,
To melt selfishness; they bring on colors ever so clear.
You left me with precious memories of yesteryears,
And surround my present moments with remembrance of joy,
Our past becomes a review of love, compassion, and sharing
Of family, of friends, of community and always, of you.
You left me with moments of grace, with a clear reminder
Of the briefness of the holiday in our journey and space.
The program of life underscores that there is only the moment,
One at a time they tick relentlessly, measured by our metronome,
In rhythmic beats of our hearts and the beauty of our souls.
The glowing flicker of your life is reflected in the mirror
Of my memory, in celebration of your life.
I express my love and gratitude
That you spent your life with me.
A remembrance of joy to see.
My words, my thoughts most personal ever-so
Made public to let the world also know.
Joseph Harris
Published in Caliche Echoes 2003
Poetry by Wanda Panduren
Fortune Teller
She reads my palm:
There is a legend
in my village of how I dreamed of cities.
I ventured great thoughts, planning
my Glorious Life.
The fortune teller,
her palm heavy with silver, tells how
she watched me toss coins into water
and how, in the warm springtime, this
small stream also dreamed glorious
dreams of overflowing its banks,
becoming a great river—
In the moonlight
the seer returns my gold, laughing—
It is too late.
My village and I are old. Streets are
silent. The wind no longer shouts from
corners where young men shared visions.
The stream does not reflect the silver of
skyscrapers.
I stumble through the cobwebs
of my dreams—
the moonlight laughs.
Wanda Panduren
Appeared in Caliche Echoes 2003.
Journey
Nakai’s flute dreams
of places where night
tumbles from skies
I had forgotten
the singing
of waters No one
takes my hand
to lead me
to the cool lakes
of my ancestors
where Coyote walks
a path for my feet
to place themselves
on parched clay Little stones
stumble In the shadows
high mountains watch
and Shamans
warn of the time
when Nakai sees my eyes
searching
and breathes my spirit
through the cedars
of his flute
Wanda Panduren
From A Small Book of Words, 1999.
When You Poured My Tea
What if
in this bright day’s noon
we could pass on the city’s streets
and our shadows could speak
jostling words of old relationships
I can’t forget your skin
stretched canvas-taut
over bones thin as silhouettes
of Sitka spruce
I hear only silence
between the notes of a trumpet’s
blatting noise
All I have left is
a chiseled name
a carved date
a bed with no warmth
the impossibility of yesterday’s touch
Water boils in the copper pot
I pour one cup of bitter tea
to drink
alone
Wanda Panduren
Published in Sandcutters. Spring, 1994.
 Poetry by Leonard Bischel
Lonely People
See the sign?
Like a beacon it shines,
Promising a welcome
With neon lines.
Cocktails we have—
And beer and wines!
Come inside!
Be lonely no more.
This is fun!
Just open the door.
(Dark hides the dirt
And sawdust Floor.)
Pour your loneliness
Out to us.
We’ll commiserate
And make a fuss!
You’re right, my friend,
Just lean on us!
We’ll pour you drinks
All night Long
Provide the music,
And maybe a song
Until closing time;
Then you’re gone.
The next day— you’re lonely?
Well, come with me—
Back to the shadows
Where laughter’s free.
We’ll fill you with spirits,
But then you’ll see—
No amount of booze
Can help your loneliness!
Leonard Bischel
May 11, 2000
Tiny Gardens
Tiny Gardens on a shelf,
Built with such great care,
Each piece placed so lovingly
By hiker with white hair.
Memories of an earlier walk
Along a wooded path,
Along a quiet shore somewhere,
Safe from nature’s wrath.
A granite rock from mountain’s top,
A cone from nearby pine,
Each a memory of a walk,
Frozen now in time.
A tiny garden of memories,
Of days and events long past,
Each a time of happiness,
That she hoped would last.
The tiny garden’s left alone,
Its owner passed away.
The garden’s now a monument
To an earlier day.
It still holds its memories,
Though it’s growing old,
Of those golden sunlit days,
And their stories told.
Leonard Bischel
July 4, 2002
Goin’ Home
The brandin’ irons are cold and black,
The brandin’ fires are cold too.
Cookie an’ the chuck wagon’r back t’ the barn,
An’ the steers are gone from view.
The last roundup fer this ol’ hand,
My days of wranglin’ are past.
Arthritis got so bad this fall
Couldn’t close my hands, the last.
Couldn’t do what I’m paid to do,
Joints hurtin’ all the time.
Cold didn’t help—I knowed that too.
Gonna have ta change my clime.
Goin’ ta live with son at his place.
They’re fixin’ a room fer me there,
Won’t have chores ta do each day,
Won’t have ta climb any stair.
Be able ta do most things I please,
Except the things I want most.
Won’t have my horse ta saddle each day,
Won’t dig no holes fer a post.
Just sit around and watch T.V.,
An’ ride this old rockin’ chair.
They think it’s kindness ta treat me this way.
‘Bout more than I can bear.
I’ll miss the air so fresh an’ clean
Y’were glad ta be alive.
An’ sharin’ yer job with a real fine hoss,
An’ the pards with whom you strive.
Ta do each job so it’s well done,
That made me feel good, too.
An’ ridin’ home at sunset time,
Quietly enjoyin’ the view.
I gotta ride my rockin’ chair—
Four walls 'er what I see,
My only chore is makin’ my bed.
Boredom is killing me.
I’d give it all fer one last ride
Among them purple hills,
An’ seein’ the sunset one last time.
That’d cure ‘bout all my ills.
That’s all I ask, one last ride.
It’s not ta be, I know.
I’ll do that ride in my dreams some night,
An’ durin’ that dream I’ll just –go.
Leonard Bischel
September 9, 1999
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