Mary Bannister

Fallen needles soften passage into the forest.

Precise footsteps beckon her to him,
Like a portrait of symmetry in motion.
A kaleidoscope discloses awe-inspiring beauty,
As sunlight freckles tease fluttery fronds,
And stillborn dew splashes spongy mounded moss.
The green velvet becomes denser
With miniature outdoor terrariums,
Everywhere you look.
A grand opening welcomes a multiplicity of fauna,
Bustling about in the spectacle of day,
Urgently amassing essential ingredients,
For survival and sanctuary.

And in the distance a soothing sound-
A babbling brook,
An incessant talker,
Trekking with his daytime comrade-
The dogged sun,
Laughing with his pal-
The luminous moon,
An egotistical lover who can’t keep,
His vanity in check,
As time and time again he returns,
To glean his wondrous reflection,
In the crystal, clear, midnight waters.

And amidst this beauty,
A kiss is shared between her and him.
Not just any kiss,
For this is not just any place.
They have been transported
To a chamber of serenity
Where birds’ songs thankfully know,
No limit to jubilation and pleasure.
The kiss has been fueled by unspeakable splendor,
Christened with peace and appreciation,
Escalating and deepening the passion,
Between her and him.
A matchless kiss-

Elizabeth Baltaro

It was not as scary as we had imagined,
when we opened the metal crypt
that cradled our body, our cadaver.
The first thing I noticed were bright pink nails.
Without stories, clothing, hair, nor jewelry,
the meager remains of a lifetime
were painted on her fingers.

Nail polish, tattoos, or signs of treatments,
age and a brief cause of death -
these facts were surprisingly enough
to allow us this modern rite of passage.
So we claimed this body as our teacher,
probed its layers and examined its depths
an extraordinary and singular journey.

We were all fearful surgeon-infants,
stumbling in our movements,
not wanting to cut too deeply or tear.
Yet, our body waited day by day,
asymmetrically strewn in plastic case,
with head in a translucent bag,
as we got to know this person.

We learned more about this body
than any other we will ever know.
Deep images of this person continue
to churn in our minds.
These pictures make us wonder
about other bodies,
especially our own.

The various textures on a canvas,
heart muscles like tree branches
overlapping in a dense forest.
Fibrous white connective tissue,
spurning sponginess of lungs,
red fading into luminescent tendons,
sweeping in symphony to the bones.

We were filled with desire,
to examine new paths, to see everything,
visiting an untouched wilderness,
with curious formations, trails,
a more interesting variation
than any we had seen or imagined,
our own medical odyssey of learning and maturation.

Sometimes, I took a moment to recognize
we were a room full of humans
dissecting our own species
amidst automatic lights and dispensers,
loud conversations, laughter and electric saws,
shrouded in sharp scent -
indecipherable.

Yet, with my group and cadaver,
our work was lucid.
This master guide of differentiation,
the inside of the human body in death,
had brought me closer to our life force -
the force that once animated this person, and drives us all,
with renewing potential.

I’ve come to realize
that trauma changes all.

Nothing
from the past or present
seems the same, and the future
becomes
a dark place
full of anguish,
fear, and depression.

It becomes important
for the soul to cling to
something beautiful,
something tangible,
something in the now.

It reaches
for the closest human
whose touch recognizes
its struggle, its fear, its pain:
the empath who heals the breach.

To play a small candle
on a moonless night,
a voice of light
among the politics of black;
to be the instrument
of what wants to sing,
and not attracted to debris
and ruin; to stand up
for something falling down
the page, the significance
of the brief poetic moment-

how does this differ
from those dressed to kill
in fashionable cliches,
except to say what they can never say;
to let the heart of language
have its way, fire’s tongue
in the candle’s end,
of what you’ve loved,
and how you’ve been.

I’ll always be her little girl,
giggling in her lap,
protesting a nap . . .

holding her hand tight,
trying to make things right
perfect in her eyes
who worries and who cries.

I’ll always be her little girl,
who loves her forever,
who won’t forget her ever!

I’ve wandered roads to every land
I’ve worn a face of doubt
it weighs like sin,
it holds me in,
I search for some way out
I came upon a chest of masks
a peddler sat beside it,
“Try one please,
your pain will ease
if, Sire, you choose to hide it.”
I touched each mask
to feel its craft and puzzled,
asked him plain,
“Be this some ruse,
how does one choose
when all look quite the same?”
“Try each in turn to know their worth,
mere sight ‘twill not reveal.
Try Cherub’s glee, brash victory,
their gift is what you feel.”
I tried them all with ardent heart.
Each face dance grew quite dear,
in passing time, each felt sublime
yet none could quell my fear.
I gave sigh in chagrined disbelief
“Old man, be this my fate?”
“Fear such as yours, will stay its course,
but you need a mask of hate.”
“This last one here,
I’ve saved for you,
you’ve but to put it on.

. . . misunderstood! Well, perhaps that is as it should be. One of the more likely complaints or misconceptions surrounds works of modern poetry.

“This stuff can’t be poetry. Poems have to rhyme.” My eighth graders insist on this well-known fact to the bitter end. I would like to offer a clarification on the matter, but only, of course, with the plea that no one assume my discussion to be complete. No view of “what poetry is” can ever be complete.

One important distinction within the world of poems is narrative vs. imagery. This separation might also be seen in rough terms as traditional vs. modern poetry. Most of us, when asked to define poetry, think of rhyming and predictable patterns of rhythm. The limerick is an example of both. This is typical of the narrative form. Modern poetry, while having some rhyme and repeating rhythm, doesn’t allow either to drive it. Often, no rhyme is present, or the rhythm is difficult to discern. Let us then look closer at these two forms.

The narrative tells a story. It moves the reader through time. The narrative is an ancient form and predates the written word. Its descendants amount to everything from epic ballads, nursery rhymes, mnemonics (those cute little memory joggers) to 99.9% of song lyrics. The narrative found its place in our ancestors’ lives because those charged with keeping track of cultural records found it easier to remember information that rhymed and had a specific number of beats in its construction.

The narrative form, then, carries one across time. It is the telling of a story. Imagery, on the other hand, tries to take a slice of time, freeze it, and then “paint the picture.” The narrative is ancient, and imagery is the bent of the modern poet. Understand, the two forms are anything but mutually exclusive. Narrative forms have imagery, and vice versa. The differentiation is one of primary purpose.

Imagery can be “painted” with the use of rhyme. But just as likely, if not more so, it is not. Even less likely is the use of a predictable pattern of rhythm. This, however, in no way lets the modern poet “off the hook” in terms of rhythm. All poetry has some element of “flow” to it. This allows comfort on the reader’s part. We demand this in sports, movies, art, and so it is with poetry, too. It is just the case that rhythm might not be as readily evident in some modern works.

So, how does one “paint” imagery? One means is to “freeze” in one’s mind an event or scene. The poem is then a description of this frozen moment. All senses are available to play with, as are emotions. For example, what does anger “look” like? The poet’s task is then to engage the senses and emotions through words that create visions.

Use of imagery does not preclude telling a story. Any story can be enhanced by the use of imagery. The modern poet would probably view the story as a vehicle for the series of images created in the telling. As readers, we tend to “freeze” scenes from a story anyway. So even the narrative, in the hands of the modern poet, would tend to be a sequence of vividly frozen pictures.

Lighthouse

(Elizabeth Christensen is a second grade student at Catlin Elementary School in Omaha, NE .)

If I lived in a lighthouse,
I’d stay there day and night.
If I lived in a lighthouse,
My lights would be burning bright.
If I lived in a lighthouse,
I’d have a bell that would ring.
If I lived in a lighthouse,

My bell would always ding.

I am an Indian with long brown hair and brown eyes.
I am eleven years old.
I am Santee Sioux and Lower Brule Sioux.
My family on my mother’s side is always putting up “sweats.”
A sweat lodge is a hut with heated rocks inside.
It is very hot, and the rocks get hotter
when the Medicine Man pours water on them.
When you are in the sweat lodge,
you sing songs even though it is very hot.
Whoever wants to pray can do so,
but everyone has to be quiet.
No one can wear jewelry.
During a sweat,
there are three rounds.
In each round, we yell
(“All My Relatives”),
and the door man opens the door.
Then we go onto other rounds
as we shake everyone’s hand.
Ceremonies are put on when you need help
or want an Indian name.
My mother put on a ceremony
for us all to get an Indian name.
I’ll just write about mine.
It was really dark in the room.
No light can come through,
and many people were inside.
The Medicine Man sat in the corner,
and we sang.
Many children fell asleep.
As I slept, my step-dad had
to stand me up in the dark.
When I stood up,
the spirits were doctoring me with gourds,
and after it was done,
they told me my Indian name
(“Singing Woman”).
This year, my mother and other relatives
danced at the Sun Dance for three days
and nights without food or water.
On the last day, we had a large feast.
It was fun. I love my culture.
It is so cool.

Her name was Emily, such a beautiful name for someone who only got to live for 104 days. It’s hard to believe that Emily, my only sister, never got to meet me, and I never got to meet her.

I was a little over one year old when she was born. I have vague memories of my mom and dad dropping me off at the babysitter’s while they went somewhere for the entire day. However, I didn’t know where they went.

Emily was born premature. She was born three months early, and her body hadn’t fully developed yet. Her kidneys were dying, and the doctors knew that she wasn’t going to make it. I sometimes get kidney infections. When I do get them, I think of her. Even though they can be painful, they remind me of my sister.

All I have is pictures. Even though I have looked at them many times, I start crying when I see her lying in the incubator helpless and alone. Taped to her incubator were pink and white hearts, pictures of me, my mom, and my dad. On top sat a stuffed turtle, which played the song “It’s a Small World.” Right next to the turtle was a pretty, pink and white doll, which I now have.

I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister, especially because Emily would be in the seventh grade right now. We could share secrets, feelings, and dreams. We could stay up late talking about our problems. I could help her with homework and give her advice. Having a sister would be great. At least, it would be better than having two brothers.

Emily is remembered in many ways. When she died, our insurance gave us a sum of money. With that money, we bought a beautiful grandfather clock, which stands majestically in the corner of our dining room.

At our church in Valley, there is a gold plate on the wall that dedicates the carillon to her. Also, with the insurance money, we purchased a piano and donated it to the church. Above the keys is another gold plate with the words, “In Loving Memory of Emily Ann Loftis” engraved on it.

My mom plays that piano every Sunday at church. Finally, there is her grave that my family and I visit at least once a year. The words “Our Little Angel” are engraved on her headstone. It doesn’t matter if I’m at church listening to the bells ring, at home listening to our grandfather clock chime, or standing in front of her grave at the Waterloo cemetery, I think of her always.

Emily, I know that we will be together someday, but until then I want you to know that even though you are gone from our lives, you are not forgotten.

Trisha
6th grade artist
Friend of Kim
Daughter of Winona
Sister of Joe
Lover of kittens, cats, and shopping
Who feels excited, sad, yet happy
Who fears spiders, my friend’s dog
and homework
Who would like to see my dog “B. B”
Resident of MY desk, MY class, MY school, and MY world!
Spotted Calf

Being a big sister is easy.
Being depended upon is not.
There are a lot of things that I have to do,
like take care of my siblings.
They love me, and I love them.
I really care about them,
so I am responsible for most of their problems.
This is what being a big sister is all about.

I care for the sun in my sky,
knowing the sunlight will never die.
I’m grateful for the dark, black night,
knowing in the morning there will always be light.
I look forward to what ever is tomorrow,
the new beginning it brings,
there’s no need to feel sorrow.
Because I care for tomorrow and the day after that,
I just wish everyone could be and think like that.