Congratulations to Dianne Wilcox of Shortsville!
She has won an overnight stay at the Ellwanger Estate Bed & Breakfast and a $25 restaurant gift certificate. Thanks to all who entered!
a guest of the heart;
never meant to linger
right from the start
meant to go on my way;
to find another abode
when I’m given away.
An evolution of form,
limitless in scope,
entwining with hope.
I am the sparkle
in new fallen snow;
the scent of a lilac
destined to grow;
an uplifting letter
penned from a friend;
the lilt of laughter
tumbling end over end;
whispered in rain
a sunset’s glow
over mountain terrain.
I am a smile,
a comforting embrace;
the courage to endure
life’s challenging race.
A multicolor paint brush,
creating beautiful things;
the art of a fledgling
testing its wings.
A hand outstretched
wherever there’s a need,
leading the way
planting the seed.
I am love—
a gift of the heart,
filled to the brim
right from the start.
Setting me free
to be on my way,
so simple to do,
just give me away.
- By Dianne Wilcox of Shortsville
I will always remember your smile,
How it could brighten a whole room.
You always knew just what to say,
making sunshine out of gloom.
You would always lend a helping hand
to show how much you care.
Whenever you were needed,
You were sure to be there.
You had a witty sense of humor,
and were wise beyond your years.
The definition of a gentleman,
turning the other cheek to jeers.
Your family meant the world to you,
and all your friends did, too.
I hope we really showed you
how much we all loved you.
When you lose someone you love,
they never truly do depart.
They just move into a special place
deep inside your heart.
It’s been a privilege to know you.
The impression that you’ve made
remains inside us all.
May your spirit never fade.
Your inner light was like a candle,
extending all about.
And your memory will live on strong,
like a candle’s scent remains long after it’s blown out.
(I wrote this poem for my friend Cameron Hess whose life was
tragically cut short in an accident two weeks ago in Albion.)
- By Alexandria Jasmin of Hilton
When will I know?
For those still searching . . . hands stretched wide
Like waves upon the ocean tide.
Engulfed by sunrise . . . orange with hue;
Such color should enlighten you.
Green and blue – the sea shows strength.
Forever contstant – waves that break.
The blazing sun has broken through –
Let sand and surf encircle you.
You need to linger to observe
How Mother Nature doth preserve;
Still running from what you cannot find
Around again . . . so many times.
The tide will wash all thoughts to sea
And then return; still teasing me.
My secrets drown and then submerge
In steady rhythm, lap the earth.
It lays them gently on the beach –
Then pulls them back . . . just out of reach.
Eventually the ocean’s calm
Will help me to bypass this storm
That rages deep into my soul
I crave the wisdom to be whole.
So much alike are sea and me,
Perhaps that’s what was meant to be.
The answers buried underneath;
Will call to me to be complete.
So when you’re feeling all alone
Can’t find a home to call your own,
Entrust the sea to find some peace
Let waves of kindness help release.
For tides of courage cleanse your mind
It’s only then that you may find
What I, my friend, have yet to touch . . .
I want to feel it . . . oh, so much!
And if you are the lucky one
Who calmly sits each rising sun
To watch the sunrise orange with hue
And wisdom has enlightened you,
Perhaps you’ll see me floating by
On rays of sunshine . . . azure sky!
Please take the time to walk off shore . . .
Don’t be afraid to open doors.
For I, my friend, keep drifting too –
Trusting the tides wash me to you.
- By Rachel Ann Hitt of Dansville
Feeding the Flock
One day, before the sun came up
I held my cozy coffee cup,
Gazing at a world of white,
For snow had fallen in the night.
In the gloom I strained to see
The birds that use our feeders three:
Confused, they tried to peck the snow
To reach the seeds buried below!
So out into the cold I trod
To brush the snow and fill the hod,
Even putting extra seed
Upon a board so al could feed.
It wasn’t long before the white
Was punctuated with colors bright:
Red cardinals, finches, mourning dove—
Titmouse, nuthatch—birds we love!
All day they came; our seed ran low,
They were so hungry in the snow.
Woodpeckers—some we seldom see—
Pecked at suet on the tree.
To supplement our dwindling seed
We put out rolls and bread for feed.
The blue jays came and took it all
Just as night began to fall.
As evening came, birds filled our trees
To shelter from the frigid breeze.
I prayed that they would al be warm,
Preparing for another storm.
I thought of how the Good Book’s words
Say God will care for all his birds;
Perhaps this day our hands He led
To give them all their “daily bread!”
- By Zona Shreves of Corfu
WHISPER OF THE WIND
The cold west wind whistles through the broken stalks of corn
Standing naked in the fields;
But I’m not cold even though the snow is,
I have your love to warm me.
With every breath the wind whispers your name in my ear,
And in every cloud I can see your face;
But I never fear losing sight of that;
I have your love to guide me.
When the night falls frozen over the last and fast escaping rays of the day;
But I’m not left lost with lack of light;
I have your love to lead me.
Waking to the wind as it whistles through the window
Of our cold and lonely room;
But I’m not leaving like the frightened frost;
I have your love to keep me.
- By Randall Callin of Fairport
To my daughter
Although a few weeks will pass, until the day I bring you home
I’d like to say I love you, in this, your very first poem.
Way back in June, just a twinkle in my eye,
It’s hard to believe, 9 months have passed
But I’ll give it a try.
My nights are spent wondering, how beautiful you will be,
More like me, or your mother? I just can’t wait to see.
This world is full of people, some good and some bad,
But I want you to know, you can always count on your Dad.
You will meet people who scare you, who have different points of view,
I hope they open your eyes and startle you, and make you think, too.
I hope you laugh and you cry, and try something new each passing day,
I hope you struggle, but in the end, find the words you need to say.
I hope you grow, make mistakes, and live a life that makes you proud,
I hope you get in trouble, get your heart broken,
and at times, be much too loud.
I hope you will find, what I am hoping for with my pen,
to live a life that you love, and if not, start all over again.
No matter what happens, if you are near or if you’re far,
you will always be my daughter; my love, my star.
So until the day comes, when I hold you so tight,
Sleep well little one, and dream big all night.
- By Nolan Fraver of Fairport
Old is what got me
a 25-centcup of coffee
and the government
a legal excuse to take away
more of the little
I already have.
Old is what gets me
a seat on the bus
and a five dollar movie
Old is getting me
dirty looks at the cash out
when it takes a tad longer
to find all the change.
Old makes it hard to find
when wrinkles and sags
dominate the picture
the wrinkles are earned
and the sags come
because gravity still works.
Old forces me to rethink
so I can learn
how to use
this stupid computer.
Old got me
a Diversity Fellowship
and at age 63, a Master’s Degree.
Old entitles me
to be the Nana
to a three-year-old
who pulls the “fur” out of my nose
and wants to know
why my white hair is now a shade of red
she insists is orange.
Old is a chance to know
the years ahead have limits
but the goals are real
and the book I’m writing
will certainly be out this year.
Old is a gift from a God
who thinks I still
have what it takes
to finish the work
we started in 1947.
My head says thirty-three;
my body begs to differ.
I will grow old and older still.
I don’t get to choose how long,
I get to choose the grow part;
I must always, always grow.
- By Carol DuPre’ of Spencerport
Red roses, crimson, dark and luscious like plums,
stand on my doorstep.
Their petals blaze starkly against
the blankness of blanketed snow.
Boldly curved cups,
like tall, tapered glasses
of the finest burgundy wine.
My cheeks smolder
at the sight.
I’ve been given pretty, pink roses, cheery
like those confectionary creations
and soft, smiling lips;
Yellow roses, painted
with liquid sunlight, bright and bursting,
the blush of sunset
deep within its wells;
Dusky salmon and the warmest coral,
harmonious like the colors on
Those had been my favorite.
But, red roses?
I have never been given so many.
And all the accompanying card says is:
“I hope you know…
The next ones will be white.”
- By Nina Quintero of Avon
See how softly the Gardener goes,
Studying gently the varying rows,
Pushing aside the greening shoots,
To test the firmness of the roots.
And see how long He takes to choose
Those He deems most fit to use—
Some weak, some strong, some young, some old,
The garden’s chaff, the garden’s gold.
Watch now. . . He bends from high above,
His hand caressing all in love,
And from the sunlit, ripened vine,
He chooses that I’d marked as mine.
And there, so confident He Stands,
My loved one gathered in His hands,
Knowing as only He can know,
The numbered places in the row.
Then soft as summer rain,
He smiles and eases all the pain,
For in His face this truth I spy:
The Gardener knows much more than I.
- By R. Dalton Rhodes of Brockport
Tapping the Maple
clicked their heels;
perhaps the leafless
wanted to be somewhere else,
did not want
to bleed out its soul
to fill an empty bucket.
The limbs extended
as though testing the direction
of the movement of air,
wanting to re-enter
the flow of life.
Weather was tenuous at best;
there was the possibility
of a final heavy snow,
and all that was amber
would want to remain hidden.
Then the winds fell hollow
we greeted the Maples in their quiet space.
The pounding of our spikes
awakened meaning in the forest;
the round faced tin bucket
leaned against the tree’s edge
and peered into the darkness.
A singular wind howled, then
gently brushed against
our light down jackets
In the distance we saw
the gathering of broken twigs
wanting to reassemble into one form.
Within the dissolving white,
we knew a path could be made
of a returning yellow sun;
we would find our way home.
- By Sandra J. Young of Pittsford
Ladies at Tea
Chit chat, red hats,
clotted cream, “imagine that!”
savory teas, pastel cake,
purple scarves, for pleasure’s sake,
linen napkin, fragrant scone,
china teacups (English bone),
tiny sandwich, soup du jour,
“pass the sweets”; “do have one more”,
ivory lace, pink floral spary,
secrets on midwinter day,
“did you know?”, “I hadn’t heard”,
“it’s a surprise”, “won’t say a word”,
silver service, antique spoons,
“a lovely time this afternoon!”
a final cuppa, dear old friends,
“Let’s make plans to meet again!”
Such sweet conviviality,
when ladies gather together for tea.
- By Roseanne Gilmartin Stiehler of Spencerport
Measuring Makes Haste
When it comes to watering plants,
I drown them
But not everyday
I forget to nourish the seedlings
Hurry! Change the water!
Don’t trim the stems too short
Is my vase big enough?
I’ll add more flowers
and when they blossom
I’ll starve them
and when they wilt
I’ll drown them
I am an overachiever
and an undertaker
- By Gabriella Glaski of Brockport
The full moon rises above the barn-turned-house
And hangs in the clear, starry sky
Casting slender tree-shadows on the snow of the woods.
Too much snow? Ah, no. Its loveliness far outweighs its inconveniences,
Especially in my woods.
Rocks peak through, dark patches on the quiet white quilt.
The brook in the little valley of my childhood seams the scene in two,
Prophet of springtime meltings and rushings
But tonight serene and sure.
And the tree-shadows, patterned stitchings with no design,
Criss-cross each other at every angle,
Wide trunk and slender twig, projected in twilight blues in this peaceful scene
In the light of the silver moon.
- By Margot Long of Honeoye Falls
Survivors of Last Evening’s Squalls
the morning’s bite and brilliance shines
exhale cools on contact, swirls
frozen points of blades remain –
survivors of last evening’s squalls
your eyes meet mine in shimmering splendor
hands by contact quickly warmed
a priceless pause in powdery track –
a breath between the redbird calls
never has an arch or apse
or buttress raised been like to these
cathedral trees, baptismal fields
forgiveness streaming through the walls
is all the depth of love defined
by quickened pulse and movie script?
or rather trust and years restored
by sunlight melting winter’s pall
- By Nathaniel E. Hawkins of Avon