CREATIVE VERSE:  Monthly Poetry Page

Hidden Treasures


who was into cars,

having grown up without a family car,

running all the errands on your bike,

grocery shopping for your mom.

That was the one you bought for $2,

with your mother’s permission.

although she couldn’t help you pay for it.

Then later you replaced that bike with earned proceeds

from yard work, from paper routes, and grocery store,

working your way up from stocking shelves to assistant manager.

Cars were important to you.

You restored early Thunderbirds in our garage

and drove them in parades.

I even helped you out by driving one in a Green Valley Parade

while you drove another.

You had our photograph taken with the ‘57

in Saguaro National Park West.

You hated to give up the Lincoln

but the Mercury was newer

and it was the last one

©Margaret Ann Adams


Come up to the mountain

climb the glittery rocks

tip toe in the water

Oh! a cold shock

Look down to the valley

all sleepy, all still

so peaceful, so quiet

up on this hill

Wander through trees

touch their rough bark

hug the black trunks

joy in your heart

But now to the desert

the cactus and sun

the dry breezy air

your work is done

Oh but where is the sea

the sand, the waves

the push of the water

those happy young days

By Mary DeSmidt


Who is that Woman in the mirror I see?

Can this be? Is it ME?

Hooded eyes and wrinkled brow.

Do I see ME in there now?

My face has changed;

a shock I see, but true. I no longer

resemble the girl I once knew.

Mismatched to what I feel inside.

I shall not look, but hide.

Makeup! quick! Holds the key.

Open the cabinet; look and see

Surely it will hide the REAL me;

The one I do not want to be!

Old and wrinkled, weathered and

Worn revealed in the mirror

The truth I scorn!

One day a change began in me

to look within myself and see

My beauty now shines within

a Spiritual path I have begins

Each year of life marked on my face

bestowed on me an act of Grace.

Thank you God for helping me

see the person I have grown to be

By Jan Ingram Smith


Only the gods

Can change the past

But they’d rather not;

Too much trouble;

Better to let the past go;

A load of useless rubble;

And reconstituting it

Not worth the trouble

Rather if they must:

Assign it

To the historians

With hard working brains

Who easily conspire to show

How events happened

Along an endless line

Set by time’s arrow:

A bullet

Fired down a one-way street

In a static city

Where humans visit

From time to time

And then sleepily

Go home again;


By VA Levine

You Make Me Laugh

Oh how you

make me laugh.

You brought laughter

into my life.

You are the love

of my life.

The source

of my joy and love.

You are my love.

You stole my heart.

You are the one

who I will love

all of the days

of my life.

By George Charles Riek

Hidden Treasures

The moment you see, touch, smell, feel

Something of value

In great abundance

It is yours

A dance in the joy

Releasing all fears

In knowing the gifts are free

Promotion in relationships

Or walking in goals

Whether it is the love

Of humans or sunsets

Your moment has arrived

Your treasures are hidden no more

By Lea Dingman

Love on the Line in 1953

Today I saw a lifeline strung

On a clothesline, where it gently swung.

Calico aprons waved at me,

And billowing sheets, like ships at sea,

Beckoned. and at a glance,

I saw a most amazing dance:

A flowered skirt flipped her hem

At sturdy jeans, flirting with them,

While dainty diapers, white as snow,

Formed a chorus line a-row

With checkered dish towels, who joined in,

Kicking their heels in the playful wind.

Tiny pinafores pranced to and fro,

And work shirts of blue indigo

Marched proudly in four-four time,

Glad to be free of their weekly grime.

Socks of every color and hue

Pointed their toes in a pas de deux.

I saw the dance of life today –

So full of grace, that humble display.

By Elizabeth Parks

October Haiku

Rise and shine they say

But as the nights grow longer

I'd rather sleep in.

By Joyce Patterson

A Welcoming

This morning, at dawn, the desert returned.

Gone, the jarring, too-intense green.

In its place, subdued subtlety.

Soft, multiple shades of green

interspersed with glimpses of

blue and yellow, brown and white,

lavender, pink, and rose.

Softness. Gentleness. Rightness.

All presented to the eye upon a platter

of textures so varied and numerous

one wonders how could be conceived

such variety, so many types

of twists and turns and tied-off knots.

And everything catching and reflecting

the new and rising light.

From this angle and that;

from this perspective and that,

all along and over there.

This is to say nothing of the blue sky

slightly off stage above,

and the the butterflies fluttering everywhere.

All an orchestration of an unbelievable sight,

accompanied by the soft sound

of boots swishing through the grass

overgrowing the path.

Grass long and thick and matted

like the hair of a sleeping child.

And the only other sound is the flute solo

of a cactus wren’s sweet song.

The Sonoran Desert in all its glory.

One of Earth’s most beautiful of beautiful.

Welcome home.

By Syl Rex

Lady Autumn

The wind is sharp, like the shadows

that come late and leave early.

The rain comes, turning glass to cellophane,

distorting things like a funhouse mirror.

The hummer’s sweet sop lays empty.

The sand hill’s open -tomb cries fall from their gathering spirals.

The apples are blushing now

and the grapes burst in bruised purple.

The dock lays on shore like the remains of a leviathan,

its bleached steel bones splayed in fossilized forms.

The tops of trees hint at color,

dropping a few leaves as memories.

The seasonal inhabitants have left the beach hollow from their summer cacophony.

It is time for the natives to reclaim it.

The fox’s clawed paw prints and the otter’s clawless ones

etch over the webbed prints of goose and sea gull.

The talons of the eagle, all bump and ridge and blade,

are occasionally embedded over wing scuffs or scales.

Autumn, always the diva, throws a wild color and light show as it leaves

for the wings… so somber winter can take center stage.

By Lisbeth Lutz