Poet's Corner
Read the EPIC Poetry Group's latest installment of Poet’s Corner, featured in My Edmonds News.
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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 
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 
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
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
(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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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 
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
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
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 
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.
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