Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Call to Arms
O bark the tree; leaf the book;
uncork the bottles, and stir the cook.
Winter the worn, torn calendar.
Spring the forgotten prisoner.
Breach all borders; stoke all hopes.
Quarter the soldier but disorder the troops.
Draft the breeze. Beam down the sun.
O pen your poetry, everyone.
-- Laura Hershey
Please join us as we gather to Celebrate the Life and Memory of
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Hampden Hall at Englewood Civic Center
1000 Englewood Pkwy, 2nd Floor
Doors open at 1:30 pm.
The event will begin at 2:00 pm.
ASL interpreting will be provided.
- By RTD Light Rail: D Line to Englewood Station. Follow the platform to the south end (don't cross the big white bridge or take the elevator) into the parking lot and around to the building entrance.
- By RTD Bus: Route 0- Broadway, Route 12- Downing Crosstown, Route 27- Yale Crosstown, Route 51- Sheridan Crosstown. From the bus stop, go up the ramp to the Light Rail platform and follow light rail instructions above.
- By car: From W. Hampden Ave., turn north on Jason Street. The parking lot is straight ahead.
- By bicycle: Platte River bike path to Little Dry Creek trail. East to Inca, then south to the Civic Center.
Donations in Laura's memory may be sent to:
P.O. Box 11215
Englewood CO 80151
Colorado Cross-Disability Coalition
655 Broadway, Suite 775
Denver CO 80203
Center for Disability Rights
497 State Street
Rochester NY 14608
(designate "for Not Dead Yet" in the memo section of your check)
Please visit Laura's website to read her writing:
Share memories and photos at:
Laura Hershey Memorial
or at her Facebook page.
Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite, followed by poetry after the jump.
by Debra Allberry
No mountains or ocean, but we had orchards
in northwestern Ohio, roadside stands
telling what time of summer: strawberries,
corn, apples---and festivals to parade
the crops, a Cherry Queen, a Sauerkraut Dance.
Somebody would block off a street in town,
put up beer tents and a tilt-a-whirl.
Our first jobs were picking berries.
We'd ride out early in the back of a pickup---
kids my age, and migrants, and old men
we called bums in sour flannel shirts
smash-stained with blueberries, blackberries,
raspberries. Every fall we'd see them
stumbling along the tracks, leaving town.
Vacationland, the signs said, from here to Lake Erie.
When relatives drove up we took them to see
The Blue Hole, a fenced-in bottomless pit
of water we paid to toss pennies into---
or Prehistoric Forest, where, issued machine guns,
we rode a toy train among life-sized replicas
of brontosaurus and triceratops.
In winter the beanfield behind our house
would freeze over, and I would skate across it
alone late evenings, sometimes tripping
over stubble frozen above the ice.
In spring the fields turned up arrowheads, bones.
Those slow-pacing glaciers left it clean and flat here,
scraping away or pushing underground what was before them.