Good morning, Blues!

$1,200 Grant from the WA State Arts Commission

The WA State Arts Commission has just granted the Chrysanthemum Literary Society $1,200 for its Chrysanthemum 2020 Poetry Anthology and a public reading at the C & P Coffee in West Seattle. We deeply thank the WA State Arts Commission for its clear vision in meaningful and necessary poetry for the times we are coping with. 

Koon Woon ----------- nonfiction

TOO LONG A STORY by koon woon (draft)

Julie A.Dickson ---- four poems

Rejoice

Single bird perched upon snow covered tree

he huddles, head nestled out of the wind

swaying his thin frame ‘mong branches blown free,

desolate landscape, lone bird wonders when

this storm will subside, the sun to emerge.

Snow covers feathers, his beak under wing.

Lifts up his head, storm seems on the verge;

sun breaks through snow sky, he’s ready to sing.

Flies over meadow now coated with snow,

straight to a farmhouse with silos of corn,

scattered, the seeds, they call from below,

landing to feast on this cold sun-filled morn.

Recalls the chill night he spent in the tree,

rejoice the morning, when storm set him free.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Survival

When words escape me like so many dreams

everything changes, different it seems.

Travel upon memory buried in snow,

while drifts blow over wherever I go.

I trip over roots, hidden -- I fall

on my knees but I realize that overall

the whole point of a journey varies;

some may stumble while others tarry,

confused, might wander among the rubble,

pick through detritus that caused this trouble,

reminisce smiling past times when I knew

a trembling voice, from one of a fool.

Isolated, alone in a din,

Ignored or passed over -- turn myself in-

to the fray, if I  write about life,

will they recognize, imagine my strife?

Yes, overcome, I’ve lived onto this age,

earned the right to own all of my rage.

A pass is issued, somewhat of a badge,

a ticket, an entry to lift up this latch.

Open a new door, within my own time –

appreciate brilliance, begin to unwind,

unravel the voices beneath the snow,

whisper survival through words I now know.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Secret Melon

Lying on the floor in the hallway

unseen

I saw grownups in black slacks,

lace collars

a party in my parent’s house

hidden

I wanted sweet cantaloupe melon,

watching

mother cut fruit all afternoon

fruit salad

for guests she said and only smiled

at my request

for a bite of melon, ripe and delicious

wait, she said,

the leftovers, you can have breakfast

I frowned

I crept into the dining room, under the table

reached up

quickly grabbed a piece of melon,

juicy cantaloupe

I popped it quickly into my mouth,

so delicious.

I crawled back to my bed, still tasting,

happily

I went back to sleep now, waiting

for breakfast

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Ashes

I know just where my father’s ashes are interred,

but I wonder if I really knew him.

My mother’s ashes were buried next to his,

but while his were in a faux-granite urn,

hers had been dumped, unceremoniously

from a cardboard box directly into the ground,

by my father ten years earlier.

I thought of this atrocity, this role-reversal,

how much my mother hated dirt,

would have preferred the clean sealed urn.

It was he, who would have wanted to be dumped

into the ground or over the lake he loved,

but instead he was locked inside an urn.

Sometimes I wish I could have torn open his urn,

thrusting him to the wind, scooping up the memory

of my mother, to capture her essence

but then I realize that she is more free

than my father will ever be.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Jackie Anderson ----- four Cinquains

DAYBREAK

Daybreak

Sipping warm mug

Silent awakening

Newborn day shining pure white light

Clean slate

---------------------------------------------------------

JOLTED

Jolted

Shocked and shaken

Cruel attack rends my heart

Healing faith revives, I will rise

Stronger

--------------------------------------------------------------

MOVED ON

Moved on

Went your own way

Voice smiling through my phone

Like a visit at home today

My son

BROTHER

Brother

Charms, aggravates

My reaching out falls short

In deep abyss of chasm wide

Love hides

George Held -------- poem

No Light

   “To Hell in a hand basket”

   “This is the end, my friend”

1.

Only clichés and other folks’ words

come to mind in the lowering dark

of a world gone to pot or to black,

as the pot calls the kettle,

but what are clichés for if not to bring

succor to us suckers who long for light,

not necessarily at the end of the tunnel?

But there’s no light in sight, none.

2.

We who are doomed to die salute you

who motor on in the face of bomb

threats, mass shootings, frightening

policies drawn up by crooked governments,

you who warmly welcome a new child,

you who go to church, synagogue, or mosque

to pray, to receive succor, you who feel divine

peace in the presence of God, a god.

3.

But no god’s in sight, none. So what

if I can’t pray or find peace without,

only rarely within, where there’s no

light, just a reptile response to life?

That’s no question for a lyric;

save it for an ode or an epic

or a drama; stow it away

from the gray light of a new day.

Mary Anna Kruch ------------- poem

Angels in the Evening Woods

Far from the city noise,

I walk the woods,

try to block out a president

who has made life hell

for the least among us --

allowing my imagination to wander

Night approaches; I do not fear the dark.

At twilight, the evening woods

create profound silhouettes,

they rise, a line of stiff, solemn soldiers,

heads touching the navy blue of sunset.

I study how the towering red pines

shelter families of deer who live

beneath their fine-scented branches –

how the trees supply sanctuary

for even the least among them.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

Even during the hunt,

deer, owls, and rabbits

will sleep in the shelter of my soldiers,

angels in the evening woods.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

I think how differently guards

at the border view themselves --

follow orders blindly

strike fear in the hearts

of families with no place to hide in the night.

Where are humanity’s protectors?

Who supports and defends families

 who flee violence and death?

Those families are hunted; they fear the dark.

They may be moved out of sight,

but they cannot be erased.

The woods cannot shelter them.

Where are the protective arms

of civilized duty?

Who supplies sanctuary

for even the least among them?

Even as I walk far from the noise

my eyes remain open.

We must learn

from the angels in the evening woods.