Vol. V

Summer 2009   

Poetry written by Cheltenham Township Adult School Workshop Participants      

poems
In this issue
 

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Edited by Kristine Grow &

Sandee Mandel

For more information about
 writing workshops offered by
the Cheltenham Township Adult School, contact:

Cheltenham Township Adult School
1414 Panther Road
Wyncote, PA 19095
Phone: 215-887-1720

 

Norman Lampert 

Identity

I am a pen;

            ever filled with a bitter salt ink

                        which records a tale as easily on cheek as on paper.

The ink has much to say.

It would write endlessly if it could;

            laying down word after word and line after line

                        as it searches for a truth which it sees only dimly;

                                    but which weighs heavily on it all the same.

Perhaps it is driven by memories of battles fought long ago,

            with itself and with others;

                        battles almost forgotten;

                                    but not yet either lost or won.

I am cold and hollow. It is the ink which remembers;

            and then it must truly flow,

                        lest in its heat it burn through,

                                    searing through both pen and any who would hold it,

                                                though there are few who would dare to do so.

It is the ink which writes;

            forming words with its own flesh while I read;

                        hoping to understand;

                                    wondering who I am.

 

 

lost and found

 

many were the times we fought

when all endeavour came to naught;

for battles fought and battles won,

when the War is just begun,

are yet the fields which we have lost

when at last we count the cost

of broken lives and wretched souls

who’ve gained new fears and lost their goals

and who no longer greet the Day

with smiles, hopes or hearts at play,

but dread the Night and what it brings,

the Terror and those unnamed Things

which stalk the memories and dreams

and feed the Nightmares and the streams

of flowing tears and wracking sobs

and wailing in the mind which robs

us of our Future and our Past,

destroys our Selves until at last

there’s nothing left of who we are

or who we used to be…

boiling blackness burning dark

to sear the eyes and singe the heart

and frozen flames to char the hands

with which we held our lives…

one more battle left to fight,

to claw away the cloying Night

and struggle upward toward the Light

and Warmth of human Care;

with tired hands and talon’d nails

and aching arms a Spirit flails

to raise itself against the gales

of Horror and Despair

while straining on the uphill slope

to shield a spark of reborn Hope,

and try with fading strength to cope

with things it couldn’t bear

to dream of ere the brightening Day

melted mists and lit the way

to a place where Life held sway

and blossomed in the air;

once more to face the Morning Sun

with head unbowed, the Conflict done,

and inner Peace at last is won;

a Soul again, repair'd.

 

"Never be afraid to sit awhile and think."

Lorraine Hansberry

 

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