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Poet's Corner

Read the EPIC Poetry Group's latest installment of Poet’s Corner, featured in My Edmonds News.
Cutting Firewood
I miss cutting firewood,
cutting ,splitting, carrying, stacking,
scrounging kindling from the shake mill,
I miss the fitful hum of the chainsaw,
the Zen like arrangement of the wood pile,
an ax swung with the intensity of John Henry’s hammer,
splitting round after round,
splinters flying like sparks from a crackling fire,
the rude awakening of misguided swings,
sends jarring pain across the shoulders and through the spine,
now at age 75, a mindless flick of the remote turns on the gas fireplace,
when the remote’s battery dies,
get into the car,
drive 5 miles,
spend 15 minutes to park,
spend 8 minutes to locate the battery section in the store,
spend 10 minutes in the checkout line,
5 to 6 minutes to find the car,
6 to 8 minutes to exit the parking lot,
5 miles back home,
at age 75, I miss cutting firewood.
Gerald M. Bigelow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Reflections
Midwinter sunlight filters through barren trees,
watching as cars pass below,
a family of crows stand on bare branches,
peering down, undisturbed,
remnants of recent rains,
cast familiar images as crows gaze into puddles,
Crows are a curious lot:
wise, pensive, reflective, staying above the fray,
life in urban treetops creates a complex association,
an entanglement of branches and wires…
not unlike the daily activities of men,
routines, obligations, and relationships occupy the everyday lives of crows,
time is merely the synchronized passing of sunrises and sunsets,
blowing winds bring the seasons,
No one is homeless!
perhaps on a clear autumn night, when gazing at the stars,
we will see both the faces of men and crows painted on the surface of a bright harvest moon.
but for now, we will collect our thoughts,
reflecting on who we are,
while crows rest on barren branches as cars pass below.
Gerald M. Bigelow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Day Dream
Peering over tree tops,
the moon captures,
the smile in God’s eyes,
bidding farewell to the final sighs of winter,
the traveled mist of snow blown fog,
settles on the valley floor,
the night eagle lands,
wiping clean,
the frozen face of mountains,
stranded above the clouds,
the window at the end of the hill,
opens,
letting the twilight breeze,
gently lift the shade of evening,
fires of dusk,
breathe a mystical glow,
the star magician winks,
Damn it!
I missed my exit.
Gerald M. Bigelow

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Gerald Bigelow is a retired aerospace IT Executive. Previously published in the Arizona centennial anthology, his poetry has also appeared in four editions of Between the Lines. Bigelow is an “at large” board member for EPIC Group Writers, and chairs a monthly poetry group. He is the editor and contributor to a recently published poetry anthology Soundings from the Salish Sea, (A Pacific Northwest Poetry Anthology). He was recently selected to read his poetry at an event featuring Claudia Castro Luna, Washington State Poet Laureate.

Rough Diamond Warriors
–dedicated to the players on the Edmonds-Woodway baseball team, past, present, and future 
They play in the mud
in the abounding rain
streams of water sliding
off the catcher’s mask
into the puddle behind home plate
The pitcher scrapes the slick ball
against his saturated polyester jersey
an incantation to dry as
his sharp cleats try to catch
hold of the ever eroding mound
The coaches and umpires stand by with towels
wiping the once white orb
now the color of the storming sky
a blur for batter or fielder
a phantom speeding through the sodden air
Leather gloves smelling like wet animal
soppy cotton socks with striped stirrups
a dugout full of hooded heads
staring out onto the fenny field
spoiling for a hit to end this soggy game
The folks in the stands hide under a bouquet of umbrellas
Wrapped up in coats and blankets
clapping their gloved hands with muffled cheer
sipping snack stand coffee to support the team
friends and family defining the word fanatic
Northwest high school boys with barely beards
season spans from moody March to May
run fast, throw hard, make the polished plays
slog through game after gutsy game
almost men striving to be the boys of summer
Cynthia Hénon
~ ~ ~ ~
Finally I Pass Middle School English
I got a D in Grammar
7th Grade English
Mrs. Dean’s bouffant hairdo
her cat eye glasses on a chain
her vacuous voice flossing my mind vacant
her sentence diagrams in
white chalk choking the blackboard
She resembled one of those people
her charm bracelet jingling she might
run her sharp nails down the center of the board
quieting unruly pupils
waking the adolescent dead
She decorated her classroom with posters
Posters of poems and pithy sayings
“No Man Is an Island”
floated above her head
a life raft
holding my attention rapt
a message in a bottle
I sat in the back of the class
alphabetized with the in girls
watching in quiet curiosity as
they passed folded notes between soft girlish
hands glittering with pink nail polish
All these years I’ve held tight
my knee jerk teen age reaction to
old Mrs. Dean
now I’ve graduated to her age
it amuses me to ponder
how only a mad magical genius
papers her walls with poetry

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Cynthia Hénon is a poet, yoga teacher, and full time Mama. She proudly participates in the monthly EPIC Poetry Group and her work can be found in their recent anthology, Soundings of the Salish Sea. She lives with her family in beautiful Edmonds.


Prayer
When I was a child, prayer was to be memorized and approved
Recited in the classroom and in church, a language of devotion
No real understanding of its purpose, addressing a grandfatherly deity, Confident he was watching over me and could see all
These years, prayers for all seasons were accumulated and honored, with meaning only drifting through the words


As I grew older, prayer became petitions – for strength, for success in school, to secure the affections of the desired boyfriend, to have patience, a growing recognition of the power embedded in placing trust in an anchoring Lord
Life’s events marched forward; and prayer brought increased attention to faith, reliance on grace to face major challenges – sometimes seemingly answered, sometimes not
Belief in a relationship with a creator for seeking and relying on strength to get through fears, sorrow and disappointments, trusting in outcomes, confused that expectations failed to match
Accepting goals to strive for goodness, seeing day to day values in kindness and grace – seeing humanity itself more connected and responsibility for personal behavior more compelling


Now, prayer is a conversation, a candid dialog celebrating gratitude and appreciating a communion with a higher power of notable aliases
Regrettably, faith in religious institutions, once providing structures and paths and guidance falls away. Religious doctrines and rules increasingly seem judgmental, impatient and narrow, intolerant of other beliefs, not what a loving God would want for humanity.
Today, I value fortitude and peace, seeing the whole of Christian faith in the Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Mount, choosing daily conversations to walk through the days
Compassion and empathy have emerged as a foundation for living as growing older relies on faith and courage.   Seeking to be useful each day, finding kindness in others and a realization that death has moved from something to be feared to something to befriend marks these years.
Prayer, it seems to me, is the spoken and unspoken network between humanity and our creator.
Gretchen Murphy
~ ~ ~ ~
Summer Boys 
They arrived in the summer. The first one was born on July 29th
His biological brother arrived the following summer on July 1st
Wonderful gifts for their adoptive family – longed for, loved instantly – illustrating their truth
“Your children will find you wherever you are.”


Theirs are the only summer birthdays in the family – transforming our golden season, expanding July celebrations
Most of their summer days since they arrived are spent at the family beach house
Running on the sand when the tide is out
Creating sand castles that become more elegant with each passing year
Collecting sand dollars and shells to line the porch steps – not to mention the fireplace mantle inside the house
And sticks – wonderful and unique one-of-a kind sticks – pile up in the house driveway because they are too good to leave behind
Little army men and resilient plastic pails surface from time to time
Paddle boards skim along an incoming tide – sometimes carrying a boy and a dog
Scooters and then bicycles ferry them along the flat street


Summer means long days of sunshine with our summer boys
Sand castles give way to forts on the beach
We play chess and Monopoly and Battleship and Kings-in-the-corner card games
We have picnics on the back deck
Freshly made raspberry jam and scones are devoured
Swim meets, soccer games and the county fair come along
Each year they get new sweatshirts on their birthdays – now sized men’s large – how did that happen?
And we mourn a little as the relentless inches continue upward
Yet, we long for each summer, one that builds on the one before and still delivers timeless joy
                                                                                                Gretchen Murphy
~ ~ ~ ~
Our Beach House
It isn’t really a beach house; rather an “across the street from the beach” house.
The back deck streams square miles of wetlands showcasing calm water and sea birds.
In early years, we sat in the hot tub and tracked red tailed hawks, blue heron and an occasional eagle.
Summer brought friends, invited to stay and gather on the deck for long hours of sleepy sunshine.


Inside furnishings are treasured contributions.
The 15 year old couch and recliners came from my niece, Elizabeth.
Maple end tables are from friends of 60 years; and the dining table is a decades old family institution.
Mismatched gently worn sheets and Aunt Marjorie’s bedroom furniture greet visitors upstairs with sweeping window views.


As dreamed, this house still provides vacations for family members – three generations now; and still welcomes barbeques on the fourth of July.
Grandchildren collect shells and sand dollars to display on the mantle; and ride paddle boards in shallow waters.
When the tide is out, the dogs fetch and chase with the wind and exhaust themselves.
We walk on the beach, ride bikes, picnic on the deck and play never ending board games; and abide with the spirits of all who have enjoyed this house – built almost 30 years ago.
                                                                                                              Gretchen Murphy

Gretchen Murphy is a Washington resident who grew up and raised her family in the Seattle area, teaching for many years at the University of Washington. She retired in 2017.

July Afternoon

She tells me I am the light green color
of grass turning sharp and light
exhaling the wet smells as it yellows,
as the sun kindles the summer,
as the earth dries and burnishes.

That is why the dragonflies light on me
to lounge.  The little blue ones snapped shut.
The big black ones with white snake skin
cummerbunds spread out their double wings.
I melt beneath them like a patch of mud.

I’m charmed to be so drowsy and loose
that nature mistakes me for a tousled field,
a place to settle for a nap, a shrub.
She tells me I’m the color that they like.
They hold me down to bless me with this rest.

Kristina Rozdilsky Stapleton
~ ~ ~ ~

The Saint John’s River

For John Rozdilsky
On his birthday
6/16/1941 – 9/26/2009
Slow moving brown and brim full of silt,
A mature river like old well-worn love
Holds bits and stolen grains of every place
That it has ever been.  It bears the load
Slow as possible, holding back its final reach
Into the boundless ocean waves of sea
Just to kiss each edge of shore it can
Before it makes the place where rivers end.

Lap my feet and hands on this hot day.
I promise I will meet you on the beach
Anonymous as you are in every wave.
No longer named a saint inside your course,
You play in every current in the sea,
Spread thin throughout the watery world,
In every cloud and mood of weather swirled,
You draw my sweat to join you in humidity.

Kristina Rozdilsky Stapleton
~ ~ ~ ~

Blasted Echoes

It is the same train
That raged through Titlow Beach,
That loitered past the dingdong
Gates of the city to ultimately part
This town from its waterfront.

I heard its lonely chords
In the distance down there
From my single bed in Tacoma,
But here the obstinate blare
Of the horn is thick with memory:

The engineer that plowed over
Boys who wouldn’t listen
Hangs on the horn with horror every time
He passes Edmonds where he hit them.

He wails the presence of his train
With repetition and from the other shore
The blast returns at lower register
Bouncing back the message in soft echoes:

The murmur of a mutual refrain returned,
The reprise of repercussion doubled down
Like reciprocated love or unforgotten pain
Or the dead who live on in the mind of sound.

Kristina Rozdilsky Stapleton

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Kristina Stapleton has always lived in Western Washington. She began writing poetry at 15 and studied with David Wagoner, Nelson Bentley and Kim Addonizio. A poetry group she started in 1989 still meets today. She writes for pleasure, reads for fun and avoids submission.


Summer Constellations

A Snohomish hay field rusts in the sun
in early July a red the color of an American robin
who dusky orisons plea for night.
The twilight lingers but eventually gives way
to moonless star-splashed darkness.
40 years ago in an Idaho field more yellow
than this one, shimmering with sweet grass
salted by your sweat.
You bucked bale after bale
under a malingering sun.
At quitting time, you still had enough
piss & vinegar to fly a rope swing over the swimming
hole on a creek once the site of an Indian battle.
Your brother thought you were just playing
when you didn’t come up right away,
when you didn’t leap out of the water to have another go.
We all have these arrowheads in us
working their way out, leaving scars of elegy.
Some young cowgirl riding hard on a summer day and the palomino stumbled.
Some golden glove boxer riding a John Deere on a side hill and the tractor tipped.
Some gearhead hot-rodder who tweaked the carburation just right:
fuel, oxygen and spark.  He made a chariot of his Chevy
and flew off the East Sammamish Road.
They all sailed into oblivion before they had a chance
to know much of this earth, how it’s built of blood & ash.
Along the fence line, tangling wild cucumber is a tiny constellation
of white flowers among the fireweed and purple vetch.
This night I will pull down with a gaff hook the tired ancients
who’ve had their songs sung too many times.
They’ve had their run.
Here’s to the tragic heroes of my childhood,
For my sisters and brothers and friends.
Let them look to the heavens and remember:
Paul, Jody, Doug, Kathy, and Sorensen
and so many others.
I put you all among the stars.
James Backstrom

~ ~ ~ ~
Dogfish
Dogfish rise from the muddy
gorges of the Salish Sea
in a waxing moon
that lanterns the green canopy
with a light as cold as the water.
All teeth and eyes
They see and hunger
and hunt in packs
Over eons of slashing through oceans
From here to the coast of Honshu
they’ve grown defensive
armored in denticles
And hoisting sabre and foil
Some are learning to breathe
fog and crawl upon the shore
When the lighthouse signals
the time is right.
They hold a grudge like crows
Who chatter cruelly in madrona groves
egging them on
to Poulsbo or Edmonds
where unaware fisherfolk
grizzled and gnarled
fillet & fry mudshark with chips
Dogfish carry night in their hearts
and venom in their spines
Like us, they remember every slight.
James Backstrom
~ ~ ~ ~
Duluth, 1930
Hunger hung around like a three-legged stray,
like the dank smoke of a town where families burned
anything in their stoves to stay warm.
My father was nine years old,
the last child and only surviving son of immigrants from Umeå.
En svenska his parents spoke of sending him off
to Morfar’s logging camp in Embarrass, Minnesota
the coldest place in the contiguous USA.
Their marital troubles found a gloomy truce
in conspiracies to shelter the boy from their disintegration.
They smoked stubs of cigarettes to stave
off the hollow pangs, so the boy could eat dark bread.
Everyone was unwell.
The sickly grew sicker then died.
Alfred sent word:  Worse in Seattle.
A Hooverville bigger than Fargo.
A contagion of despair.
Don’t bother coming west.
As a small boy my dad trudged the railroad tracks
with his teenage uncle under a frozen moon, dogged by frost,
casting a light as dim as hope.
The two of them picked coal that had fallen from cars.
Lying low from railyard bulls,
hiding in the siding,
Uncle Ralph whispered how in Alaska
You could walk across rivers on the backs
of salmon and there was still gold
paying out of Uncle Al’s claim north of Nome.
Ralph had a plan— bum on the Great Northern
to Seattle, then work a steamer north.
He would send for my dad
to save him from the logging camp
he was sure would kill him.
Years later Dad told me how Uncle Ralph kept him
believing in a letter that never came,
in an impossible Alaska that got him
through hard times, through the war, through the logging accident
in ’49 that took Ralph too young,
an Alaska where the summer sky
lights up past midnight the pale blue of his eyes.
 James Backstrom

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James Backstrom grew up exploring the forests and mountains of the Pacific Northwest.  His poems have appeared in Soundings on the Salish Sea, Spindrift, The English Journal, Poetry Seattle,and other publications. He is also a proud charter member of EPIC Poetry Group that meets monthly in the Edmonds library. A long-time teacher in the Northshore School District, he and his wife raised their three children just north of Snohomish. Whenever he can get away, you’ll find him hiking the trails of the Cascades and Olympics.


Bill of Rights

I reserve the right to swim naked
Or to drown fully clothed
The right to a healthy breakfast
Or to bowlfuls of jelly bellies

To purple mountains’ majesty above my fruited cereal
To the pursuit of happiness and The American Scheme

The right to bare arms
And to bare feet and to unlotioned skin in the blazing sun

To right-mindedness
And left-handedness

To wellness and hell-raising
Bell ringing and bell bottoms
To “Bottoms Up!” and “Up your alley!”
To toasts and boast and marshmallow roasts
And coasting downhill with no hands

To the right to remain silent
Or very very loud when drunk

The right to hop into that classic ’93 Cayman green T-bird convertible
And drive like hell to Coeur d’Alene
With or without two beautiful women
Tom Fortin
~ ~ ~ ~
Turning in my keys

No longer mine

That still, abandoned classroom, its door closed behind

This well-waxed route to the office smells familiar
Clean-up crews will strike tomorrow
Liberating moldy oranges, green baloney, curdled milk boxes
Sprung lockers soon as empty as this Senior Wing

Silence fills my footprints, not so much as a single squeaky sole
Eerie in this space so often clamorous
No bantered laughter, no one shouting “Asshole!”
Noisy decibels will rule again come September

Within my head a steady vivid stream expands
Decades of roll lists memorized, faces recognized, friendships forged

Sweet individual legacies of day by day growing
Riotous tales of masses being educated

Old bronze keys soon clatter onto a polished counter
Cold office shadows shift then grow dark
Blue main doors burst open into welcoming sunlight
New roads whisper, “Travel on, travel on…”
Tom Fortin
~ ~ ~ ~
S’posed to be her valentine  

S’posed to be her valentine

Just for her

Me so nervous in The Hitching Post
(Little one-horse  town’s

Only variety story)
Such a tiny candy department
So hard to find something
That my scraped-together handful
Of nickels, dimes, a couple of quarters
Could cover

She eyed me
That vicious, suspicious
Cranky old frizzy-headed clerk
Never trusting for a second
This little would-be shoplifter
Desperate in a way
She’d never understand

So much worse though
When that fateful day arrived
Me on the bus, red heart hidden in a small brown sack
My faint heart ticking, tighter and tighter
Stomach sick by lunch recess

My mind was clear though
I’d sneak into Room 17
Drop that box
Slink back out undetected
Catch my fevered breath

And Plan A worked smoothly until
That box-dropping moment
Became the heart-stopping part

A huge 10-pound chocolate monster
Scarlet, sparkling
Overflowed her sacred desk
Crushed my 10-year-old heart

My valentine’s dinner that night?  Barely touched
Mom just had to notice, had to ask
So how did it go today?
OK, I lied and moped off to my room
My gut still aching
Like I’d been punched

(It probably didn’t help
That I’d eaten all her chocolates
Riding back home on the bus…)
Tom Fortin
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About the poet:I’m a longtime, retired high school and community college teacher with plenty of time now for “Fooling with Words.” My active interest in creating my own poetry was launched by that Bill Moyers-titled PBS series in 1998. And lately I enjoy becoming more public with my poetic attempts.
I love my present Lynnwood/Edmonds/Sno-King life. The vibrant artistic climate surrounding us here today fills my heart — and my poetic spirit — to overflowing.


The Poet’s Canvas
Paint a picture with words.
Apply the oil paints of adjectives,
the acrylics of verbs and adverbs.
Create colors of music
for the hearer,
for the reader.
Apply vibrating palettes of color,
flaming,
energizing,
vowels and consonants
to stimulate imagination.
Spread the water colors of
metaphor and allegory
over the canvas of your soul.
Intensity to nurture spirit,
embellishing the mind with
texture,
fibers of synonyms and antonyms,
expressing eccentricity and giftedness.
You are the artist and author of your life.
You are poetry!
Donna Rudiger
~ ~ ~ ~
SHADOW
We are traveling along the periphery of light
while simultaneously wandering
the minute edge of darkness,
the precipice where shadow is birthed.
Shadow illuminates the form of
our constricted humanity,
the evidence of divinity within us
often unacknowledged or unconfessed.
Daybreak transcends to twilight,
evening transforms to morning,
quiet moments of timelessness
reflect shadow in the windows and mirrors of our mind.
Burdened by cultural expectations,
we are pregnant with
unfulfilled possibilities and
undiscovered destinies.
Shadow exposes sacred spaces where
insight, revelation and musings congeal.
Hidden treasures of darkness
emerge as unlikely teachers,
heart-breaking, soul-splitting situations and
circumstances which postulate
new levels of conscious mindfulness previously resisted.
Moreover, when we finally grow weary
of being overshadowed by shadow,
liberation and self-actualization propel us
deeper into the periphery of light.
Continuing our pilgrimage there,
stolen blessings are recovered and we are gifted by
the breath lingering between unshared kisses of our lover,
the peaceful rests between notes of music,
the unspoken love of children and elders in our life, and
the ebb and flow of the journeys of beloved souls
who cross over before us as the power of shadow is broken.
Donna Rudiger
~ ~ ~ ~
Snowbound
Another fourteen inches of snow has fallen in my woods
The wind blows gently over snow-draped trees
Tickling the snow from their branches
The flakes gently float to the ground in a silent dance
I walk across the yard to spread fresh bird seed for my feathered friends
I roll apples to the edge of the woods for the hungry deer that sleep there
I am aware of the silence
The profound absence of noise that enshrouds me like one of Nana’s warm quilts
I stand under the tall cedars looking up through iced branches
I hear only the sound of my heartbeat
I am bathed in an enveloping sense of peace
This challenges my human understanding
I am grateful to be here today
To be alive
To be alone
To have wisdom
To feel strengthened
To experience miracles
To know and receive blessings
To be writing from my heart
To have clarity of mind once again
And to know that I am loved
Donna Rudiger

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Donna M. Rudiger began her creative writing journey as an adolescent growing up in Pennsylvania; she relocated to the Seattle area in 1974. Donna writes poetry, poetic prose, essay and stories for children. She is a member of the Skagit Valley Writer’s League, the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Seattle Storytellers Guild. She is a retired technical writer and lives with the wildlife in the woods of Arlington.

(small town embrace)
We walk down Main Street
hands clasped, fingers entwined
each shop flaunting its wares


the movie theater, one screen
showing “Bambi” again
never tiring of the themes


lost innocence and matricide
we step into the café
where they know our order


two demitasses are placed before us
foamy milk hearts
hiding a rich dark brew


onward past the bookstore
we eyeball the offerings, best sellers
plotting birthday gifts and book club reads


open doors of the travel store
lure us in to update our baggage
browse adventure: Belize, Tahiti


tropical musings to which we easily succumb
but we live here in this small town
and know nothing of paradise

Cynthia Hénon

~ ~ ~ ~
in which the poet becomes a bird
I folded my ego into triangles
like a flag and laid it down
in a ponderous pine box
away from prying eyes and crowbars
insults and abasements
slid off my feathers
back into the murky pond
pushed deeper by my black webbed feet
born again a swan
so regally white you’d think it braggadocio
but my meals were humbly gathered
straight from the slippery mud
Cynthia Hénon

~ ~ ~ ~
The Word of the Day is Lark
The word of the day is lark
I won’t lower myself to rhyme it
as the day goes on the wing
there’s a stillness-  her dawn song shrill yet sweet
reminder of rough and tumble summer days which stretch out time
a bottomless pitcher of fresh lemonade
water fights, music in the shade
smell of cut grass and sycamore
until night lasts forever
and lark song awakens you from the dream
Cynthia Hénon

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Cynthia Hénon is a poet and yoga teacher in Edmonds. She participates in the monthly EPIC Poetry Group and her work can be found in their recent anthology, Soundings of the Salish Sea. She won her first award, an Honorable Mention, in the Write on the Sound (WOTS) poetry contest in 2018.
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Betrayal
“I love you and I will always be faithful to you.”
No doubt he meant it on the day and the year of the postmark.
So little time from moon to rising moon;
in his need for novelty, the eye was wandering by noon.
What is the harm, he reasoned, as he kindled a spark
by texting the identical promise to someone new.

Dave Baldwin
~ ~ ~ ~
Infidelity
In the beginning, we ate lots of sugary junk.
There was scarcely any room for wholesome food.
Instant gratification arose from blithe attitude.
Sweets were empty calories—but we were young!
Today, in my middle years, it is clear to me
we cannot live for the sugar high alone.
The distance between the two of us has grown.
Addiction to sweet desire sets you free.
I wonder: what was missing from your life?
Know that now the something missing is me.
The time has come to go our separate ways.
I trusted you; your betrayal cut me like a knife,
but better to brandish the truth than live a lie,
better to respect myself to the end of days.
Dave Baldwin
~ ~ ~ ~
As a Rose Unfolds Itself
For my daughter
Stunned to hear your marriage is falling apart,
I look to see you sad, defeated, but no!
You are energized—fired up and ready to go.
The unencumbered life gladdens your heart.
As a rose unfolds itself, 
there is always an exact time 
when beauty is most compelling.
For you, that time is now.
I wrote these lines when you were twenty-one.
Society believes that beauty will have its say
briefly before a long denouement of decay.
Wrong. The unfolding of beauty is never done.
Unlike the athlete whose turn on the stage is short,
beauty draws from character to counter age.
A woman’s poise and wisdom keep the page
from turning; they keep the book from snapping shut.
Character powers the engine that drives the train
along a set of tracks uniquely yours.
This time belongs to you. Enjoy the years
to come as your own master of heart and brain.


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Dave Baldwin retired in 2017 from the Walt Disney Company after 40 years as a technical writer and editor. Currently, he is working as a part-time editor for Microsoft. In March 2018, he published a book of lyrics for church anthems. He is collaborating with composer/musician Kerry Lewis of Santa Clara, Calif. Dave lives in Lake Stevens.
First Frost
Not unexpected, just not quite so soon
October barely here, only day two
Yet here you are to surprise me
Blanketing my roof
Kicking the sleeping furnace on
To thaw my slippered feet


Later my Kia’s windows
Thawing and dripping
Demand a thorough toweling
Before our morning cruise


But now your even odder trick:
Sneaking into my fancy new HP printer
Turning printed pages blank
Making my aging old Gateway
Creep ever more slowly away
From high-speed possibilities


Autumn, I love your crisp reds and golds
Your sparkling crystals at dawn
I’m even OK with numb digits today
Just leave all my tech stuff alone
Tom Fortin
~ ~ ~ ~
Stealth and Welfare
Beneath our dingy white leaf-clogged gutter it stands
Steady reliable green and yellow Stepmaster
Calls to me, tempts me
Practically demands that I
Risk serious repercussions
Possible bodily harm (or worse)
Despite wifely advice


I remain strong, determined to
Ascend and unclog
A job any real man would aspire to
Should he dare
Even after he promises
“No, dear, don’t worry, I’ll call the handyman”
In dead earnest
Vowing to resist that innate macho instinct
Which compels him to climb right up there
Dismissing any possibility of
Free-falling back down


I repress any recollection of my clumsy brother-in-law’s incident
(So long ago, so unlikely to befall me)
Involving three surgeries, six screws, two plates
His left leg with a permanent limp
Plus golf clubs now gathering dust
In his garage next to a cobweb-draped ladder


No way will such unjust punishment result from my short scamper
A mere ten feet skyward
Surely the Gods of Home Maintenance will award, not punish, my dedication
And my loving wife will cheer—and forgive—my efforts


Rethinking done, decision confirmed, my hands grasp the ladder and
I fold it back up
Beat a hasty, stealthy retreat and stow that diabolical device
As I cast a single wary glance toward our cement driveway


Thank God!  I don’t hear her Subaru returning home yet
Plenty of time to grab my cellphone
Hit the “contacts” icon
Then breathe a deep sigh of relief


“H” is for “handyman”
And for a healthy husband
Who will not learn this lesson
The hard way
Tom Fortin
~ ~ ~ ~
Growing Old Disgracefully
I’m OK with my card from AARP
Can do some things to keep brain sharp
Got Medicare to pay for meds
And doctor bills, hospital beds
All worldly goods fully insured
Some piles of cash (all tax-deferred)
All set, I guess, for sweet old age
But first…let’s add one final page:
It’s time for me to celebrate
To act up, screw up, make mistakes
To give less thought to safe and sane
To seek out risky, raw, inane
Admit to failings, lack of class
Suffer face-plants, burn my ass
Rush right in where friends won’t go
Blurt out “Yessss!” to others’ “Nooooo!”
Leave glaring trails of nasty messes
Craft alibis and false addresses
Admit to nothing, play the fool
Dismiss all action tied to rules
Embarrass family, misbehave
Then stumble laughing to my grave


Picture
About the poet:I’m a longtime, retired high school and community college teacher with plenty of time now for “Fooling with Words.” My active interest in creating my own poetry was launched by that Bill Moyers-titled PBS series in 1998. And lately I enjoy becoming more public with my poetic attempts.
I love my present Lynnwood/Edmonds/Sno-King life. The vibrant artistic climate surrounding us here today fills my heart — and my poetic spirit — to overflowing.


Travel

My decision to travel, is more than the when, where or how,
I am not dependant on a travel agency,
my spirit guide is history,
unflinching, ingrained, deep, dark, dank, unforgiving,
I grew up listening to The Grand Ole Opry,
each Saturday night, ears glued to an old Philco radio,
my grandparents and I listened, laughed, sang,
in our minds,
We could see Cousin Minnie Pearl decked out in her freshly starched gingham dress,
sporting a straw sun hat, price tag still attached,
We could hear the sweet drawl of Judy Canova,
envision pig tails hanging, touching the front of her pinafore,
beneath, feet sheltered by over sized scuffed brogans,
unforgettable, the preachy oratories of Grandpa Jones,
filtered through corn cob pipe smoke,
washing over a brand spanking new pair of overalls,
We knew them, they were us!
Grandma, we have cousins in Tennessee?
Uncle Jake has a brand new Packard?
We could travel to the Opry!
then the silence,
an ominous silence,
a calm before the storm,
a storm that never came,
hidden between frowns,
fidgeting, hand wringing,
lay a deep dark truth, old as time,
in the journey from childhood to old age, little has changed,
the road to various destinations, is still fraught with danger,
in some places, your money can buy you tolerance,
in others, no amount of money can offset the currency of hate,
daily I gaze upon the wall,
in my home office,
a place of refuge,
stringed instruments displayed on the wall,
hanging left to right:
Dobro, mandolin, 5 string banjo, classical guitar, dreadnought guitar,
all memories of The Opry,
a trip never taken,
lines never crossed,
for me travel planned is deeper than reaching into my wallet,
deeper than desires or dreams,
it is a reach into a deep, dark history,
silent,
a calm before the storm,
maps show 50 states,
for me there are far fewer,
deep,dark,silent.

Gerald M. Bigelow
~ ~ ~
A Gathering around the Family Piano

There was a wholeness in the family’s dysfunction,
an orchestrated coming together of disparate parts,
everyone had a moment,
an opportunity,
a responsibility,
a role to play,
a need to pull genius from the air,
some sang,
some played,
All cared about the music,
“Jazz was in their souls!”
the sounds,
languid and earthy,
a blues shout,
a gospel note,
a classical riff,
an alcoholic musing,
syncopated inebriation,
delivering pace to the flowing melody line,
moving in and out,
music swirling like a cat-fight in a smoke-filled box,
an ever-present stupor,
the curse of addiction woven deep in the fabric of family and New Orleans culture,
glasses too full,
“…far too often,”
they all drank to that!
as a child I sat curious,
listening,
gathered close to smell the harmony of voices,
feel the punctuated pounding of cigarette-stained piano keys,
keys scorched by blazing fingers,
leaping across the notes,
music competing with kitchen aromas:
Gumbo boiling,
rice steaming,
eyes weeping,
too much pepper,
too much cigarette smoke,
a bubbling cauldron,
angels and devils mixing,
a potent brew of humanity,
a family whole in their dysfunction,
looking back,
the steps of time separate the memory from the event,
leaving only a dim light burning.
Gerald M. Bigelow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I Love the Desert but I can’t Stand the Heat

I can’t stand the heat of intolerance,
that fans the flames of hate,
I can’t stand the heat of ignorance,
that melts the heart of trust,
I can’t stand the oppressive heat,
that shrink wraps the brain,
causing narrow mindedness,
the Imax vision of stars,
punctuate the indigo face of night,
panoramic parades of cacti,
gallivant across the desert landscape,
in the distance a lone Coyote howls.

Gerald M. Bigelow

Picture
Gerald Bigelow is a retired aerospace IT Executive. Previously published in the Arizona centennial anthology, his poetry has also appeared in four editions of Between the Lines. Bigelow is an “at large” board member for EPIC Group Writers, and chairs a monthly poetry group. He is the editor and contributor to a recently published poetry anthology Soundings from the Salish Sea, (A Pacific Northwest Poetry Anthology). He was recently selected to read his poetry at an event featuring Claudia Castro Luna, Washington State Poet Laureate.


Letting go

“Please wait while I connect your call,”
says the voice that cares not one whit if I speak to
the party I wish to speak to.
And why do I have to send my social security number out into the ether before I achieve human-to-human status?
“It will probably take three weeks before you
feel like yourself again.”
I’m sorry but that is way past my deadline.
“That shelf unit is on back order. We should have it in
eight to ten weeks.”
I can sprout wings and learn to fly in seven.
“let go, let go, let go,”
says the sticker on the bumper of the Suburu
impeding my progress.
Why can I never get to my yoga class on time?
Irene Myers
~ ~ ~ ~
Knowing, half-way up the stairs, La Conner
I’m sitting on the perfect bench part-way up the hillclimb in La Conner
between 1st St. and 2nd St. It’s May.
A gentleman in Sunday suit and fedora, descending the steps, wants to know,
“Are you going up or going down?”
A fellow in shorts, sweatshirt, and mustard-colored baseball cap comes up from
below, observes out of nowhere,
“Good place to write a poem—half-way up the stairs! You could call it that—‘Half-way
up the Stairs’!”
“I might do that,” I bounce back. “What made you think I was writing a poem?”
A gent in navy blazer, khakis and sunhat recognizes his audience.
“Do you know how many steps it is up to here?”
“No, how many?”
“42.”
“I think that’s also the answer to life, the universe, and everything,” I offer.
“Oh,” he considers.
“How many more steps to the top, do you think?”
“I’ll let you know,” he predicts.
“ . . . 59 to here!” comes a report from the next landing.
“ . . . 76!” the mad hatter calls down from 2nd St.
“Thank you! Got it!”
Two summer-talking gals, with chihuahua, stop, inquire,
“Are you writing in your journal?”
“I’m writing after a festival of poetry.”
“We were there last night!” one of them enthuses.
The other turns and shows me a beflowered tattoo, new, on her left shoulder --
‘Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.’
“Two weeks ago,” she shares, “I lost an uncle and an aunt, same family. How did I know
two months ago to choose these words?”
Sometimes sitting, open, ready, can be just the right move,
an invitation for a new way, a new way of listening, to come through.
Meant for you, the one who knows to hear.
Irene Myers

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Irene Myers, long-time resident of Seattle, now Edmonds, is a career and life coach by vocation, a fiddler of traditional Swedish music by avocation, and a poet by gravitation. In her writing, published and unpublished, she is intrigued by what is waiting to be named.

Hollyhocks
Hollyhocks stood child high
all along the hedged driveway
made of brown dust as fine as
talcum powder, and soft as
a kitten under bare feet.
Grandad kept his pipes
in a rack on a shelf
and he smelled of
cherry tobacco reaming
out the bowls.
Mac was named after him,
the MacBride’s from Pennsylvania.
The wringer washer in the basement
sloshed clothes into greying
water, then each piece had to be fed
through the fascinating rollers
that swung over the tub and
clicked into place.
There stood a big square Victrola down there,
that had to be cranked up to play a record.
Granddad snored hugely, with a
real whistle on the exhale, and
napped in the cool basement
on a cot with the washer going.
Irrigation channels were dug
in the cherry orchard, enough to
walk in and hoe open as needed.
I remember nothing of meals
or bedtimes, beds or stories.
My mother, who loved me
all my life must have been busy
doing something, as she was
always busy somewhere
while Mac and I were
building a real house
with leftover lumber.
Granddad killed chickens with an
axe blow across their necks laid
on a stump, and we watched in awe
as the chicken flopped.
The smell of boiling water and feathers
must be the plucking that came next,
and Grandma’s soft arms and puffy fingers.
Fragments remain of canning at a factory,
and years of dusty cans of cherries
on basement shelves in Massachusetts.
Now I feel so curious for that place and
that Granddad and Grandma, aproned is all,
seldom visited across the country entire
between Idaho and our home in the east.
Sharon Murfin
~ ~ ~ ~
Neighborhoods
The sound of sirens reminds me
here at this quiet table
looking out on the back yard
the hazelnuts broken open
squirrels dropping them on the skylight
and deck harbingering fall
fires, shootings, car accidents
aggregate within this bunched
up weight of people living together
each seeking out our measure
of square footage of peace
remarkably found between
neighbors close on either side
and by them between neighbors
either side disturbed mostly
by children screeching at play or
outdoor conversations
dinners out back
daylight construction work
the richer the greater
foot-hold of peace
care-taken by tenders
plants dug and trimmed
driveways lengthened
views extended
while inversely
less peace less space
fewer plants weight of neighbor
din of despair and disparity
drives a machine digging away
at the foundations
although pressed by these thoughts
the long arc of time overlays
the details let the empire fail
and the great wave break
over the mammoth coasts
this peace is a remnant
of an age dying
comfort of lawn and tree
fragile by dint of every
other person who
searches for their own good.
Sharon Murfin
~ ~ ~ ~
Sitting
How poems come.
In every object, an awareness.
In every light,
a pierce.
In every living thing,
a presence undeniably alert
to light and weather
growing towards (reaching)
filtering down into smallest root
a semblance of vessels,
and here, also aloft
in my once green body,
now becoming woody,
layering
with every observation
a new skin, however thin
to be counted in years.
Isn’t this enough
to live one life?
To be one shrub?
Sharon Murfin

Sharon Murfin is a musician, a writer and a music-thanatologist. She received her M.A. in Fine Arts in Education in Missoula, Montana, where she lived before moving to Seattle.  “Writing has been a source of living water,” she says.

Looking to the West
We are looking to the west—to the old Smith Tower
on the left, to tinted office towers on the right,
to the piers and giant cranes of the Port of Seattle,
to whitecaps on Elliott Bay, to seagulls in flight,
to the Puget Sound, and to the Olympic Mountains range.
Breezes are light; the afternoon sun is bright.
We gather on the courthouse roof to turn the page
on the past. A judge with the matinee-idol look
begins to speak. We are present to witness the change.
Decision point: there is no turning back.
Eyes are brimming wet, but voices are strong.
In this moment, old sorrows fade to black.
Where do we go from here? As the old song
explains, We may lose and we may win,
though we will never be here again.We are looking
to the west as the sun declines to the haze horizon.
Where do we go from here? Will all of us hold,
or will our gathering scatter as we grow old?
David Baldwin

~ ~ ~ ~
For the Good People of the Village
John 2:1-11
The wedding party in Cana was underway!
There was music, dancing, laughter, and strong wine
for the good people of the village. Suddenly, a sign
the wine was running low threatened to ruin the day.
The ancient rabbis say, “Without wine,
there is no joy!” So Jesus told the servants
to fill the stone jars with water, and then
take to the steward this fortuitous fruit of the vine.
The steward tasted it and thanked the giddy groom
for saving the best wine for the very last.
Jesus was a man of the people, and this was his crowd.
For the good people of the village, there was always room
for simple kindness. His love was unsurpassed
for the salt of the earth, as much as love allowed.
David Baldwin

~ ~ ~ ~
Celebrating Peace
1.
Today we gather in this faraway space
to celebrate what never took place.
Under this cloudless sky
the Unknown Soldier did not die.
No one was wounded on this spot.
Nary a soldier fired a shot.
No soldier sang a battle hymn
or killed or died or lost a limb.
On this our distant grassy field,
no corpse was lifted onto a shield.
The world at war is far away;
let peace begin with us today.
2.
Fog is rising from the thawing ground.
Birds are soaring without a sound.
Cedars shimmer in the morning breeze.
Snowy mountains back the trees.
For a world at war, where do we start?
Peace begins in the human heart.
By changing hearts one by one,
changed hearts lower the gun.
Today we promise to work for peace,
changing hearts in the name of peace.
The world at war is far away;
let peace begin with us today.
David Baldwin

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Dave Baldwin retired in 2017 from the Walt Disney Company after 40 years as a technical writer and editor. Currently, he is working as a part-time editor for Microsoft. In March 2018, he published a book of lyrics for church anthems. He is collaborating with composer/musician Kerry Lewis of Santa Clara, Calif. Dave lives in Lake Stevens.

Uncle Blue
(In that shadowed moment when wakefulness is fitful and sleep is a hill yet to
climb, I think of Uncle Blue.)
In my sleepless fog
I become a kid, playing in the street,
again, listening for “a come on and hear moment,”
a pulsating pounding,
a boom, boom, boom, da,da,da,da,boom,
a captivating beat
struck upon two 5 gallon discarded olive oil cans,
from the corner of my eye
I catch an unmistakable sight,
Uncle Blue in full stride,
cloaked in the oliy sleeves of a threadbare coat,
dreadlocks snapping
hobnail boots stepping
flailing arms swinging
a manila rope snaked through his belt loop,
holding together two disparate parts of a man,
thoughts swirling off tempo,
out of sync,
the beats of his drums,
right brain
left brain
a whole man
marching,
one foot in the past,
the other frozen in the air,
in a time before the change
older folks knew him by his given name,
we knew him only as Uncle Blue,
he passed away more than 60 years ago,
silence filled the void,
the rhythmic joy of his existence muffled,
gentrification, a modern day raising of the dead,
filled the spaces where he once roamed,
no more boom, boom, boom, da,da,da,da,boom,
the predictable staccatoed voices of crowded streets,
now speak for Uncle Blue,
“eccentrics no longer welcomed!”
boom, boom, boom, da,da,da,da,boom.
Gerald M. Bigelow

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tapping on Cobblestones
The stones, much older than I,
stiff, unable to move
aging in place,
standing firm,
stoic,
defiant to the ravages of time
defined by their place in history
not by the history of this place
my cane,unwanted, not unexpected
a relentless tapping on their heads
a tapping born to awaken past memories,
a tapping,
no longer the familiar sounds of wagon wheels clanking,
the sound of shepherded sheep passing,
just an infernal tap, tap, tapping,
do the stones whisper?
do they recognize the light steppers from the heavy footed?
do they know when I’m coming?
“damn stones, stumbling beneath my feet”
why don’t they get out of my way!
stop spoiling my vacation,
if it wasn’t for those stones,
I could probably throw my cane away,
stop wasting my hard earned money,
traveling the world,
chasing ancient history,
those darn stones are everywhere,
trying to make me fal,
hell I’m not the Holy Roman Empire!
just an old man with a cane,
tap, tap, tapping on their heads.
Gerald M. Bigelow

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Gerald Bigelow is a retired aerospace IT Executive. Previously published in the Arizona centennial anthology, his poetry has also appeared in four editions of Between the Lines. Bigelow is an “at large” board member for EPIC Group Writers, and chairs a monthly poetry group. He is the editor and contributor to a recently published poetry anthology Soundings from the Salish Sea, (A Pacific Northwest Poetry Anthology). He was recently selected to read his poetry at an event featuring Claudia Castro Luna, Washington State Poet Laureate.

EPIC Group Writers is an Edmonds-based 501(c)(3) non-profit organization offering resources to writers since 2012. The purpose of EPIC Group Writers is to create and sustain a community of writers of all levels who share, encourage and nurture the literary and other creative arts for the benefit of the community at large. EPIC Group Writers will seek to develop and maintain cooperative relationships with other artistic and cultural entities.
​© Copyright 2018 EPIC Group Writers. All rights reserved.
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