Name
Name

400 Loma Dr
Forsyth, IL, 62535
United States

(217) 877-7270

Poetry

Original Poetry

 

Written by Lonn Pressnall

 

Haiku II

An old cock pheasant
tumbles
        down the
                high creek
                        bank...
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
Scarves;
O how the soap bubble prisms longed to be
Understood.


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.


refrigerators
            televisions
                        teapots
                                    automobiles
                                                garbage cans
                                                            matchbooks
                                                Telephone
                                    cabbages


And all other things
STOOD STARKLY BEFORE MY EYES.


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
                        and
Indiscriminately criticize the newly born child/art.
                        But
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