Poetry Reading: Judy Monroe, Carolyn Gelland Frost, Bruce Spang

JUDY MONROE, CAROLYN GELLAND FROST & BRUCE SPANG read from their poetry Friday, October 18th 2013, 7pm at the Harlow Gallery, 160 Water Street in Hallowell. Light refreshments served. Suggested contribution: $3.

For further information call Ted Bookey at 685-3636



The summer

wind plays

with yellow


as if it were

a Chinese dragon


to fly. —Carolyn Frost




Here they are, i said yesterday, and looking down

stretched out before me on a chaise,

my legs were astonishing, looking fine-skinned

and firm, not a blotch or broken vein,

not a sigh of the crackling of age.


Here they are, I said, an apparition of youth,

appearing like Banquo’s ghost.

Gone my old legs, whose knobby

knees were problematic, one ankle thicker

with liver spots ubiquitous.


Here they are, I exulted, but then, just like that

they vanished as I was reveling in my youth

mystique, and in their place my seventy-plus legs

reappeared, all too familiar, all too antique.


Here they are again, today when I am not

even missing them, those fabulous legs, so independent,

wandering the beach, passing me by, possessed

by a younger woman dressed in shorts, whose lovely

perfect legs (and other body parts as well)

I suddenly realize belong to me. —Judith W. Monroe




The neighbor’s pup,

wanting in,

won’t let up.

Yelp. Yelp. Yelp.

This, the fourth night

of its desperation.


our two cats huddle

at the open window

pretending to be sympathetic.

Downstairs, the cuckoo pleads

its shrill three-stress call.


I can remember,

shivering in my pajamas,

calling out, again and again,

Sandy, Sandy, Sandy,

drifting unto darkness.

Leave it alone, My wife would intone.

Let it learn.


But it was not the dog I was calling,

not then, when my marriage

could be counted in the three-word

sentences we barked between us.

It was my wanting out, there

on the porch in the cold,

waiting to hear how far my voice

could carry across night fields. —Bruce Spang