2024 Poetry Walk
2024 Poetry Walk
April 1-30
Enjoy the beauty of the written word outside the library during our third annual Poetry Walk. This year we are featuring poems for all ages written by our very own community members! Be sure to stop inside the library during your visit to check out our poetry books and displays.
Want more inspiration? Enjoy readings of original poems by local writers or share your own creative work at our Poetry Open Mic Night on Monday, April 29 from 6–8 pm. Ages 18+, signup required.
Featured Poems
A Date with My Lawn Mower
By Elaine K. Gotfryd Noonan
About Curly
By Catherine Geisbush
Ah, Hemingway
By Ellie Crumback-James
An Evening Song
By Cathi Kadow
Blarney
By Geri (McCarthy) Magnuson
Breath of Om
By Mini Dalawari
Despair and Sorrow
By Evet Mora
Eternity Waits
By Margaret LaPorte
Good Eats
By Andrea Mento
On this Spring Day
By Connie Pavur
Opposite Days
By Derrell Croft Jr
Rewriting Poe
By Gene Gryniewicz
Sleeping Through Spring
By Michael R. Martino
There Was a Time
By Charlie Tarjan
Time with Trees
By Tim McElligott
You Are Brave
By Victoria A. Witkewitz
A Date with My Lawn Mower
by Elaine K. Gotfryd Noonan
In a partner hold, we glide to and fro…from beginning to end
Ah, the lot line, what a comforting friend!
The sweet smell of grass and green on my shoes
Give way to the astounding news…
Shall we swing or shall we sway?
It’s your choice today!
Let’s grapevine and dip, too much grip
Send the blades into disarray.
Oh, dancing across the lawn… what a glorious delight!
Viennese Waltz, tango or a polka would feel so right…
Take heed to the weeds plie-ing in the way
Dandelions fly and leap into a jeté
A date like this will be random you see
Since the end not the journey is what is meant to be!
About Curly
By Catherine Geisbush
He put a smile on the face
Of three generations.
We anticipate the absurd
As we tune to those stations
That programmed his re-runs
Which passed tests of time.
Silly pandemonium
With no reason or rhyme.
He endured pokes in the eyes
And launching of pies,
Exaggerated sound effects
That emphasized,
Countless hammers
Clanking on his hairless dome.
Done in days
Before the phrase,
“Don’t try this at home.”
He acted with sidekicks
Larry and Moe,
Following Shemp
And preceding Joe.
Now there are those
Who proclaim
That they’re just not amused.
Though most of us truly cannot refuse
To admit we have chuckled
At the man short and burley
And performed imitations
Of the preposterous, Curly.
Ah, Hemingway
By Ellie Crumback-James
I imagine that I know what
Would make you happy
Would make you sigh.
The tropical breeze and Duval Street
Held wonders for your eyes to meet.
The pensive life of fish and sails
Of six-toed cats and pirate’s tales.
The pool, Pauline, the perfect Key
Where trade winds cooled so earnestly.
Safari’s, Bullfight’s, and Jordan’s doom
Were concocted in your little locked room.
I suppose that you knew what
Would make us happy
Would make us sigh.
An Evening Song
By Cathi Kadow
The days are long now,
Light’s shadow toys with dusk
And insects flit from flower
To bush, gossiping as they go.
Darkened clouds, bloated and black,
Rumble along towards another town.
Myriad colors spill over the yards,
The nasturtiums are in bloom.
Children sail by on brandishing bikes
And cars screech like horned owls.
This is simplicity in my life
On a summer’s night.
Blarney
By Geri (McCarthy) Magnuson
My ancestors built the castle I’m told,
In Blarney village in the days of old.
The McCarthy’s felt safe behind the wall,
But to tell the truth, twasn’t fun at all.
The bored tribe discovered what they do best:
They threw a party, and invited guests.
From throughout the realm, the revelers came.
Blarney festivities earned great acclaim.
Music, storytelling, dancing and drink,
Created some scandals, as one might think.
If you misbehaved at the Blarney stone,
Your penance would be to recite a poem.
An apology in the form of verse
As the Irish would say, it could be worse.
The McCarthy blood still pumps through our veins.
A bit of Blarney forever remains.
We raise our cups to our clan McCarthy.
To stories, dancing, and singing off-key,
Apologizing with a clever poem,
And sharing some verse before going home.
Breath of Om
By Mini Dalawari
(dedicated to son Amar & Autism)
You are the mountain, you are the climb
A journey continuing from another time
You are the path, you are the peak
So much depth to unravel & seek
You are the wild, you are the free
You are the solved, yet the mystery
You are the lost, you are the found
You are the silence & the sound
You are the song, you are the dance
You are the balance & the prance
You are the storm, you are the breeze
Pull of gravity, then rise of tree
You are the cocoon, you are the wings
Summer, Fall, Winter & Spring
Born from cord, tunnel to light
Bound side by side, string & kite
You are the past, you are the here-and-now
Karma wrapped up in another gown
Pulsating fingers & breath of Om
Take my hand, guide me home … 🦋
Despair and Sorrow
By Evet Mora
Engulfed by a pit of despair and sorrow
I sit, waiting for someone to see
Am I invisible?
Not a single person comes to my rescue
The despair and sorrow seep into my skin
Gushing into my veins
Until I am it
Despair and Sorrow
Will anyone ever come? I can’t do it on my own. Please, help.
I want to change
I want to be better
I just can’t do it, not on my own
This is a never-ending pain
I can’t do it anymore
Please help me
My demons are at the opening of the pit
Crawling down
They want me to face them
I can’t
I need help
Soon my demons reach the bottom of the pit
I will be forced to face them
Seeing everything that was done to me all over again
Pain
Endless pain is all I feel
I want it to end
My biggest demon of them all faces me
I inch back until I hit the wall of the pit
Now
I am face to face with my biggest demon
My depression
I’m in absolute horror
I can’t face it
Not now, I’m not ready
I close my eyes
Then the demon crouches down and hugs me
I open my eyes
The demon’s hug is nurturing and loving
I don’t have to be scared anymore
Not of my demons
They’re here to help me
I release my demon from our hug
I look it in the eye
Then he lifts me and carries me out of the pit
I am now finally free
They helped me
Eternity Waits
By Margaret LaPorte
And God Waits…
Whistle of mountain winds across valleys of despair
Trickle of water at a river’s edge
Tumult of earth’s majestic lair at midnight
As Eternity Comes
Journey on the Path
Journey not concluded, only half begun
Journey through Eternity
A thousand nights echo prayers still unanswered
As desolate Souls ponder prayers yet unspoken
Robes hang unclaimed
Shoes wait at Heaven’s gate
Fix Me For My Journey Home
Whispers of new mornings come on clouds of light
Thunders of mighty wings soar to the new Sun’s rising
Despair gives way to Hope
Faith lifts Spirits to unknown Heights
Love beyond measure gives flight to Earth-bound Souls
Then God Comes … As Eternity Waits
Good Eats….
Ahhhh….the godmother of all that is, the representation of one’s
Italian heritage, the smile that materializes when someone utters the
words, “go to the delicatessen and pick up a box of…..” You guessed
it, the cannoli.
Why not treat yourself to this delight and marvel in it’s glory. If you
are anything like I am, you may be curious about the history of this
mother of pearl. Well let me share with you that the cannoli, is native
to the province of Palermo, Sicily and as that is the region of my
families origin a natural fondness abounds.
The cannoli is creamy, smooth and savory. The seductive taste ushers
me back to the ancient cobble stone streets of Sicily, the grandeur
and reputation of this delicately defined cylindrical shaped pastry
dough originated for the purpose of Carnivale; a festival that took
place prior to the celebrated lent. Traditionally, fresh sheep’s milk
was and in some places still is used to make the ricotta which imbues
unique flavors. Finely chopped pistachios are sprinkled on top and
chocolate chips start to melt from the inside out. The exterior edge, is
ever so gently dipped in freshly melted chocolate. There is this
explosion of culture that is contained in that first bite.My eyes close,
a smile glistens, my face radiates and I’m immediately taken back to
a place I used to know. Fond memoirs of my grandmother standing in
front of the stove. Watching her navigate from the cuisine of stuffing
artichokes, to feeding ground meat in the sausage maker, to
kneading and rolling out the dough, to the pure enjoyment of hearing
the sizzling sounds of the carrots, celery and onion that are stirred as
they glaze the bottom of the pan; the foundation of any gravy. Beads
of perspiration subtly surface and one can not help but be impressed
that somehow she still found time to fill the shells. She’s my cultural
and culinary hero.
Food is culture. It’s part of one’s identify. Is there
anything more mouth watering or humbling. Next
time you wonder accidently or intentionally past
an Italian delicatessen I encourage you, no I
insist that you stop and order a cannoli!
To all the Italian grandmothers out there!
I’ve never felt so much quite the woman standing
in front of the stove.
On this Spring Day
By Connie Pavur
‘Tis a little bit of magic I’m wishing for you
and a little bit of laughter to see the day through
a few coins in your pocket to spend and to share
and a heart filled with love with nary a care.
But should you be troubled… in your heart… in your mind
with the way of the world and the problems we find
remember, mia cara, you don’t walk alone.
Reach your hand out to me friend.
I will walk with you home.
Opposite Days
By Derrell Croft Jr
Opposing views present themselves as challenges.
They are also opportunities for discovery.
Adventures through the intricacies of our beings.
Acknowledging our ways & those of others.
It appears there is no universal correct answer.
For every being believes differently.
Our ways are different, but we all have a way.
So let your disagreements & differences be vehicles.
Vehicles on bridges.
Bridges, that closes the gaps between us.
Opening us up to a community.
We are all different, yet and still, we are.
Rewriting Poe
By Gene Gryniewicz
Windchime
on a neighbor’s porch; the wind
squeezes between its dangling shards
of pottery without disturbing one; there is no
sound … there are
crickets,
I imagine, but I cannot hear
them. And traffic stumbles down Archer Avenue
at 2:30 in the morning; headlights like cigarettes of would-be lovers – hands
stuffed into the pockets of their greatcoats, they
stroll, side-by-side, among the fog-wrapped harbor streets …
They do not speak. There should be
background music; at least. A camera to
pan upwards, drawing slowly back,
as credits climb the screen … there should be
a full moon
that filigrees the dark mesh of clouds
with intricate webbing ; our breath mingles
to form a moth that stutters uneasily between us, that
plucks the moon’s webbing like a guitar
chord
because it cannot speak. Behind your green eyes,
the long black leg of a spider stirs hungrily.
Sleeping Through Spring
By Michael R. Martino
window open,
I can hear the marsh
as I fall asleep:
creaking, croaking, singing
light comes through
with fog
in the morning
cool grey predawn,
the clouds break open
and reveal the moon
hanging over the still pond
There Was a Time
By Charlie Tarjan
Oldepheus Simmons, his given name,
He was proud to say,
Was just plain Olde
To almost everyone
Forced to listen to his endless
Recurring stories
Of Buicks with fins and no seatbelts
Of listening in on party-lines
Lingering a little, trying desperately not to listen,
Of Kent State protests
Which lasted all night
Of gas for nineteen cents per gallon.
Olde carries a photo of his ten year old self
In the bulging wallet of his life,
Sitting on a metal box
Outside his back door
Where a uniformed man would deliver milk
In returnable glass bottles.
There was no lock
No one stole
And he swears it’s all true.
Time with Trees
By Tim McElligott
Have you noticed how much
time we spend with trees?
Did you know that there’s three trillion
blowing in the breeze?
We sit with them and climb them
and walk beneath in shade.
We cut them down and for warmth
set their bark ablaze.
We eat their fruit, swing from their branches,
we’re different in all our circumstances—save one:
We all depend upon clean water
and power from the sun.
We’ve named them maple, elm and oak;
we’ve named them birch and willow
They’re the last thing that we see at night
through our bedroom window.
Some people think in all this time
the trees have never spoken.
It’s true they’ve never been heard to complain
even of branches broken.
But if you haven’t heard the story they tell
as their leaves catch the wind
of time standing still, old wisdom,
and finding peace within,
try mimicking their patience,
be still and close your eyes
and listen for the wordless sounds that never tell you lies.
You Are Brave
By Victoria A. Witkewitz
There is something bigger and better in this life
You struggle to obtain in fear and fright.
When challenges and heartache seem to come out of the blue,
Or leave you without a clue.
You aren’t sure just how you arrived there
And sometimes this can give you quite a scare.
But you are a brave soul in this life,
Even in times of strife.
Know your purpose will unravel on its own and over time.
If you do not give up, this life, it’s yours and mine.
So be brave each and every day,
Your accomplishments and legacy are here to stay.