by Frances A. Baird
I ponder that your hands could be
So gentle last night, holding me!
It seems that in the last brief hour
They pleaded for some hidden power –
A cold blue rod they clutch today;
A war drum beats; you march away;
Those hands to maim and kill now steeled,
In them a nation’s fate lies sealed!
By Frances A. Baird
No lipstick smears upon your cheek
Betray her ardent kisses,
Nor powder on your coat lapels
Bespeak of youthful blisses.
But all the same, my son, I’m sure
She’d keep your secrets better
If she wouldn’t wear, when she goes with you,
That pink angora sweater!
by Frances A. Baird
For years I’ve watched you come and go
And gayly spoken. Longed to ask,
“What’s your pleasure and your woe?
Beat your pulses fast or slow?”
“What strange secrets do you know?
What do you dream? Is life a task?”
Come, my friend, take off your mask!
by Alma L. Weixelbaum
Springfield is definitely on the map. Didn’t you see it on the March Avocation cover? That’s two Smiths now who have gotten out Springfield editions. Next?
Judging from the cards and letters received here, L. R. Giles certainly tries hard to spread encouragement. I am reminded of an old lady who once told me she was glad to note that I gave “taffy to the living rather than ephitaphy to the dead.”
Another kindly writer is Roy M. Norcross and does he have COURAGE and COURTESY. He not only plans to print some of my verse, he actually thanked me for them. Thank you, Roy, for your nice letters and cards.
Speaking of cards, and strictly in confidence, don’t you think W. T. spreads it on pretty thick with the long list she prints every mailer? Of course none of us are jealous or anything like that, but it certainly does deflate our egos (or something).
In this issue of S. G. we proudly present the credential for another Springfield member, Frances A. Baird. We’ve averaged at least one for every issue.
Welcome to Donna Quixote. Needless to comment on the printing, since she says it was done by the masters. But I like the contents too.
Just read the April Bellette and enjoyed the chatter. Glad if something of mine could inspire Vondy, even if it was the subject of the verse and not its form that accomplished the feat. Consulted the dictionary and found: “Colossus – a statue of gigantic size; anything huge or marvelously great.” I think it both a large statue and marvelously great.
When I read Margaret Nickerson Martin’s “World of Tomorrow” in the splendid March Reverie, I realized what Mr. Cole meant about poetry.
Have you seen the very latest thing in stationery? Our President Telschow writes lovely flowery letters and then – he transcribes them on letterheads with the flowers painted right on the paper. Artistic, what?
‘Stoo bad all the journals can’t be sent thru the mailer. So many of us seem to miss lots of the good ones.
Help! I’m getting dizzy! Just trying to work for the 1941 convention and here I am getting suggestions to vote for cities not merely for the 1942 but even the 1943 one. Don’t the years go fast enough?
I feared I had offended R. B. with my jingle about his poet “devil” as have not received a Scarlet Cockerel since printing it. Now my fears are confirmed. He proposes me as mailing manager and suggests I “enlist” others to help prepare the bundles. You can’t ENLIST helpers for that; you have to DRAFT them.
Again I must apologize. Elizabeth was preparing this issue but the poor girl is working such long hours for Uncle Sam that she had to give it up at the last minute. So I have hastily put these few pages together hoping you will forgive their inadequacy for the sake of the laureateship entry and credential included.
Our sympathies go to Mr. Telschow in his loss. To know that so many friends are holding him in their thoughts must mean much to him at this time.
And carefully studying proposed amendments and I am grateful to J. F. Morton for his thorough analysis in the Tower which make these amendments so much clearer to those of us who are more or less new in N.A.P.A.
The Lost Stone
by Roy M. Norcross
Atop a hill, far from the shore, a stone I found,
And to my seeing eyes the wayward pebble
Ever a song of stone age seemed to bring
Ever a tale of mysteries underground.
Was that stone hurled amid the dark of night?
Yes? Who can say?
Whether it dropped from some quick, careless hand,
Or whether cast when deep sea touched the land,
Ere the Creator had ordained the day?
And as that rock upon the highest hill
Sings of the underground, the past,
Perhaps it was a meteor, hurled through space.
So do I ever, roaming where I may
Sing of my home, far off, the old red mill.
(Entered for N.A.P.A. Poet Laureateship.)
Affiliated with the National Amateur Press Association
Alma L. Weixelbaum & Elizabeth L. Jordan