Spring 2018

Grasshopper

by

by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling

A tiny grasshopper, the color of jade,
lands on the worn wood deck in front of me.
First, I think it’s a leaf;
then it turns itself around toward the bay
and I see its shape, its little paperclip legs,
moving forward like pistons in an engine,
picking up speed, and then,
rocketing into space all the way to the water!
Such incredible energy in such a small machine,
while I, this old woman,
struggle to stand.

I started writing in high school and haven’t been able to stop since.

Wisteria

by

by Charles Troob

Wisteria encloses our yard on three sides
Tendrils poke through fence slats
thick ropy stems burrow underneath

A foot or two in from the property line
a vine shoots up from the soil
Every half inch or so it spews out
a cluster of leaves—five pairs
and one more on the end
in mindless replication
then marches on
seizing every opportunity to take hold and climb

A few weeks ago I found wisteria poking
under the fence, then twisted around a seven-foot
false cypress in stranglehold from base to top
I snipped it at the base
spent a quarter hour unraveling
ten yards or so of green vine
and tossed it in the street
for village compost

If the neighbors joined
eradication might be possible
but invasion to me is decoration to them
Next door an arbor supports wisteria a foot thick
Late May it blooms in grapey clusters
the scent heavy
as if to show up the graceful lilacs
that open on Mother’s Day and quickly fade—
like Mama Rose in Gypsy
taking the stage after her daughter’s star turn
blowsy overripe
unlovable but a life force

Charles Troob attends Sarah White’s weekly poetry group. Occasionally he gets lucky and something good comes out.  Enjoy!  


			


					
			





	

					

				
Three Poems
		

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by Carol Schoen


Prologue


They were nobodies;

two of the million

children of immigrants

from East Europe,

not artistic,

or philosophic,

or brilliant.


Born in New York

same time

as the Communist state

in Russia,  Julius and Ethel

committed their lives

to the goal of equality

for all.  They never lost faith.


Julius


Hundreds of years in Russia

as merchants, managers,

we kept order among the serfs,

dwelled in shtetls, ignored at best,

while the elite wrote scurrilous

books about us.


The Communists gave us the vote!

Imagine that!  We were citizens,

no longer aliens barely tolerated

Citizens, participants in the great dream.

We owe them.  I just wanted to help.


Ethel


No one saw the scabs,

police batons hacking


at the people’s  backs.

My first job, I  was a leader

striking for workers rights;

we won few concessions.


Julius said NO!

let the people feel oppression ,

suffer till they understand

only total change,

total destruction of the old,

will bring the relief

that communism offers.


Destroy?  destroy?

More suffering?


Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

			


					
			





	

					

				
This Hand
		

			 by  		

					

			
			

				
by Mireya Perez Bustillo


In 1588 the Dutch sculptor

Henrick Goltzius drew his right hand

Strong gnarled

With knobbed knuckles

And strong wrist

With the white cuff rolled up

The veins bulging

Today I see my right hand

Delicate weakened

My wrists a narrow cuff

My thumb

Not its normal self

As it knows

It needs to rest

A while

And

Write another way

A week before its surgery