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The Muses' Gallery - Summer 2009

We are very pleased to present our Summer Gallery featuring poetry and art.  There was no specified theme this season - poet's (or artist's) choice).  Enjoy!

Highland Park Poetry always welcomes submissions of poetry and photography for this gallery.  Please send poems or photographs electronically to Jennifer@highlandparkpoetry.org.  

And to all poets - keep on writing!


Miranda Dotson, Photographer
 
Boy On A Swing

By Charles Schwartz
once your eyes were open,
once you reached for the sky,
once you swung high and free,
your toes pointing to the blue. 

grip tightly, young boy,fly high,
and dream of heaven,
swing until you close your eyes,
swing on and on, up and down. 

with sun warming your face,
and a wind on your back,
breathe in a prayer,
endure summer’s embrace. 

defy warning bells as you fly high,
before you lay down, before you fall,
your bronze image on a swing,
no parallel shadows to dent the ground.
 
Jan Burke, Photographer
 
Champagne Days

By Judith Bernstein

Nothing becomes a summer day

Like sipping Champagne

With a straw

Right out of the icy bottle,

Recumbent in a hammock

Stretched between two trees,

Filling up on hollow rhinestones

Spinning free in an alcoholic haze.

 

Pop, pop, pop,

The bubbles burst

Inflating me.

Rotund I float

Out of the hammock,

Over the fence,

Above the trees,

Until I’m face to face

With the gawking crows.

 

Beyond the highway

Across the pond,

Snagging my shirt

On the steeple spire,

Looking down on

The shopping hordes,

Tagging the clouds

With my fingertips,

I float the afternoon away.

 

Burp, burp, burp

To my despair

I begin to deflate,

In lurching steps

I slowly descend

From my lofty heights,

Settling into the

Crown of a leafy maple,

One foot in a robin’s nest

One arm in an acorn filled hollow.

 

Stuck like a kite,

Stranded like a cat,

I pull out my cell phone

And call

For a fireman to rescue me.
 
The Question Of Summer

By Herb Berman

lilac’s bold spring dalliance
subsides into green-masked summer
sober as a black-robed judge
contemplating an itch in his navel

summer sun
feeds lilac and honeysuckle
and professes meaning
in summer vegetation

soon gold and wasted brown
instead of green
soon itch will ebb
or bloom into scabies or cancer

one way or another
you and I and summer
must somehow come
to terms with all this blossom and profusion
Ken Dusynski, Photographer
Ken Dusynski, Photographer
Aria

By Clara Berman

 

Soaked in sunshine, garlanded in flowers
The emblem-blue sofa breathes, vibrant
Where he once sat

Happily ensconced in the Northern corner
Drenched in warm, Western light

 

One garden behind him, one beyond
Mirrored in vivid impressions on the oaken walls
The long, old Palmer stereo system stretching along one wall

flanked by new speakers,

decorated with rows of family attitudes, and newer technology
CDs of Domingo, Callas, and Tucker's Kol Nidre along the top
while racks of vinyl jealously guarded to one side
speak of worlds beloved,

along with golf clubs, cane and red socks cap and jacket
once the materials of life revolved around and used

like numbers and momentos carefully saved and kept
now symbols in memory
of a fine
and well-lived life
 
Fireflies

By Ellen Savage
Lingering fireflies
Floating lanterns,
Lilliputian lighthouses rising in darkness
Leading hope for longevity
To safety of soft sand
Free to realize dreams.
 

A Farmer's Lullaby

By Robert Cote


Sound arrived as the light was leaving  
I was resting from daytime heaving
At first in a trickle like starlight glistening
or louder in waves as my efforts listening

Who are these players who come and sit
Loyally each night to follow the conductor moon
Who find their positions in the orchestra pit
And begin to play the sweetest tune
We’ll not look upon them or their likeness see
Although their song is sweet and slight
The horrid creatures that they be
Are hidden behind the curtain of night

Toad and Cricket, Beetle and Worm
Whose forms and face have made us squirm
With bassoon base, viola, and pipe and peep
Lull our lids to dream and sleep
Robert Cote, Artist
 
Dog Nap

    for Scout

By Arlyn Miller

Oh to surrender to the afternoon

light, lie your honey colored

self down on the oak floor boards,

the sun blessing you in a quilt 

of shadowed window panes.

 

April shines her countenance

upon you.  The kitchen hums

in shades of amber.  The yard waits patiently,

a bounty of rabbits and tennis balls.
 
Mist

By Edward Kaufman

The moon was veiled in mist
as it floated in the velvet skies.
Catching my heart by surprise,
mist also began to cover my eyes.
My thoughts filled with you.
The music of your laughter,
the warmth of your smile.
Yes, it is true,
the embrace of your eyes,
and the tenderness of your
your sweet lips,
which I have joyfully kissed
brought from above that mist
to my eyes,
as I peered at the
lush night skies
Whenever I am not with you,
you are dearly, dearly missed. 

 
 
Jan Burke, Photographer
Bialystok Impasse
 
By Lois Barr


This poem first appeared online at The New Vilna Review:

http://www.newvilnareview.com/poetry/bialystok-impasse.html 

I.  I awaken from a nap in schul

 

--Alyssa has twinned

the rabbi says,

with Anya Planik

from Bialystok

who never

had a bat mitzvah.

At ten she was taken by train

to die

at Auschwitz.

 

I would go to Bialystok

I think

To know what the

grit tastes like

under my nails

if I made a mud pie.

To shiver with cold in a dingy outhouse.

Are there still outhouses?

To taste Bialystoker

tea

and float down

a chilly river

on a hot summer day.

Is there a river?

To wander crooked

streets and get lost

to hear Bialystoker

Polish all around me

on market days.

If there is still a market.

To look for small signs of Yiddish

any marker

to say my

bubby’s family

lived here once.

To see the

kind of light they

saw in early morning

to smell herring in oak barrels

and smoked pork sausage.

 

 

II.  I walk on the treadmill

 

--My family was from Bialystok,

I tell Marek, a man from the Centre Club.

--What was their name?

--Kagan.

He wrinkles his eyebrows, Not a Polish name.

--Jewish, I say.

--There used to be some Jews in Bialystok,

he says as I walk on the treadmill

and he sweats away on the transport.

--Yeah, I say,  Over fifty thousand.

He smiles and increases the resistance.

 

I won’t ever go to Bialystok.

Won’t ever know

what Yiddish sounded like

on Bialystoker tongues.

Eat a warm Bialy

or freshly churned butter

on a potato just pulled from the earth.

 

 

III.  I gather flowers

 

I pick a margaritkale

and pluck its petals

I go

I stay

I go

I stay

I go

I stay

Go!

Stay!

Daisies without petals---

graves without covers.

Go.
 
Ronit Weiner, Artist
Ronit Weiner, Artist
 
four senryu 

By Charlotte Digregorio

sultry day . . .
motorist with tattoos
gives directions

weeding again . . .
the garter snake
the new neighbor  

reading Boccaccio’s tales . . .
the parish priest waves
from his convertible  

clouds move in . . .
rainy-day neighbor
waves from a distance
After The Will Is Read, I Am Given Custody Of The Old Mop

By Michael H. Brownstein

I want to get regenerated into whoever I am supposed to be.

A clam perhaps.

A sea lion.

The beginning curl of a great wave stretching itself across the ocean.

Maybe just a unicorn.

 

These are the things I have learned:

Reflective noise,

Protein maladjustment,

Everything double sided except for the palm of my hand.

 

Outside the grey moon almost blue has a Spanish hue,

Olive and bran,

Strong willed and intent,

Muscle bound weather permitting.

 

If by some chance I fall on my head and die,

What happens to everything I never did before?
 
My One Minute Before Midnight

By Bruce E. McNutt

It is one minute before midnight

But I am very young

 

I have 60 seconds left

Before my bell is rung

 

If only I had known

That life was so short

 

I would have prepared better

Done more to help the world

 

Is there any way out

To extend my time on Earth

 

No extensions possible

Midnight arrives

The clock tower announcing

The final 12 chimes begun

The first chime rung

 

I must be creative

Somehow find a solution

To this problem catastrophic

I hear chimes two, three and four

 

I suddenly wonder

What it is like in heaven

The clock chimes seven

 

What have I done to deserve such a fate

Be given no second chance

My faith a victim

As the clock chimes ten

 

As the clock chimes eleven

I rediscover my faith

Beg forgiveness

For past transgressions

For wasting my life

 

The clock chimes twelve

Silence engulfs my person

My final thought an odd one

Before the curtain falls

What if my eternal destination is hell

 

It is one minute after midnight

I am nowhere to be found
 
Laurence Segil, Photographer
Laurence Segil, Photographer

At The Bus Stop

By Robert Klein Engler


To read more of Robert's poetry, visit www.lulu.com and search for him.

Eighteen-wheelers screech to a halt at the stoplight.
A flock of pigeons shoots up from the roof of Sears,
to circle and land on the sills of the Bains Foot Clinic.
There is nothing in the sky, now, except the hawk.
 
Roster Forever

By Ryan K. Sauers



Spring-sets punctuated with toxic bliss
urban upheavals echoing
chants of social miscarriages
leaving bitter/sweet rhythms to plume

like afros from swaying heads
of '60's hippies uncharted
oomps uncharacterized in free meters
thunder out poignant lyricism

soaked in copper tunes
of hydraulic blues to pump
bruised hearts of a people
an audience witness to archetypes

of inner rebellions awash
with anger primed fists rise high
in a singular movement to rattle
against worn out songs of Congress

only to stamp out idle anger
with purpose and causation
garbed in canvas cargos
and a nearly wild top

a trombonist blows life
onto the backs of bold
crisp notes freshly baked
from the morning high

in tune with a common voice
drum beats swell
charging the multitude
flooding a mesmerized crowd

bitten by inequity and frustration
for one last time
vocalized in every guitar riff
ripping chords of rising up

moving
speaking as one
fighting forward
not within

on the play-list for today
a tide of change
one voice one struggle
a wall of sound

 
Ken Dusynski, Photographer
It Is The Nature Of Seasons To Pass

By David J. Rogers
I.
Lazy and indifferent, a gull
Confident of itself--white as a lily--
Passed over the field
Behind my house; then without a cry
Wheeled around back
To the placid lake.

 

II.
All night rain--
Water rattled in the drain--
Liquid pebbles.
The alarm on the dresser rattled too.
The sun rose over lawns--
The pallor of dawn.
So my life passes into and
Out of my thoughts.


III.
At the base of a tree--sycamore I think--
Maple?--(I don’t know) grow
Mushrooms--white and brown.
Shimmering heat surrounds me.
Sounds of insects in the living room flitting…
A spider on the mailbox spinning…
A lady bug napping on a bell-shaped flower.
Although the sun is bright
Every gust of wind is pleasant and cool. Yet
I feel something is missing.


IV.
Wind billows and sucks the screen
Yet nothing is disturbed,
Not the gingham curtains
Or red table cloth;
Not the slightest ruffle of a sleeve;
Nor is there a voice to be carried
From room to room--
Only silence inside where
Even in the breeze, like stone
Nothing moves.


V.
A family of squirrels--
Family they seem--
Two large, two small,
Are in the habit of
Leaping from their home tree
To my fence on some errand
That appears exceedingly urgent.
They hop so merrily--apparently content
To share the field with me.


VI.
Wild birds calling, wild winds blowing,
Mowers humming across fragrant grass,
Trains rumbling--(Coal cars empty),
Truck horns blaring, sirens screaming,
Silly people laughing,
Over hollow bridges footsteps thumping,
Church bells ringing in open towers--Sunday.
Boats dispersed on a lilting lake
Bows pointed north, colored sails
Sparkling in the sun--fair weather.
Destinies resolve themselves
Even when unattended.
My life grows light as a feather.
 

VII.
A new-born finch lost its footing
And fell out of a tree.
But the ground was soft as sponge. Relieved,
Its mother sang happily all day,
Stopping at eight.
I’m hard at work though it’s getting late.
I use an orange as a paper weight. 

VIII.
Two seasons each year flocks of
Familiar geese dine
Punctually in the field--
Waddling, pecking, bickering like
Children or thieves--then a truce--
Only a misunderstanding.
Departing: poised, silent;
Then torrents of wings--wings.
I believe now I understand
And could stay here forever,
Passing my life
Beside the field
Under the indolent gull.
 
"I'm From Highland Park"

By Kenny Sommer





On the road
Meeting the people of America.
Where are you from?
I'm from Highland Park, Illinois.
Oh you're a rich and powerful kid.
Get this response all the time.
Makes me want to say I'm from Chicago
Or the North Chicago hood life.
Talked with an at risk social worker
Told him stories of overdoses and suicides.
My parents made their money
I have been spoiled
It made me a careless man.
HPHS was like a college
Great knowledge but too much stress.
You're Jewish, they say?
No, I'm a mute
Hitler on one side
Moses on the other.
My hometown leads in white collar crime
So many of my friends divorce
Their young kids left confused.
I'm from Highland Park
What beauty all around!
The peaceful lake Michigan.
The Risky Business house.
Michael Jordan lived down the street.
Most of our black men are sportsmen?
A Bear or a Bull.
Not many African Americans around.
There are the snobs who shop, workout, dress fine and dine.
There is Billy Corgan, the music king of the town.
There's also all the hard working men and women
Of different classes, religions, and race.
As I travel
I will continue to say
I'm from Highland Park.
Defend my home
We put on are pants the same way you do.
There are trust fund babies
Also men and women who work 3 jobs.
People who help the homeless and reach out.
People who wake up at 4 am
Run a business with the passion of the Lord.
People who save lives.
Americans who make freedom ring
Teach, create, solve problems, and live straight.
Yes, I'm from Highland Park
Another great town of the United States.
Kenny Sommer, Photographer
 
Miranda Dotson, Photographer
Miranda Dotson, Photographer
 
On the Relationship of Parts to a Whole

By Cynthia Hahn

The breadth of a tickle

courses to wild fire,

daisyed meadow arching up.

 

I hold this gift, bigger than a poem,

stagger under this Achilles

till its ripple, hum, cricket drone

lays down a sunset.
 
A Tree Glows Dark

By M. J. Gabrielson

A tree stands stark

against pale blue sky.

It oversees a flat roof

midday.

 

Each window below

uniform

one taller pane above

a smaller one

low.

 

Branches reach in

three directions

west, north

southwest. 

 

There is an open

field east

of the school.

 

The parking lot stirs     

bare and breathless

at dawn.

 

At sunrise

the tree beams

bold.

 
 
2009 Spring / Poetry Month
Muses Gallery Archive
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2009 Winter
Muses' Gallery Archive
Document
Click on icon to view 2009 Winter Gallery
Muses' Gallery Archive
Fall 2008


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Click on icon to view Fall 2008 Muses' Gallery
 
Highland Park Poetry - Updated June 16, 2009

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