by Joseph Strobelt (Univ. of Mount Union)

So far,

that which I know, or

claim to know after

repeated failure, is

quite little .


but that cannot stop me from trying :


Cold water pours over defeated stones,

cattails suffer the frost, and

the adjacent path remains vacant


I find myself

looking over the old new,

I find the pediatrician

passing as a poet


He says that poems are made of words

and he speaks of keeping alive

the quality of rebirth –

well, I am trying but

I am skeptical I can create anew


Here :


A woman plays a mandolin,

strumming her soft white fingers

over the strings.

She is relaxed, her head low

in reflection, her golden hair

curls behind.


It is only

a ripple in the pond that follows

a brave stone, or perhaps worse,


lame water