Do We Ever Know? by Terry LeFeber

“I’ll take a three pound ham, dear Sir,” proclaimed the happy businessman.

“That will be very expensive,” commented the butcher.

“ ’tis but a trifle,” the businessman responded, pushing more than enough money across the counter.

“Please, excuse me, gentlemen,” Mrs. Schmidt said, interrupting the two men.

“Yes?” The butcher answered.

“You see,” Mrs. Schmidt continued. “My Herbert…. Well, my Herbert is dying. And..and…he wants one good last meal before he leaves this Earth. And…I fear it shall be before the cock crows in the morning.”

“Ah”, the butcher sighed. “And what is it I can do for you, Madam?”

“I…I only have a few coins to spare.  Perhaps a pound of sausage or two?”  Mrs. Schmidt implored.

“Of course, dear lady. Of course.” The butcher responded and turned to his meat locker.

Shortly the butcher returned with two equally wrapped packages, handing one to the businessman and the other to the soon-to-be widow. Smiling, he collected the coins from Mrs. Schmidt and the bills from the businessman.

Later that evening, the businessman opened the package containing the prized ham only to discover a package of sausages.

Whereas, Mrs. Schmidt was able to see her husband pass away following the grandest ham dinner he had ever tasted.

Sometimes you get a wiener for a ham while others miraculously receive a ham instead of a wiener.

We need to recognize those “Ah-Ha moments”.

Memorial Day by Carol Creswell

A stirring tribute fills the air.
The sky is blueness everywhere.
The marchers snap a crisp salute
And all the bandsmen resolute.
The cheering crowds, the fire truck’s din
Precedes the cruising mayor’s grin.
Floats  reach the park, with flags a-wave,
The speakers mount the podium, grave.
The shining marksmen flash the sky
Saluting heroes, trumpets cry.
A pretty student won the test
To state the Gettysburg Address.
A Speech is given, TAPS is played
This special Day brings flowers laid
On graves of soldiers, sailors, gone
 Our troops are left to carry on.

April Musings on Poetry by Diane S. Jones

It’s almost the end of April, and I’ve lost another month.  It’s National Poetry Month, and I had intended to do something on our Canandaigua Writers Group blog to tell people about it.  For myself, I started an email subscription to The Writer’s Almanac after the first week in April, and one poem is now sent to my email every day.  For several years, usually on Saturday mornings, I have listened to the poems being read by Garrison Keillor on WXXI, but my schedule the rest of the week does not permit that.  So, I subscribed, hesitantly, to another email.  Poems began arriving the same day, once a day, and have continued without fail.  I view their arrival with mixed feelings.

Sometimes the poem of the day is an imposition when I consider all of the other emails that require my attention and my other long list of things “to do.”  But then I remember that life is short, and I never make enough time to do the fun things, like writing or reading what other writers write.  And so I click the mouse to open the poem of the day.

For a moment, as I wait for it to appear, I am in suspense.  Like an adventurer about to take the first step of an important journey, I am suspended for a moment in time, wondering.  What will I see along the way?  How will it make me feel?  Will it touch my soul or my funny bone? Will it make me laugh or cry, or recall some event long-forgotten?  Will I feel safe and secure, or will I feel nothing at all?  There’s no way to predict what will happen, and in some ways, I enjoy being held captive by these moments of forced waiting, slowing down, watching carefully for the apparition on my screen, suspense building. 

Finally, the poem appears.  What does it say?  Does the title give me a clue?  Do I like or recognize the author’s name?  Does the first line capture my attention?  As I let myself fall into the words, I absorb them and the writer’s emotions.  I join that writer on a journey, hoping that we shall remain on the same trail until our journey’s destination.

I enjoy some poems more than others.  I prefer rhyming poetry over free verse.  It took me a long time to believe that free verse is poetry.  I would classify some poems as essays or something else entirely.  Nevertheless, I enjoy reading the thoughts of other writers.  I enjoy being reminded that I am one of countless members of an ever-increasing and remarkable group.  I enjoy being reminded of who I am:  I am a writer! 

Mine is one of the many voices in the Universe. . . .

Voices in the Universe

Inspired and inspiring,

Giving voice to thoughts circling like planets,

To words traveling like stars in the galaxies of our minds:

Always there,

Moving and gathering,

Varying in speed and intensity and visibility,

Sometimes elusive,

But, given enough time,

Able to be caught and flung out to the world,

Ready or not,

A scattering of brilliance into eternity.

©29 April 2016 Diane S. Jones