Life is but, a merry go round and round and round it goes, will it ever stop? Who can know, but as we go it surely is not slow, as we tread through the winter snow. For I have come to see life on earth as but an afternoon show.
— Brian K. Mino / Grayling, Michigan
A hidden yellowjacket nest,
an ankle-twisting curb, those
hungry mosquitoes lurking
in the shade of the maple tree,
a practical joke at your expense,
that word that always used to be
at your fingertips – a threat
in every corner, except in bed
with the covers pulled up. Once
you’ve brushed away the spiders.
Steve Williams/ Munith, Michigan
I am not going to say it is cold,
But when you milked the cows,
They gave ice cream,
And you could knock over
Any frozen goat.
The chickens hatched penguins,
And the horse snorted
The windows of the house
And as the inside heat
Melted the ice,
It became running rainbows.
Plunged to ten below zero,
And the trees exploded
Like cannon shots.
Now that was cold,
And if you believe me,
I will tell you another
Emory D. Jones / Iuka, MS
We know it’s there
beyond the fringe of trees
We hear it lap the shore
lick grains of sand erasing
Wracks pile against rocks
white with gull guano
Each wave rinses clean
each bird replenishes
Mary Jo Stich / Denmark, Wisconsin
Formed in the cauldron of life
out of limestone, soda, and sand,
at our best, we are pieces of glass.
Far more useful than diamonds
which flash in the light, are the windows
and lenses that clarify sight.
While mirrors are attractive, and at first
glance us please, they can distort
and may often deceive.
There’s no higher calling, than, when held
in good hands, you brighten the vision
and help understand.
So if you open a wall, magnify small, bring
something far up closer, you make good use
of the time you possess,
And so does the person who finds you,
who chooses to leave this world wiser,
and thus might forever be blessed.
Steve Williams / Munith, Michigan
Shattering winter’s biting chill
is the songbird’s sonorous trill.
Piercing through it’s white landfill
is the ruby tulip, ready to kill.
Ransacking its icy rill
is the graceful swan’s orange bill.
Infecting its very spill
is the sun ray’s most treasured skill.
Niggling at its dreary shill
is the eternal hope’s cheery pill.
Generating a brand new will
is nature’s way to March uphill.
Radhika Iyer / Northville, Michigan