Inglis House Poetry Workshop

Inglis House Poets
Home Inglis House Poets Poetry & Disability Conference Annual Contest 2006 Contest Winners 2005 Contest Winners Links	Steve Parker Dana Hirsch Stuart Sanderson Laura Emerson Gina Minter Denise March Mary Tisera Yvette Green INGLIS HOUSE POETS Steve Parker Muse the smoky light coming through the window warming somehow even in this time of cold and wind thoughts race back to childhood to autumn days when I didn’t notice the cold because the light of my father’s smile warmed me quiet places filled with leaves, water and the smell of that particular smoke that comes from burning leaves soothing in its way like a lullaby of the woodlands and times before everything became so serious and vital a tinge of sadness and yet just a tinge because all things change that which doesn’t change dies and the strongest things, the eternal things are as unchangeable as the voice of God * * * Sacred Dogs Splendid specimens striding before me Moving with the grace of four-legged dancers Their bodies are thin-legged but powerful You can see in the eyes of some of them The barely restrained power of an ancient athlete To whom running is more than a job: It is a joy and a way of life. I think about their long history with us In battle and peace, they have been there Sometimes I swear I feel The ancient recognition of an unseen friend And I wonder does my body and my soul Respond to them because of ancient racial memory Or am I merely enamored of these graceful giants Whose movements tell us more than words can About a freedom and love for life That few humans will ever know. * The Shot Heard Round the Basement When I was about four years old, my father got my brother and I a pair of toy canons. They were beautiful little canons, gray, emblazoned with the stars and bars on the side. Unbeknownst to me, my father, ever the jokester extraordinaire, had put a firecracker in my brother's canon. Well, I was sitting there quietly playing with my canon when I heard this BOOM! from behind me and the cannonball sailed across the room, hitting the bottom of the stairs. Needless to say, being a slightly excitable person, this scared the freaking bejesus out of me. My father and brother both laughing uproariously. I gave them a dirty look, but truth to tell, it was one of the most exciting Christmases I've ever had. Return to Top Dana Hirsch** Dana Hirsch is a 63 year old native Philadelphian who was born with cerbral palsy. She has writing poetry andd short stories since 1974. Her work has appeared in Creative Juices, Poets Fantasy, Way Station, and Quasimodo's Eyes. Ms. Hirsh is a resident of Inglis House and is one of the founders of the Poetry Workshop. She has two chapbooks of poetry. The Walls The walls were empty as was the home Everyone had to go their way. The walls had aged as had the family So much noise, som any dinners, so much laughter, So many arguments. The wall had known of these: The harsh words spoken and not forgiven, The sorrow for these deeds Was unspoken by the people involved. The pictures old and torn were taken for years The walls knew of these And were grateful to have exhibited them, The were of use then, Not cold, empty and alone. * I Respectfully Conclude** Who am I To say when Anyone should Write a poem? I haven’t that right. I cannot speak About the paths Avenues, streets One should travel Nor should I tread On your thoughts Or deeds. I have spoken and penned mine, Within the pages Of this book. * * * I threw it to the floor Knowing its emptiness Its lack of feeling or emotion I know that words should not be wasted They can’t be wasted if I don’t know where they are I lay in bed late into darkness The night not caring of activity and voices Hurling their invasion at me Sweltering heat and blistering sharp ropes of humidity Choked summer’s warmth and throaty breezes Ice tempered wind and driving storms of rain invaded And took lives, homes and good, smashing, erasing paths I retrieved the paper from the floor and found the words * Return to Top Stuart Sanderson Stuart Sanderson is an Inglis House resident and one of the original members of the Poetry Workhsop. His poem "Maddening" was a winner in the 2001 Triton Poetry Contest. His essay, "You've Got To Live" which chronicle is life with cerebral palsy has been used by PAACE and Inglis House for education on disability. Mr. Sanderson's work has appeared in a number of small poetry magazines. Founders Hall** I come to you for some solitude, At the end of a busy day. Over the years, you have given me Happiness and sorrow. Events, With graduations and memorials With happy occasions Birthday parties, dances, coffee clubs and many more activities. You have big, clear eyes to the outside world: snow rain wind, You have given me a front row seat all the time. I have seen many new years go out and many come in, With Dick Clark leading the count down to midnight On big screen television. While sitting in your hall I sometimes lose my surroundings And replace them with sweet memories of the past. As I enter the hall way to go home I tell myself: I will be back tomorrow. * * * A Mixed Blessing The sun is streaming downward in my room, it is late December. Christmas is a few days away; the holiday music is playing in the hallway. Cheer is in air and joy to the world. I turn on my television to CNN, they are covering the wounded soldiers coming back from Mosul Iraq. It was a bomb that blew up in their cafeteria. One by one the stretchers started to come from the plane to the hospital buses and awaiting ambulances. Then my heart began to swell up with sadness, as the soldiers were coming down with IV tubes and bandages attached to their bodies. I have been disabled for my entire life, some of those kids are less than half of my age: They have just started with their lives: but now, they are facing a life time having disabilities. I am sitting in my own wheelchair: all warm and comfortable. Who is more lucky? Silent Night is now playing in the hall. ("A Mixed Blessing" was recently the subject of short film by the The Disciples of Art, an indpendent film company.) * * * To Marie I look up to the night sky There is a new star called Marie. It is bright with happiness. The star will guide and comfort you whenever you want for the rest of your days on earth. So look up to the night's sky. Marie will be there waiting to help you. Don't feel sorry for Marie, be happy for her. She will be there for you forever. Return to Top Laura Emerson Simi Snow Sitting in the front row in a conference room at Temple University surrounded by people from all walks of life disabled and able-bodied alike, gathering to hear this woman from Manhattan speak, I take a drink of water and marvel at the snow squall we’ve just come through outside. Suddenly, my heart races, then stills, as the snow draws its whitish gray veil aside for now I know who this woman is – after all this time - I know for certain and I'm elated that I recognize her. Today, she has come through the snow to discuss her passion for the arts and to encourage others to use them as a vehicle for self-expression, but long ago I watched her empower others in a different way. Her voice had been harsh and unyielding that day, challenging disabled people to realize that they themselves are in fact not set apart from humanity as society would have us believe, but instead fully included within it. I was much younger then and had not understood that it was not only her job, but what she firmly believed. I hesitate to speak as I remember the hurt I felt when she rejected my confusion, but then I look at her and realize she doesn’t even remember. I’m older now. I understand more. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter now. What matters is that she is here and that I know. * * * The Middle Road Written with loving respect and support For Debby Duncan I watch fireflies in the garden at twilight their abdomens pulsating like beacons reminding me to rely on my faith in times of darkness. Taking the Middle Road is often lonely, but I know with certainty that it is the right thing to do. While people’s anger and discontentment may very well be justified I myself know full well that screaming and knocking down doors will not bring about resolution only genuine mediation can accomplish that. The Middle Road is often a very lonely place to travel, but I refuse to change my mind. Alone in my bed I watch lightning illuminate the room and hear thunder come charging upon its heels. My mind is as active as the storm outside. Why is it that people choose to engage in contempt and conflict? Age old questions perhaps with no real answers. Outside, the storm moves away and my mind slowly quiets as I regain my foot-hold upon The Rock. My faith is shaken, but not shattered. I realize that because I I have chosen the right path I now have the strength to follow The Middle Road. Return to Top Gina Minter One Special Christmas I lived in a second floor apartment In my own house one Christmas I had the vision of being in a fairy land As I looked upon my christmas tree. We had taken a tree that my father sold And decorated it with milkweed pods. Amongst the greenery of blue spruce Shined milkweed, it was sprinkled on each branch Between twinkling lights. The tree sat against a bay window. I felt as if it were make believe. I felt close to God And the true meainging of Christmas. * * * Fog at loose ends - everything topsy-turvey, mixed-up, confused nothing clear or precise everything hanging far away fog... hurt...hazy feels like one is on a cliff in the fog ready to drop off Return to Top Denise March Mom My mom is very witty And she loves clean jokes. She sings old fashioned songs so sweet She likes to give away things to people Like books, wheelchairs. She likes to make pies, pumpkin and apple She used to bake a lot At least she used too Now that she’s older She likes being around her cat And belongs to a club to help her lose weight. I think she’s a really funny person myself She keeps me laughing all the time. She volunteers her kids for everything. I think she’s a neat person: She took me in when she didn’t have to And already had a full family. * * * The Leaf One day the school bus dropped me off in front of my house. which is called the White House. It’s not the official one but it was white. There was a tree beside the bus. Just then a gust of wind came as Amy opened the door. One leaf landed on the dashboard. Maybe it was the fact these were students with special needs but Freddie the leaf brought joy to the students. Yes, the leaf was given a name. The next day the students didn’t have any sickness. Every day someone on my bus had a seizure or breathing problem except when Freddie came to visit. We were so happy. Return to Top Mary Tisera portrait of an artist pouty lips and piercing eyes so much concentration for one so young your wispy hair framing your brow like a sungod i look at you and see you in a fresh light so much strength and virility it can't be possible cause just yesterday i was tickling your feet and putting you to my swollen breast for our mutual sustainence * Disconnected bells ringing tv’s static noise permeate my ear-drums laughing voices discuss trivial matters football, holiday tales cable’s on again— no, back to static none of it matters inside the mind— stillness thoughts of you lost, fallen out of perception forgotten smells, tastes now there’s nothing, nothing to hold onto soft words secret exchanges gone—disconnected forever forever * pacified i wake eyes filled with mixtures of sleepies and tears it's uncomfortable but only for a moment soon the light-duty nurse arrives with breakfast my usual-grits and coffee she is pleasant, smells nice orange blossoms and morning dew i wait back pain combines with impatience i'm annoyed but only for a moment my regular makes her entrance gets out my things, begins her routine she's in a good mood, talkative dollar-store hoops sparkle in the sunshine i lay my strap lumpy in all the wrong places it's unbearable but only for a moment another nurse comes bringing with her the hoyer they rope me in, plop me in my chair she stays to help and gossip with my care-giver their laughter filling and welcome i ponder the why of life the importance of little things like grits and laughter i'm in awe of the universe but only for a moment... More poetry by Mary Tisera can be seen on Mary's Poetry Website. Return to Top Yvette Green Favor a Return OOPS!! Something dropped Before I can whip out my grabber A sympathetic backside I see Picking up something dropped Kind eyes wanting me to realize How happy am I that they happened along I am grateful don’t get me wrong I say thank you Cause it looks to me like you need to hear it Have I become your good deed for the day? Dropping has become A part of my life now Retrieval is an art Will I ever pick up things for you? Open a door Lead you across the street Say ‘you’re welcome’, Instead of ‘thank you’ All the time? I would want to return a favor Instead of receiving Let me favor a return. My choice What about ‘you’re welcome’ If I cheer you up Fuss you out for being stupid Tell you your wife is cheating Compliment you Don’t stop helping me I need you as much as you need me But please understand When I have to be fed by Pulled up in my chair by Dressed every morning by Put to bed at night by Have my bottom changed by YOU All these things are normal for ME * * * Never Too Grown At thirteen, I am cringing, Knowing it would come, Feeling shameful, ears ringing In front of others, feeling dumb Three words that my mother Would so pleasantly utter When she would present me to others As “my little baby.” At 25 years of age Had my own place, job and car Felt my life had entered another stage I had progressed pretty far Until my Mom got elected Mother of the Year. We were all very proud of her, grinning from ear to ear When she got up to introduce us, Seven kids to be exact, She said these are my big babies, Jay, Clara, and Julie Roy, Amos, Yvonne and my little baby Yvette! As everyone chuckled good naturedly I half-heartedly joined in, Once again feeling thirteen Cringed inwardly as I always did. When I turned 38 my dear mother took ill, Her sickness picked and picked at her But it never took her will Remembering became hard for her Her mind slowly slipped away She couldn’t remember her kids’ names So all of us became to her,’my little baby’ It’s been a number of years Since her voice has been hushed in death. As I sit here blinking back tears What I wouldn’t give, even some of my own breath Just to hear her say ‘my little baby’ once more and again. Return to Top

INGLIS HOUSE POETS