Poetry in April #4

Carolyn’s Online Magazine



Marcus, Carolyn’s 8-year-old grandson

January Jellybeans.

February Flowers.

March Madness.

April Academics.

Then comes merry May.

Jack likes June.

Jump in July

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh August

Super September

It’s Octopus’s October

November is neat

December not a dummy



A deep pan fryer

Left on the stove it caught fire

Oh, my goose is cooked.

The next poem will likely be in my novel. One character, Mary Googins des Isles Swett, is a 1790 to early 1800s Maine frontier resident who liked to write poetry. Thus the section of the book on her will include short poems.



The Mt. Desert peaks

Stretch beautifully skyward

Chain of protection.


Jane R. Lipsius, Carolyn’s sister

Keep this vigil with me love.

You understand I can’t last long

and all I want to say is

I love you

Can you feel me in your arms?

You’re holding my final breath tight inside me.

Protecting the breath that holds us together.

And I’m not afraid can you hear me?

I know you hear me

I can taste your tears

My whispers now a thought

Can you hear me?

The journey starts

you say sleep tight

don’t be afraid.

I hear you calling me

calling me

as you slowly disappear…



Walter J. Matesic, Beanery Writers Group

You bother me, in a strange way.

Not damaging, but the tears seem to flow.

And I recall all the tears

that were shed for you,

fell softly to the earth,

and were soaked up by the dry sand.



Julia Torockio, Beanery Writers Group

Life is what you make it. That’s what some people say.

Life is what you make it. Or is it?

Life has its ups and downs.

Life can be good or bad; sometimes happy, sometimes sad.

Sometimes we can choose what happens next in our lives, sometimes we can’t.

When we were younger, we didn’t always have choices on what happened in our lives, or to us;

yet sometimes we do have choices;

in fact, we usually do have choices.

When we are older and wiser we are supposed to choose to do the correct thing.

At least we are supposed to be wiser as we grow older.

Yet, still we don’t always choose so wisely.

Life is full of mistakes that we make:

although we usually pay the consequences for the mistakes that we make.

That is what life is all about!



Diana Reh Hunt, Beanery Writers Group

090807 IMG_3559E2On tattered wings,

the butterfly sings

as wanderlust calls from afar.

She gathers herself,

as if dust from a shelf

and sets sail

cast upon currents from Ishtar.


Joan Patterson, Beanery Writers Group


The field so bare shows nothing now.

What wonders might the earth conceal?

What magic touch could soon reveal

The growth of seed with sun and rain

And skill of man with careful plow?


The days go by and seed will know

The reasons why the sprouting grows

With rain of gentle flow

The gentle rain is best, you know—

Just enough and seeds will sprout

But not too much to wash away the row.


My watching mind asks day by day,

Will tiny root now grasp its way

Down through the earth and find such food

As leaf will need to pierce the ground,

And feel the light and air around?


It happens now, my waiting ends

Some tiny leaves, in even rows

Are seen to send,

A pattern flowing,

Out across the field.


Falling raindrops, shining light,

So fast the reaching, greening sight—

It seems the night must also share

The right to claim a credit there.

No wonder I must stop and stare.


The stalks now stand so straight and high

And spears of green point to the sky

While leaves wave at the passers by.

Closely marching lines of green

In close formation can be seen

Up the hill and through the hollow

’Til my eye no longer follows

This unending sight, it seems.


Green spears have turned to fronds somehow

And now a mist of russet glows

Above the patch of green below.

As I watch to see what’s forming,

Small ears against the stems are clinging,

Sink in golden sprouts cascading

From the topmost ends.


Harvest time is almost here

And now I can inspect an ear

Of what has filled my days somehow

With wonder at the forces now

Presenting what can only be

A miracle for me to see.


The ear still green

The silk now brown,

I slowly pull leaf layers down

And star to see the golden pearls,

Like glowing treasures of my world.


Colors now are white and gray and chill,

Green growing time is past, up on the hill,

But corn crib full, soon I see

Warming up the sky for me

Through the cold and blowing air,

A vault of corn now gleaming there.


About carolyncholland

In several if my nine lives I have been a medical lab technician and a human service worker specializing in child day care, adoptions and family abuse. Currently I am a photo/journalist/writer working on a novel and a short story. My general writings can be viewed at www.carolyncholland.wordpress.com. My novel site is www.intertwinedlove.wordpress.com.
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3 Responses to Poetry in April #4

  1. Great poems – and Marcus’ is one of my favorites.


  2. merry101 says:

    The butterfly effect… even in poetry. 🙂


  3. Pingback: Poetry in April #5: A Fireworks Finale of Poetry | Carolyn's Online Magazine

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