Margaret Gaffney

Troy, Michigan, USA

Margaret has always been an avid reader, especially of history, but spent most of her life teaching school. Only after retirement did she seriously try to write. She has had poetry published in Green's Magazine, The Library of Poetry, as well as columns on various subjects in local newspapers. She has published one poetry collection called Musings and won first place in 1995 in the Federation of Women's Club contest in Michigan.

It's True

Poetry is amorous,
Slightly contaminous
Pretty preposterous
Stuff.
Editors freeze it,
White bearders wheeze it,
Teachers applaud it,
Pupils delaud it,
Critics acclaim it,
Readers defame it.
Poetry is irresistible,
Spiritually upliftable,
Wholly commendable,
Really remarkable,
Stuff.

Autumn

There's a chilling parallel
Between the twirling leaves
And the times remaining to me.
These foggy, misty mornings.
These warm days grown colder
and shorter...
The crispness cannot last,
Soon it will be cold.
No longer will the grass rise,
No longer will the birds sing,
No longer will the sun shine.
Soak in today.
Flood your eyes with color and shape.
Surround yourself with the ecstasy
of joyful feeling.
Tomorrow and forever come as soon as winter.

On The Dot
(For Carl)

I reach for you.
I am so alone.
The dust of the cosmos swirls about me.
The consciousness of space frightens me.
The shortness of life is awesome.
I reach for you.
Universe...Earth...Quark.
The pale blue dot is small.
The quark is comparably small, too.
One can barely comprehend the sizes.
I reach for you.
My mind appreciates the beauty.
My soul knows the best of man.
My heart needs mankind.
If you reach your hand to me
I reach for you.