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One of our favorite artists is Paula Collins. Paula is a native to Central Illinois. She and her husband, WmS, are long time members of Poets & Writers Literary Forum. Paula has two chapbooks in print, titled ‘Poets, Pagans & Other Playmates’ and 'Shadow'. From time to time, you may catch her work on Writers Round Table, in Penchant, or Prism Galliard. Paula has two children and three grand children. She comes from a large Irish family. Along with crafting words, Paula enjoys reading, cooking, knitting and crochet. We hope you enjoy her poetry as much as we do.
Family GatheringI miss the family gatherings. The Elders of our Irish clan Seated at the round oak table. The Ancestors, alive in Spirit, Though absent from the room. I remember the comradary Of cousins playing, Scrambling for a look At Grandma’s ragged Sears Roebuck catalog. Crumpled pages, full of dreams, Identified by red crayon circles. A bond, born of Blood, A genetic memory of generations past. The hour grows late. The conversation turns to Ireland. Great Granddad Michael’s anguish As he makes a choice. He leaves his volatile homeland, Boards a ship bound for Ellis Island. Wife Mary, with child in hand, Follows two years later. To the captains surprise, Mary speaks English, Learned in domestic service To pay passage. Skill as translator earns them extra food. They make adjustment to the Rigorous restrictions Which immigrants endure. In the dark hours, Michael and Mary make the crossing, Back in time, To the round oak table, To the gathering of Clan Hanahan
psc 07/18/2000
Dark LordWrap me in your cloak of Night. Hide your passion from the light. Burn my breast with cold, stone eyes. Scorch the land between my thighs. Teeth that mark my neck and throat, Claws that rake my back and coat. Race through time, through forest deep. Stir my heart and steal my sleep. Take me over, take me through To the Ancient Lands with you. Wrap me in your cloak of Night. Dark Lord, keep me from the light.
psc
Crazy Stick ManI saw him again today. A bearded man with cami hat And Army surplus jacket. Walking. Walking. Walking where most men wouldn't, Most men couldn't. Some days walking briskly With sticks tucked neatly under his arm. Other days at a slower pace, Sticks occasionally brushing the ground For brief support. Then there are the days When his faithful sticks Bear both his weight And that of the world. I pass him as I drive to work. I watch him out the window of my building. Walking. Walking. A friend of mine named him Crazy Stick Man, With Seinfeldian affection, not irreverance. I have come to depend on him. He reassures me things keep going. In sunshine and in shadows, Warm summer days and crisp fall mornings, I watch for Crazy Stick Man. On one particular afternoon, As I struggled with the day, And packages I carried, I happened to see him Looking back at me through a glass door. His eyes sparkled in his pleasant face. He gave me a quick salute And generous smile, Then went on walking, Walking. In the magic of that moment My day was better, my load lighter, And everything was just okay. So when you see a bearded man In cami hat and army surplus jacket, Sticks tucked neatly under his arm, Walking, Offer him a wave and smile. Life keeps going and it's fine.
psd 02/26/99
AkashaDance in the Moonlight. Brandish your sword. Call on the Lady. Call on the Lord Guardian of the Watchtower. Elements are King. Gather at the Witching hour In your magic ring. Stand before the altar, Calling down the Moon. Honor Ancient forces. Read the Sacred Rune. Hold your celebration In the dark of night. As you perform your rituals, I am the Rite.
psc 11/16/98
AileenI have my Mothers toes, And backs of arms and elbows. My forehead’s not as high, But hair much like hers, With very little gray, just at the temples. At eight, or ten, I was aghast As well as caught with fascination By the purple sunburst spider veins That graced the back of her left knee. Or was it right? As I glance down the violet blue Road map that is my own leg, My memory is quite clear. She wore a red wool jacket And gray plaid pleated skirt, With silk scarf at her throat. Maybe the coat was gray And skirt, red plaid….. Yes, I remember clear as yesterday. She said to never wear white shoes After Labor Day, And always, always “Act just like a lady”. I can’t say that I always have, But can say that I always should. She taught me how to sing and dance, And cook and sew. In my youth, I looked for what I wanted her to be. Now in my fifties, I see her as she was. And gratefully, I see her every morning in my mirror.
psc 02/10/02
Mist of Mornin'I'll tell you, it's what it was. The greenest green fields, That were gently kissed By the mornings sweet rain, And spread out before my eyes, it were, And then beyond my imagination. A window, is what it was, Looking back through the ages of the time, From long before. There it was, That fair and shining Warriors Man the mighty walls of the Clan dun, Elevated in the Sun, Shrouded in the mist. Ever watchful. Ever waiting. Forever, and ever. White armed women Tend the healing of wounds, Won in yesterday's glorious frey. A fair Son of Erin betrays no grimace, As it is, that his shoulder is cleansed. His nurse, with white brow And flame in hair, Forgiven, with a smile and wink. He stands, to stir the Fire From after the black of night With his father's shillelagh. A spark comes rising From the red glowing embers. And it's the bells ringing, Over the dark distance That draws his attention back, To the hallowed walls high, To the frey at hand. And it is that he will rightly plant himself Atop the fortress. To protect the Land. Today. Throughout time.
psc/andfriend 5/16/2000
Family TraditionsTen cents an hour, Ten hours a day, Seven days a week. Grandma made good money At supervisor’s pay. Perks of the job, Zippers, Remnants and ribbons, Snaps, and hook and eyes, Priced by the pound.
Seventy-five cents an hour, Ten hours a day, Six days a week. Mother did piece work on the line. Perks of the job, Zippers for a nickel, Remnants and ribbons, Snaps, and hook and eyes, Priced by the pound.
Three dollars sixty cents an hour, Eight hours a day, Five days a week, Time and a half over forty. A daughter’s wage On a Union line. Perks of the job, Zippers for a quarter, Remnants and ribbons, Snaps, and hook and eyes, Priced by the pound. Family Traditions.
Psc 06/22/02 )
It's My JoeGrandma, I am so afraid, I don't know what to do. The first thing that I thought of Was to come and talk with you. I don't think I can say good-bye. I cannot let him go. So far, it's just been someone else, But now, Gram, it's my Joe. Grandma's smile was touched with sadness, As she rocked back in her chair. The sorrow in her wise old eyes Told me that she'd been there. "My Daddy died in World War L Leavin' Ma and me behind. My Ben came back from World War II, But it never left his mind. Your Father lost his leg in Nam, Your Uncle Pete, he died. I thought that I'd run out of tears, But still, I cried and cried. Cousin Danny, he served in the Gulf. He made it home okay. Your Joe, he'll answer duty's call, And you, you'll wait, and pray. Sweet Baby Girl, it's just begun, So don't you pine and fret. It's only your first War, my child. Trust me, you aren't done yet.
Psc 08/14/03
The StandI have never championed a controversial cause. I have never saluted an unpopular flag. I have never put everything on the line for a friend, When it meant personal risk. I have never questioned the opinions And traditions I've been given. I have never chosen life over complacency. All I take with me in this life Is my heart, and my soul. How can I survive, If I sacrifice pieces of my mind On someone else's altar?
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