In recent years, the Men’s and Women’s Book Clubs have been invited annually to the Lake Travis home of Rambie and Fran Briggs for lunch and poetry readings. They provide scenery, the main course and beverages, and the members bring additional dishes. The members bring poetry to read aloud, often their own works. It has become a high point of our literary year. Below are some of the member poems that were presented in 2014. Also are included the sources of copyrighted poems that were read. Also included are poems read in 2018; twenty-four people participated.

God is Sitting in a Room

God is sitting in a room-
windowless, no door.
He doesn’t know how he got there.
He is slightly concerned,
but still feels powerful with possibilities.
Light somehow seems to wax, wane,
and time passes slowly,
or moves at breakneck speed;
he can’t be sure.

God is bored.
Distracted, drumming his fingers on a makeshift worktable
of leftover quarks and dark matter,
he creates sparks that ignite new universes
that begin roiling around him
even as other universes he long ago experimented with
dissolve and die to shred the fabric of space
into ribbons of disjointed time
that collect around his feet,
like shavings on the floor of a carpenter’s shop.

God is not sitting in a room.
The room is empty,
and only a faint echo of uncertainty
still drifts about.
Of course, God could have just
stepped out for a moment,
but it is possible that,
like an original Houdini,
he has simply disappeared.

William Briggs


Early morning shadows are slowly suffused with
escalating points of light, increasingly rendering
a pointillist still life across the quiet canvas of the room.

As she stirs and moves closer to me,
three recognitions arise in my consciousness:
skin, warmth, contentment.

Uncertain hour, relentless time.
Willing time to cease its forward movement
I close my eyes and suspend my breath.

But in a moment I feel a kiss brush my cheek.
Bedsprings rebound, and I open my eyes
to follow the practical wisdom of her lissome body
as she moves across the room.

My entire being is overwhelmed
by a masterpiece of devotion
when she glances back at me,
pirouettes like a ballerina in the spotlight,
and then bows with a flourish
before she gathers her clothes.

William Briggs

Peter Jacobs read poems from
Twenty Poems to Nourish Your Soul
Edited by Judith Valente and Charles Reynard
They were very well received.

Foreword Joseph Parisi ix
Introduction xiii

The Summer Day Mary Oliver 3
The Examined Life JV 4

The Layers Stanley Kunitz ll
A Man Called Joe CR 13

Alive Together Lisel Mueller 23
Speaking of Marvels JV 25

What the Living Do Marie Howe
35 A Cherishing So Deep JV 37

The God Who Loves You Carl Dennis 47
God Is the Plot CR 49

To the Mistakes W. S. Merwin 53
Pazienza CR 55

Twinings Orange Pekoe Judith Moffett 65
A Comfortable Cup of Tea JV 67

Aimless Love Billy Collins 75
The Art of Complication CR '77

The Greatest Grandeur Pattiann Rogers 87
Ten Thousand Definitions of God JV

Excerpts from Song of Myself Walt Whitman 95
“How Can I Keep from Singing?" CR 103

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame Gerard Manley Hopkins 113
For That I Came JV 114

Juvenile Day Charles Reynard 121
A Boy Named Danny CR 123

Kamehameha Drive-ln, 25 Years Later Barbara Hamby 129
A Small Coffin JV 131

Perennial Susan Hahn 137
So What JV 138

Body & Soul Judith Valente 147
Searching for the Soul JV 151

The Idea of Ancestry Etheridge Knight 161
l Am Thee CR 163

Star Turn Charles Wright 175
The Mystic Eye JV 176

The Panther Rainer Maria Riike 181
The Story of Darlene CR 182

The Hammock Li-Young Lee 191
Between Two Great Rests CR 192

Instructions to Painters & Poets Lawrence Ferlinghetti 197
A New Brave World CR 202

Twenty More Poems to Nourish Your Soul 209

Acknowledgments 211
About the Authors 215

Dave Ross who was unable to attend requested that the following poem be read:

A Supermarket in California

by Allen Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Berkeley, 1955

From a compilation edited by Robert Pinsky called Essential Pleasures.   Dave comments, “When I first read this it seemed pleasantly whimsical and melancholy.  The second time through I picked up on the homo-erotic references. Then, via Wikipedia, I learned that it is one of the important poems of the 20th century. In it, Ginsberg is comparing his life and times with Walt Whitman's a century earlier.  

Perhaps you can help me with the last stanza.  Charon, of course, is the boatman of Hades.  Lethe is the river of forgetfulness (or oblivion). What does this mean?  Have we forgotten the lessons of the 19th century?”


Five naked pounds at birth
My fabric the letters of a prayer
luminescent and dark
Ancient breath filled my lungs
Sound rolled over
the surface of my tongue
My carefully layered life
Primordial rivers ran through me
contained every word
spoken by God
Name and body
thought and water
blood to blood I dreamed
of open skies deserts
filled with static air
the only boundary
the skin I have
wanted to pull apart
to find my name
again and again
Moses heard water
move in vast land
a silent answer
to the sky
my birth name
I am that I am I am
that I will be I will
be what I will be
in the red
and gold dream
of star-filled
Jeff Munnis (from Vision, Pessoa Press, 2008)

Radnoti and Guth*


Mindful of random events
that trace the beginning of time
The void so impossible full
it must appear
like a proton erupting
the experimental proof of finding
nothing nothing
but an intermittent firefly window
of light in darkness
the least perceptible event
the improbable piercing fall of a petal
the slant of sunlight through glass
the smell of God in the ink
of numbers stamped on paper
a postcard from emptiness

My teeth no longer hurt
My feet not pinched
into shoes
I am not cold
The deep quiet
put me to sleep
I feel I am
the night

I opened my eyes
when her hands unbuttoned my collar
reached inside my coat
and removed papers
An envelope
was folded the paper crease
stained with dirt
So still she never thought
to look into the final circumstances
of my face just search
through dirt folded in my clothes
for the postcards last words
I learned in cruel circumstances
witness to my own brutal death

*Alan Guth, professor of physics; Miklos Radnoti, poet.

Jeff Munnis (from Vision, Pessoa Press, 2008)

Fish Bait

A tool chest made of wood sat on a painted concrete porch, next to Scotty’s trailer. Inside were two metal boxes he cleaned with an oiled cloth, wood chisels, mallets, files, and rasps. The details of each fold in the cloth wrapped around the paintbrushes showed the precision of his care. He lived alone. Soft white hair stuck to his forehead when he removed his cap.

Mail arrived at 9:00am in the park. Scotty mingled with the eligible widows and he told me to get lost when I stood next to him in the crowd outside the mailroom. My mother was inside with the door closed, sorting the envelopes and packages.

I wandered onto Scotty’s porch one morning and discovered how to open the wooden tool chest. I used a screwdriver to open a can of paint, and I knew how to use a paintbrush from watching my grandfather paint his house.

I painted the plain wood tool chest, some steps, the side of a wooden ladder, and the back door of his trailer, with as much industry as a five-year-old can give. Of course, I did not know how to put the lid back on a can of paint, or clean a paintbrush, so I left them on the grass for someone that knew better. I’m not sure how I was discovered, but God knows everything, and because of that, everyone else finds out. My mother tried to clean up.

Scotty told me, “If I catch you, I’m going to cut your dick off and use it for fish bait.” Everyone laughed at his threat, but I felt the cruel edge of his words. His cruelty¾ like the tools in his wood chest¾ scratched, gouged and hammered at my innocent thoughts.

I imagined, that even after my penis was cut off, that putting a hook through it, like a fisherman hooks bait, would be painful. I ran behind cars, hid behind trees. If Scotty was outside, I hid inside.

Days passed. My evasions became automatic.

Across US 1, opposite the park, was a grocery store that opened at 8:00am. Scotty held a bag of groceries in each arm and walked across the highway toward the mailroom. I stood behind a group of women, hidden well enough to look at him. Several women saw him and said hello, several looked away and smiled. He stood: proud and straight.

When he saw me his face turned gray as a stone and the pressure of his eyes drilled down on me. The women noticed his stare and stepped out of the way, like we were gunslingers. They laughed, expecting me to run, and I did, straight for Scotty, suddenly angry at his power, and I grabbed at his pants and jerked them down to the top of his shoes. His shorts slid off his hips and dropped to his knees where he tried to hold them up by spreading his legs. Too late.

No one looked at me running away, they stared at Scotty’s pale legs, his red face and laughed when he dropped his groceries to bend over and grab his shorts. I looked back and yelled, as loud as I could, “Fish bait!”

Jeff Munnis (from Next to a River, Pessoa Press, 2007)

Crushed and Dirty Mangoes

Mangoes that—as a child— I’d bite into, releasing the smell honey mixed with jasmine mixed with sage mixed with lime

Mangoes so plentiful thousands are sold at markets, daily transported in large baskets balanced on heads of husky, dark-skinned women wearing colorful aprons, embroidered along the edges

Mangoes that—as a child— I’d grip with both hands, letting the juicy wetness drip along the sides of my mouth, my hands, my forearms

Mangoes so plentiful hundreds are sold on streets, daily served sliced, in clear plastic bags sweet and ripe, or green and tangy with a pinch of salt hustled by sweaty women, dark circles under their arms

Mangoes that—as a child— I’d eat and eat, leaving strands of pulp stuck between my teeth

Mangoes so plentiful thousands fall to the ground, and rot swarming with gnats and flies abandoned, overlooked oranges mixed with yellows mixed with reds mixed with greens crushed and dirty mangoes

Stelli Munnis


Stink in a Bottle

I’ve always been suspicious of people’s intentions, even as a child. Children have little power and it’s easy to write off the things they do as “kids' stuff.” It’s only now, upon greater self-reflection, that I’m beginning to understand the underlying purpose for some of my actions as a child. One way I used to “test” the adults around me was to play pranks on them. This enabled me to solicit their attention, on my terms.

I had a collection of pranks that I stored in my closet, in a small shoebox. I had a few standards—a whoopee cushion, a pack of chewing gum that emits a mild shock when you attempt to take a piece, plastic poop, rubber roaches—but my favorites were those that generated a greater, more disturbing reaction. I’d “accidentally” squirt disappearing ink on someone’s shirt so I could observe the disappointment on their faces, followed by relief once I divulged the truth.

My all time favorite was “Stink in a bottle.” (Yes, stink can be bottled and sold for a profit.) I’d knock on strangers’ doors, leaving a wad of stinky toilet paper with the words “Smell me!” written on it, at the foot of their doorsteps. Then I’d run and hide someplace where I could peek out and see their reactions. Some picked up and tossed the stinky paper aside, but to my satisfaction, many smelled it first. Only the occasional dunce failed to look down. I find it telling that I wrote, “Smell me!” instead of “Smell this!” indicating my desire to be “smelled,” looked at, paid attention to.

The most disappointing (because it had so much potential, but took too long to produce results) was the plastic ice cube with a fly inside. The pain of pretending to be interested in adult conversation as my unsuspecting victims casually sipped their drinks was too much for an eager child to handle. Most never even noticed the fly or if they did they pretended not to. But I doubt they were pretending because I would have noticed. I’ve always been good and discerning who’s telling the truth and who’s not.

Stelli Munnis


The Idea of Catholicism

I was raised Catholic—went to an all-girls Catholic high school in Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans. I attended mass, participated in the rituals, was baptized and confirmed, but I was always bored by religion. The words were always just words: empty, without feeling and meaning. To overcome my boredom in church I used to observe people. I studied their faces, what they wore, how they interacted with one another. It wasn’t until later in life that I developed my own personal relationship with God.

My mother used to say, “I’m a Catholic in my own way.” I didn’t fully understand the meaning of her words until I was in college and choose to go to mass a few times. The priest, certain that we all thought and felt the same, made comments that, to me, were highly offensive. The hot button topics for me were abortion and gay rights. I have no problem with people who believe differently, but I do have issue when others assume that I think (or should think) the same as they. To me, this is disrespectful, intolerable.

I love the idea of Catholicism—this universal religion where ALL are welcome and ALL are one with God, but I do not like the politics, the corruption, the greed, and the misogynistic practices and policies of the Catholic Church. For this reason, I do not align myself with Catholicism. I am a child of God, as I believe we all are. I am here to grow in oneness with God, to open myself up to the beauty and truth of creation, and to see God in each and every person. I do like some of the Church rituals, the beautiful architecture, the incense, but those are things I can create for myself, or bring to whatever spiritual activity I choose to engage in.

Stelli Munnis

South Texas Drought

Yesterday’s heat sears the memory, burns
holes in hopes for farmers; hay is scarce.
Deer cross highways in search of food, water,
their skeletons visible, body fat melted.
Fields of com stand like grotesque armies
of brittle soldiers dressed in brown.
Cracks in parched earth grow wider, deeper.

The car thermometer registers 102, 103, 104,
and rests momentarily at 105.
On the radio the meteorologist drones on
about a disturbance in the gulf—may turn into
a tropical storm by the end of the week, he says.
From the hills above the lake
we watch the water levels drop as though
some thirsty giant is taking one big sip at a time.

Vessels at boat docks sink down, down
beyond the reach of anxious owners.
Smoke from grass fires rises in the distance.
The sound of fire trucks pierces
the oppressive August air.
A cloud bank in the west turns darker, rises,
clouds the sun for a moment and moves on
across the sky, a vanishing disappointment
for those who watch and wait.

We think about the birds, hang another
bird feeder in the branches of the oak tree,
set out a pail of water, such inadequate gestures
in a place of so much need.

Iris Maahs (grandmother of Stelli Munis)
(from her book,
Kaleidoscope, Pessoa Press, (2008)

More about Iris and her book can be found at:

One Time Too Many

When someone ruffles your feathers
Or attempts to get under your skin,
Or tends to rub you the wrong way
And your patience is wearing thin.

And If you get hot under the collar
When they’re trying to rattle your cage,
Or if they happen to get your dander up
And you’re about to fly into a rage,

If they provoke you into a hissy fit,
And you notice your bowels in uproar,
Or you find your nose is out of joint
And you just can’t take it anymore,

Here are some things to remember when
You’re sick and tired of taking their guff
It’s time for the tough to get going
When the going really gets tough...

But never, never stoop to their level,
And if you don’t consider it weak,
You could be a truly noble person—
Remain serene and turn the other cheek.

Or try this: “Don’t get mad, just get even.”
Now that’s some age old sage advice,
But if you tend to be faint hearted,
My suggestion to you? Better think twice.

Some would say, “An eye for an eye,”
Unless that’s beneath you, of course,
Or you may want to take the higher road—
Keep your cool and just consider the source.

Iris Maahs (from her book,
Kaleidoscope, Pessoa Press, (2008)

The Lookout

Alyson Katherine Devereux Hamilton
Climbed to the top of a sycamore tree,
Keeping a watch for invading barbarians
Sailing from islands far over the sea.

What if a sloop full of bloodthirsty plunderers
Armed to the teeth, showing blood in their eyes,
Landed in Austin and marched up the avenue
Catching her unwary town by surprise?

Portly they’d be from a life of debauchery,
Reeking of rum, their ambitions the worst,
Filling their coffers with fortunes unlimited,
Striving to slake an unquenchable thirst.

Alyson Katherine Devereux Hamilton
Scanned the horizon, her focus intense.
All she could see was the Peterson’s patio
Shielded behind a high privacy fence.

There in the pool floated plump Percy Peterson
Sipping a Mai Tai, his Ray Bans in place.
Covered with sweat he resembled a bratwurst; an
Arrogant smile creased the folds of his face.

Sanguine he was from a week filled with pillaging,
Buying up comp’nies in fiscal distress,
Draining their cash into other investments, and
Selling the remnants with no real regrets.

Alyson Katherine Devereux Hamilton
Felt disappointed; she’d wasted her day.
Little she knew that a sated marauder was
Basking in booty just ten yards away.

Jim Vick
June 2007

P. D. and Me

I don’t recall just when it came,
Perhaps a year or more ago.
At first an injured thumb to blame;
The surgeon’s work might fade, you know.
But soon the twitching thumb was joined
By fingers dancing on their own.
A rhythm they themselves had coined;
Their silent music’s source unknown.
And so it goes from day to day.

There’s something going on, it’s clear.
The symptoms cannot be ignored.
Don’t speak the name. Could that be fear?
Just surf the web when you get bored.
The list of signs is there to heed:
A step that sometimes drags a shoe,
A halting hand that’s hard to read,
An eye whose blink is not on cue.
And so it goes from day to day.

Beneath the pillow, through the night
The neurons keep their steady beat.
Beneath the table, out of sight
When hosting friends or out to eat.
A conscious thought can stop the dance,
Like clinching teeth and holding tight.
When focus fades, it grabs the chance:
The constant motion its delight.
And so it goes from day to day.

The doctor’s words sound harsh to me,
“It’s Parkinson’s that you present.”
I ask how certain he can be;
He answers, “Ninety-nine percent.”
The good news is it’s early yet,
And science keeps a steady pace.
It looks like all my chips are bet
In hopes that they can win the race.
And so it goes from day to day.

It gives me time; who knows how much?
To do the things I love to do:
To see the world, to teach, to touch
Before the P. D. payment’s due.
And every step that I can take
To slow it down, to ease its grip,
By trying each new drug they make,
By pumping iron to keep me fit.
And so it goes from day to day.

But still I worry what’s in store:
Will my grandchildren’s memories
Be dominated evermore
By wretched tracks of this disease?
And will those few I hold so dear
Be asked to carry such a load,
To help me as the end draws near
Along this dark, uncertain road?
And so it goes from day to day.

Jim Vick
June 2008

Report from Academia, December 1970

by Robert L. Bates

Our institution has the very latest of amenities,
The paper carries psychedelic ads and prints obscenities,
The students never lack a moral outrage to be brash about.
They’re strong for the environment but scatter tons of trash about.
The costumes are incredible, the boys have lots of hair on ‘em;
The girls have little bitty skirts that go right up to there on ‘em.

The president is occupied in naming more vice presidents
And says he’ll deal with dissidents without a bit of hesitance.
The faculty assembled gets its sympathies and pities up
And does its bit by voting to set seven more committees up.
The campus cops, who operate from motives of high purity
Are taking lessons in the preservation of security.

The trustees hope lean days are gone, and look ahead to fatter days;
The football team mows down its foes methodically on Saturdays.
And anyone who lurks and grabs a coed in the hedges late
Impairs our downtown image where the local statesmen legislate.
In short, in all essential points, for better or for worsity,
This is the very model of a modern university.

Read by Jim Vick

Poems read by Mel Oakes

Scaffolding by Seamus Heaney

Here is link to the author reading his poem:

The Death of The Hat by Billy Collins

Poem is in Collins’ book, Picnic, Lightning

by Robert Williams Service

Read in memory of Ben White who always read a Service poem.

It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass,
When even the worst is said.
There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer,
But better be living than dead;
A joy and a pain, a loss and a gain;
There's honey and may be some gall:
Yet still I declare, foul weather or fair,
It's a mighty good world after all.

For look, lass! at night when I break from the fight,
My Kingdom's awaiting for me;
There's comfort and rest, and the warmth of your breast,
And little ones climbing my knee.
There's fire-light and song -- Oh, the world may be wrong!
Its empires may topple and fall:
My home is my care -- if gladness be there,
It's a mighty good world after all.

O heart of pure gold! I have made you a fold,
It's sheltered, sun-fondled and warm.
O little ones, rest! I have fashioned a nest;
Sleep on! you are safe from the storm.
For there's no foe like fear, and there's no friend like cheer,
And sunshine will flash at our call;
So crown Love as King, and let us all sing --
"It's a mighty good world after all."

Clara’s Babies

I can't tell you the way.
It's far from the beaten track where
One dusty gravel road leads to another,
Bordered by barbed wire fence or no fence.
Grown up thick with spiky underbrush--
Cedar tree, madrone, mountain laurel, live oak, grass--
Mail box names no longer give directions
The way they used to do.
The folks I knew are dead.
I can tell you what to look for--
The clearing at the top of the hill
With the graceful summer grass not quite as
Dead as the somber gray granite stones.
Two taller ones for Mama and Papa
And a smaller one for the stillborn baby John
With all the relevant data written.
Born and died and so forth.
I don't urge you to go
To read the legend
On the visible stones.
A far more interesting tale is whispered
In the rustling grass growing
Enclosed by the iron fence.
That is the place, so I was told,
Where Clara's babies lie.
The fence contains no gate.
We are not invited in to stand and gaze
At the ground which covers dead babies.
No granite engravings mark the place
In a space big enough to hold a dozen
Stillborn or newly died.
Did no one care to remember?
Or did someone fear to remember?
Soon it will not matter that three graves
Are marked and the two or three or dozen
Or who knows how many are not.
Because I cannot tell you how to get there
On those unmapped country roads
Unmarked and nameless as Clara's babies,
Whose ghosts are known only to me
And the tall grass that waves in the wind.

Fran Briggs
Published in Ilya’s Honey August 2012

Poems read by Gordon Huth

Directive by Robert Frost

Lullaby by W.H. Auden

Hide and Seek

That throwaway memory
Filed in the trash drawer
Lies forgotten
Dead, until it rises resurrected
In a dream
Or lingers unwanted
At the edge of consciousness
A daytime ghost,
A puzzling déjà vue.
Who knows what mysteries
Of memory
Are lurking in the brain
Waiting for a hook
Which will raise them
Wriggling to the surface
While some pictures of the past
Play hide and seek
With our eternal It,
Refusing to appear
Even when we call
“Come out, come out,
Wherever you are.”

Written by Fran Briggs, 2011

Read by Mel Oakes

Poems read by Pat Oakes

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

New and Selected Poems, Volume Two by Mary Oliver
(Kindle Edition Available)

Poems read by Joy Hall

Revenge Poem 1: My Father's BMW
Mrs. Carson Talks about Her First Marriage
Mysterious Coleslaw

From Pamela Miller's collection Mysterious Coleslaw, Ridgeway Press, 1993:


Poems read by Michael Hall

October Saturday:1949

From H.R. Coursen's Rewinding the Reel: New and Selected Poems, Cedar Mill Press, 1989:



What is Blindness; and who is Blind?  And are we born Blind, or become Blind as we grow older?
Both,it seems.  Also, did Jesus really put mud on the Blind Man's eyes, and have him wash, which restored (or gave him) his sight?
Or is this a metaphor for what happens when one becomes an Active Disciple of Jesus of Nazareth, or Mohammed, or the Hebrew Prophets, or the Great Spirit, or Buddha, or........
Are there stories in The Koran or The Baghavad Gita about a person recovering or gaining sight?
And in the Gospel, was the Pool of Siloam an example of the "Living Waters" that Jesus talked about?
Many questions, much to discuss.
But after all, most of us want to see clearly, in order to do what is good and right and just.
I pray that it may be so.

Written by Al Lindsey

From 2018 Poetry at the Lake

David Ross-

Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia

When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel. Translated from the Italian by Gail Mazur. Written in 1509 when he still had three years to go on the project, this conveys the rigors of the work

The Glory Of the Day Was in Her Face. by James Weldon Johnson

The Gift to Sing. by James Weldon Johnson

The author is best known for Lift Every Voice and Sing - often called the African-American national anthem.

Gordon Huth-

Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams

The Model by W. H. Auden

Paul Sullivan -

What are Years by Marianne Moore

Provide, Provide by Robert Frost

Joy Hall-

Name Dropping by Deborah Route

Poem (I lived in the first century of world wars) by Muriel Rukeyser.


Michael Hall-

Lines on a Young Lady's Photograph Album by Philip Larkin

Church Going by Philip Larkin

Mel Oakes-

My American Notwithstanding by Ron Carlson

From Carlson's book: Room Service

P. D. and Me by Jim Vick

Pat Oakes-

Strange Fruit by Abel Meeropol (1903-86).

Songwriter and poet, Meerpoll's works were mostly published under his pseudonym, Lewis Allan. Meeropol wrote the anti-lynching poem Strange Fruit (1936), which was first published as Bitter Fruit in a Teachers Union publication. He later set it to music. The song was recorded and performed by Billie Holiday.

Michael Rotman-

Poetry from the book, Pilgrim by David Whyte

Sam Sutherland-

Musee des Beaux Arts, by W. H. Auden

Content for class "#PatOakesAP" Goes Here