400 Loma Dr
Forsyth, IL, 62535
United States

(217) 877-7270


Original Poetry


Written by Lonn Pressnall


Haiku II

An old cock pheasant
        down the
                high creek
Dignity restored.

Haiku I

Burnt orange sky

Fades to Black

First star no longer alone


Haiku IV

Overgrown twin morning doves

lie flat in the spruce nest

irises smile nearby.

Haiku V

Summer sun

Brown puppy dances under

Small white moth.

Death and Eulogy (for Linda before she left us)

Dreams which do not always

Carry you over troubled waters or

Stormy air...these images

Flashing from a timeless zone.

I must relinquish. O' yes,

Struggles as a salmon coming home.

But...letting go in a collective

Sense of unclasping the millions

Of little brittle fingers which

Clutch at my remaining sanity.

Breathing...Hatha...sun and moon...

rain and, yes, ...the stars!

To the Memory of David Foley

A gentle man of reason and wit
Surrounded by paper and books
A friendly, helpful fellow with
Fresh flower in his lapel.
To be defined and documented
As a real human being who
Could laugh and smile...smoke
A cigar and continue reading.

Threshold of Dreaming

Prenatal Ghosts murmur prayers
Heard by poets and madmen
While teetering on the threshold.

I felt as though I was sitting inside my skull
With my knees pressed against my chest
And as the many colored smoke rings
Drifted from me,
The breeze caught them.
That was the last I ever saw of those days.

O how my eyes strained to catch
The shell man's nimble fingers;
O how my eyes dazzled at the bright colored
O how the soap bubble prisms longed to be

All those days and more were mine when
Merlin ruled my senses.

And now.
Time swirls at me
as endless chains of solid objects
Hang like a chromosomic pattern
In  s  p  a  c  e.......
In constant slow motion.

                                                garbage cans

And all other things

Thus chaos reigned upon all those days.

There could be no more miracles.

So, I made all things, all events,
All people, all existence a miracle.....

Following a vaporous prayer over the Threshold of Dreaming.

Mother/Creator's Child of Grace

Libby Emi original artwork

There is a special time in art's creation when you must not
Stare into the yawning abyss of mother/creator
Indiscriminately criticize the newly born child/art.
Rather wisely be patient and stand
In awe of the wondrous event.
After a time, the miracle will crawl
And stand and walk and run and fall
To earth again.  You may then judge openly
The quality of its fall from grace.

            Go now and be silent.

Boundary Waters

After a rain
            tiny toads dot the campsite

on the canoe's bow
            a dragonfly lands
resting a long while

midday sun

            flat against a tree
a light green frog

beneath clear water
            red crayfish
pick walleye bones clean

long paddle across Moose Lake
a Styrofoam cup
             .......floats by

Robert Ingram Jr.: Man of the world

Golden throated notes soaring skyward baritone to tenor and back again.
Earthy dark nuance inflected and intoned with
Rich Italian mocha and sparkling champagne.
Standing center stage erect and proud bravely singing, acting,
Speaking in metered phrases:  A Man of the World.
Negro, African-American, Black and Beautiful... the learned man
Courteous, friendly, ready to share his love of theatre, music,
Black history in impeccable English , French, German, or Spanish.
At home with his plants, busy aquarium, and clutter of memorabilia,
Listening to jazz, cooking fried shrimp or baked chicken, hosting a
Cast party in a Japanese silken bathrobe laughing deeply at the story told.
Or in church albeit Roman Catholic, Protestant, or Unitarian-Universalist.
The honey-coated throat and silver-tongued diminishing chords
Arrest everyone in listening range and all who are so
Blessed arrive at the split second of dead quiet with singer's
Final note fading into sweet silence.. ....Fini