Barron Arts Center ~ POETS WEDNESDAY
Founder and Poet, Edie Eustice and Poet Deborah LaVeglia
head the Bi-Weekly Poets Wednesday at the Baron Arts Center
where Poets have been meeting for 30 years.
Edie has been running the meetings from the beginning
and Deborah joined in 1991.
Poets Wednesday includes one or two featured readers followed by
open readings of two - three minutes. The poetry can be open themes
and open lengths. Meetings are for poets of all ages
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The Festival of the Arts show with Edie Eustice and Deborah LaVeglia
on Sunday, April 6, 2008 is dedicated
to the work and memory of Poet, Joe Salerno
who would have been 61 years old on April 2nd.
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(Click on image above for Web site)
Only Here
I wake
Holding the blue piece
Of a dream. And lying still
On the cloudy pillow,
Before the day's first word
Spreads meaning out over the world,
I let the morning rain
Be all I am.
And in the slender
Stone-colored light, the ordinary
Promises of my life are made again,
Attaching themselves silkenly
Like rain to the window
Or my car glazed like a white rose
In the driveway.
And the dream
Now cold, blows away
Like history, my wife
Stirring beside me, the feathery touch
Of our first child turning
In her widening belly. Downstairs,
The kitchen waits. There is nothing
To decide. Everything asleep
Is about to awake, the day
Set like a mighty clock
In the silence.
Opening our eyes,
We lift the world; the universe
Tossed like rain from the tips
Of our lashes. Only here
Our ordinary eyes learn to find eternity--
There is nothing else. The luster
Is this plainness we walk in;
This poverty we rise to
At the end of dreaming--
The sacrament each day
Of our feet touching
The floor.
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BARRON ARTS CENTER
(Click on image above for Web site)
SONG OF THE TULIP TREE
I stand alone
in my great height.
I cherish nothing
more than my own roots.
The decay of the world
is my nourishment.
What happens below me
passes like the floss
from autumn milkweed;
And the stars
are no more than the hum of gnats
tossing in the vault
of my summer shade.
Not death not grief
not the thunder of human history
sways the vast and wrinkled
stone of my trunk.
My joy is in the sun
and the rain and the passionate
art of the wind
stirring like a lover
the enormous green play
of my branches.
What dies beneath me
finds no pity,
but in time is taken up
and sent out briefly to dance:
a nameless leaf in the wide
blue music of the weather.
And you, far below,
with your small face
looking up, I have no need
for homage.
Your human heart
is no more to me than a sparrow's
egg blown from its nest.
But if sometimes
out of loneliness or a desperate
urge to praise
you would seek me out,
then press your faint hand
reverently against
the ancient hide of my bark.
In a hundred years
your touch will travel through
each ring of my immense
armored heart, to tell me
you were here.
(CLICK ON PHOTO BELOW FOR WEBSITE OF POETS WEDNESDAY)
