Monarch butterflies

sleep among lush foliage

A pine tree’s lively new dress.

By Hilda Mendoza

Fellow Poets and Visual Artists,

As you may know, many symphony orchestras in America are struggling to survive. Orchestras in Texas, for all the hype about its robust economy, are also in trouble. In my city of Fort Worth, musicians of our world-class symphony went on strike for several months because the management wanted to cut their salaries, which were already much lower than average. The musicians formed a Save Our Symphony group to help attract funding.

The Fort Worth Poetry Society has offered to help the Symphony League by publishing an anthology of poetry and art about classical music. All profits from sales of the anthology will benefit the musicians of the Fort Worth Symphony. Copies of the anthology may also be made available at reduced price to other symphony organizations for fund-raising purposes, so other cities’ symphonies may benefit from sales of this anthology as well.

The purpose of this message is to invite you to contribute poems and original art images about classical music for possible inclusion in the anthology. Each poet and artist included in the anthology will receive one free printed copy of the anthology. We may also publish the anthology as an ebook and as a large hardback. The rights to your poem(s) and images will revert to you after they are published in the anthology.

You are invited to send up to three poems of no more than 50 lines each (maximum 50 characters per line). Please use Times New Roman 12 point font and single spacing. Artists may send up to three images (high-resolution photos or scans of original art, any medium or style). The subject should be classical music. Your response to this email affirms that you are the creator of and own the rights to the work you submit. You may submit both unpublished and previously published poems and artwork for which you own the rights. Email your poems and images along with a brief biographical note (150 words max) and your physical mailing address to: symphonypoems@gmail.com. Deadline for submissions is October 31, 2018.

Thanks so much for your appreciation of classical music and your willingness to help save our symphony orchestras.


In Case Of Emergency, Read Poem
By Michael Baldwin

That what was written on the old man’s chest
When I ripped open his shirt to give him CPR.
I read it several times as I did the useless chest compressions
The message said:
“Thank you, friend, for your concern.
May your kindness here much kindness earn.
This body’s non mine, it’s just a loaner;
my whole life long I’ve sought his owner.
Now that I’ve left its tenancy,
perhaps its owner will find me.
I’ve tried to love all fellow beings,
to know all knowing, to see all seeing,
to move the world with truth and beauty.
I failed, of course, in that great duty.
But trying, always, is the thing;
the world and we, perfectioning.
Now kindly pass along this poem,
and let your body be its home.”
End note: written from a tattoo parlor.


Male brings twigs, grasses, leaves

and female cardinal weaves.

Dense shrubs hide the future nest.

By Hilda Mendoza


The Fort Worth Poetry society meets every second Thursday at 7:00 pm in the Benbrook Library.

driving in the fog
by Ray Henson

without apology
the fog remains
and the streets almost disappear

the drive from point a
to point b

as the fog blends with the distance

constantly confronting me
without regret
or even the faintest sign of mercy

With Liberty in the Background

We three and our camera
arrived at the Staten Island Ferry.
We boarded like regulars in the herd
vying for front side sun shade
and over the chatter of wind
we smiled for photos
pointed like tourists
waved to boaters
grouped and regrouped
with Liberty in the background.

Round-tripped, caught
in the human tide, we were
washed in the wave toward Battery park;
we posed, watched the guys
who popped briefcases open
for an instant selection of Rolex watches,
or genuine leather billfolds for inspection,
all in the babble from Babel.

Snapped in front of the hot-dog stand
we bloomed three smiles:
one for the vendor, one for the Coney,
one for the kraut, then headed north
for Trinity Church.

This poem by Lee Carroll won first prize in 2009 for the West Virginia Poetry Society Award, and was subsequently published in the 2009 edition of Encore, the anthology of prize-winning poems.

A Painting Of Things In Relation

Hills in the near distance,
at the end of this little valley,
sunlight from the hills, shadows,
an oak here and there in the pasture,
timothy, wild thyme, Johnson grass,
long low sunlight over the valley,
long shadows from the hills, close,
but not yet up to the cattle
knee deep in grass, those burly cattle
with ruddy coats, shy white faces,
quiet eyes—no shadows yet to those,
and none to those drowsy cattle, belly-down,
here and there in sunlight under the oaks.
Above the cattle, birds, birds in the trees,
in the blue-gray air around the trees,
birds on fence rails, on cedar posts,
in and out of sunlight over the pasture,
bird song everywhere, evening song,
like light from under evening’s wing,
all the way along the valley pasture,
all along the dusty road to my place.
My yard, red and white chickens,
kernels of dry corn all over the yard,
corn in cracks of the sidewalk, corn
over by the yellow rose bush, corn
by the trumpet vine, even in with the black ants
in that patch of goatheads near the fence,
corn, corn, and those stinky chinaberries
on the bare ground under that low dark tree,
back in there around my bloodhound,
that wrinkled lump under the tree in the cool.
No one else here, just me, in this old
chair, this rickety wooden rocker
here on the front porch,
and these cranky chickens all over the yard…
the dog, those cattle in the pasture,
and from there to here, choirs
of birds with evensong. And now, almost
supper time. Pleasant evening, swallows, high up.
Soon, sun below the hills, the gray-white light.

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President: Steve Sanders
Vicepresident: Mike Baldwin
Secretary: Susan Maxwel Campbell
Treasurer: Anne Jones
Historian and Webmaster: Hilda Oralia Mendoza

First Place: Marilyn Gilbert Komechak
Second Place: Susan Maxwell Campbell
Third Place: Roberta Pipes Bowman

The Inheritance and NOTES
Silent days have whitewashed the snow drifting
over Thursday’s grey crust and Friday’s slush
frozen again in the rutted dirt roads.1
In Josie’s old house, tall windows and bare
wood floors leak the immovable winter

of March. You’d say this sky looks ironed, criss-crossed
by iced branches of apricot trees. You—
the third angle between Josie and me—
you’d feel these lions too, waiting for dark
to seep from her dresser mirror, waiting2
to stalk the slanted truth of heart and bed.
In the dusk, I still see the chicken hawk
nailed to the barn door—and other black forms.
Cold comfort is mine:3 old house and worn-out
land, all this she’d promised you from the first,

but we’re all jilted, and our knotted hearts4
long—I long for spring: mesquite, scissortails,
bluebonnets—space for her ashes, a grave
for lying. Banish the mice in the walls.
Burn shriveled canna leaves, fern fronds, stickered

rose canes.5 I’ll take a toddy to her white
painted bed, spread her last quilt—Wedding Ring—
and lie counting the board creaks and window
rattles. I’ll leave the lights on all night long
and hope not to shiver or dream at dawn.

NOTES ON THE POEM The Inheritance

1 It was a sheaf of papers,
impaled on a mesquite fence post
along 287 near Childress.
December sleet had stiffened it,
and once unfolded, smoothed, dried,
the untidy writing was urgent,
but nothing was too blurred
if you held it close to your lantern.

2 The kitchen light pools
onto the formica table, and
squinting, you’re troubled by the metaphor
of lions in the bedroom, and there’s gun-
powder whiff in the banal triangle, but
shouldn’t all this mean more
than blue ink and notebook paper—
scrawl and scribble and cross-out?

3 Like sailing cold and starless in an unfinished ship,
whatever this is, wanting to be a poem—
it dreams—it dreams of cyclones and tsunamis
where an unfathering sea breaks reader and poet.

4 Of course all this is indirect, only

edging toward its subject. Every day
you want what you call real: reloading shotgun shells,
breaking new snow, watching for enemy
birds over your bantams. Always this cudgled memory
is too blunt: Josie in her cotton nightgown
clutching a good serving spoon—under the crusted
drifts behind the hen coop. Here: crows,
knowing what crows know—

5 And these lines want to walk you barefoot
over ice and packed snow and chilled melt.
Read them again. Look what crawls
from under the red rusted pickup, now
upright, a paw in a pocket of matchsticks—
wild fire, frost fire, sky fire. Bone fire.