The Poet Salesman
by Chris Baral

The icy tones of the cold call stop
me dead
in my trembling
tracks

green—too nervous to get words out

green—I’d rather be among the trees

exchanging sappy
stories
instead of spouting
jargon

just
to make a sale.

A good salesman beats the pavement – and lord knows that I’ve tried
but when my body stays the course

my mind slips off
and wanders

till I lose
all sense of time

then I lose
my way so totally

I lose
my head

in rhyme.

“Skin in the game,” they call it, but that makes my skin
just crawl

If only I could go for green
and money was my motivation

but money
never spoke to me
the way a poem can.

Ta Dah 
by Leslie Craig

She was schooled, a degree was had
Opportunity was slim, not easily gotten
Hints of wisdom spilled from the wise mentor
To the searching quandaried soul.

Have gumption, venture out, simple faith
Trust—step onto the bus, head to the city
Disembark and ascend concrete steps
Leading to possibility.

Pass through the doorway marked “Personnel”
Unrequested, unknown, unexpected, unannounced
Curious expression worn by attendant’s face
As to the visitor’s purpose.

Here to offer myself for work—degree in hand
Here to speak of skills yet to be shown
All hope to complete application with little real evidence
But self-belief, faith, determination.

A seat is offered and taken….to wait….
Passing seconds….to minutes….to hours
Hope patience grit resilience self-belief
All playing their part…………….

A merciful moment……Excuse……but
Why not take the programmer’s test?
An impromptu off-the-cuff suggestion

The blessing….test taken,
Hiring done
Technical writer to start
A Fate accompli—

Nursery Talk
by Jann Dalton

The babies speak. “I want….food, milk, diaper change, hold me”
while their teen moms give a shake
and try and listen to the pinstriped man in the front of the room.

“Being a waitress, or a stenographer or even a hair dresser,” he says in stentorious tones, not even looking at them.  He’s mad that he’s had to make this appearance–it was supposed to be covered by the principal until a harried CL&P executive backed his Lexus into his car, smashing the radiator.

He checks his watch. “These are good jobs for young mothers because you can often share baby tending with your mother, and only work hours that fit with your schedule so it’s more affordable for the family.”

He’s unprepared for the sharp contentious voice from the crowd “but my brother says you can start at $16.50 an hour if you learn how to drive a Caterpillar” the beautiful young girl with cornrows retorts. “Why should I settle for minimum wage and a pitiful tip,” she scoffs, “What if I want to send my son to medical school?”

The Suit stands up–now he’s really mad; this was supposed to take twenty minutes and now he’ll be caught in rush-hour traffic.

The other girls start yelling, “$16.50 an hour, are you sure?” “That’s a lot of money.” The young girl stands her ground, “just do the math… I’d sure as hell put up with a lot of B.S., even longer hours, to see my bank balance go through the roof on pay day! It sure as hell beats washing floors at Union Station like Grannie used to do.”

The Suit tries a new tactic. “Yes, but you’ll be wanting to get some new clothes for school, and to bring Johnny to the park like all good moms do, and the training won’t take as long.”

Lashandra (he’s learned her name by now) stays strong. “A lot of those jobs require exposure to toxic fumes and hazards, even in an office, and I want my boy to be healthy and have good school attendance.  I found out that there’s some federal programs that want female trainees so I’m going to put in my application and see what happens. That’s my idea of making a difference!”

The Suit is tired–wants to have a drink but he still has his manners so he says, “And I wish you good luck. I sure hope your plans work out.” He steps forward to leave and quickly Lashandra shakes his hand, “Thank you sir,” she says, “You too.” There’s scattered applause. The girls pick up their babies and leave as the bell rings.

Back to the Future.

Two poems by Anne Fenn

The Mural Speaks

Firemen and farmers
Steelworkers, musicians, policemen 

Workers with hard hats
Overalls
Jackets
Masks
Goggles
Uniforms

All at their appointed tasks

Doing the jobs they were given
Earning that sweat
Toiling for hours
Reaping some measure of joy
In the work, we hope 

All praise be given
The firemen and farmers
The steelworkers, musicians,
Policemen, and those unnamed

This is their story
A mural of labor and love.

Ode to Chalk

It was love at first sight.
I knew we would have a lifelong love affair
Because you held me captive even as a young girl
Fresh from a day at school
And eager to teach my little row of dolls.

I was so enamored with you, in fact, that
I “borrowed” tiny remnants from
Mrs. Corey’s chalkboard to bring home.
You stayed on, no longer just a weekend guest.

I’ve tried to remember what it was exactly
That drew me to you. Was it your smoothness
Or maybe that mild, appealing smell I could
Not get anywhere else? 

From the first, I liked the way you looked:
Not just a piece of calcium carbonate
“derived from the skeletons of very small
ancient marine organisms,” and not

Merely crushed limestone. Oh no—you were
So much more to me.  I could hold you
Between thumb and forefinger, then create
Actual words on a slate my mother found.

You liberated me.  Yes, that was it.  The feel
Of you and the freedom you gave me were
Certainly reasons to love you, but there was more:
When I put chalk to slate, a world

Released

Oh, my cylindrical sister, my pure white
Best, best friend – you added to my days
Such a richness that even now, long after,
I quake at your touch

Though white boards and keyboards and
Smart boards try their best to distract me,
They will not win.  They don’t know that
With me

It was love at first sight.

A Teacher’s Introduction to Poetry 
by Sheila Hawley
(Inspired by Billy Collins’ poem, “Introduction to Poetry”)

Each week I watch you all file in 
with your shiny new, blue composition books
I gave to you with high hopes for all of you
to actually take those 25 yellow Ticonderoga HB2 pencils
I hand-sharpened, by the way,
expecting you to write a poem 
that would be so amazing
that listeners would be awed by my ability to inspire 
and crack open your nine-year-old hearts 
and trigger your brains to pump out 
your innocent thoughts, so profound and pure
that they would bleed out through those pointed pencils 
onto the paper, proclaiming you all to be poetic geniuses!

But you just use the points of those pencils
to poke holes
in my perfect poetry lesson plan.

The Workers at the American Mural Project, Winsted, CT
by Mimi Jones

Outside and inside
The workers appear.

Day and night
All days and hours

Skilled and unskilled
Scientist to farm laborer.

Educated and uneducated
By chance or luck of birth

Dependence on all these workers
By need or chance

Doctors, plumbers, teachers, electricians
Engineers, farmers, grocery store clerks

Who does not need
Health, food, entertainment, and sleep?

What about friendship,
Church, law and order?

Or protection from
Fire, tornado, unknown disasters!

Information is everywhere.
Media of all sorts to believe as we wish.

Nature with
Roads, highways, bike paths, rails, planes, and walkways

Without workers there would be
Garbage, filth, and diseases would ravish the world.

We live longer thanks to
Advances in medicine and science

Workers and jobs change
And the future is always a work in progress.

Commitment 
by Nicole Newman

The car doors closed. 
Seatbelts. Check. 
Soothing music. Check. 
Doors locked. Check. 
And away we go. 

The drive was long, 
Over an hour. 
Always in the front seat.
Never in the back.
Safety first. 

We would make small talk. 
We would listen to classical. 
We would slip into their World. 
Always at a brisk pace, 
To cut the time, 
to minimize the risk.  

Rolling hills. 
Majestic parkway. 
The interstate. 
More rolling hills. 
The nuclear plant. 
The campus. 

They would always be waiting. 
They knew we were coming. 
They locked us in back. 
Just the two of us and an officer. 
Safety first. 

We would talk of commitment. 
We would talk of agreement. 
We would talk of seeing each other in a few days when things were better. 

After a bit the doctor would enter. 
Digressions were shared. 
Agreements were usually made. 
Agreements were easier. 
Faster. 
Smoother. 

We said our goodbyes 
And I left. 
Alone. 

Always Alone. 

I’m Tired
by Tina Pesola
(in response to George the miner in the mural)

I’ve been looking at the painting of you. Though still, I feel the rhythm of your labor, your voice says, “I’m tired,” heat surrounds me, the air is thick, loudness in my ears. I’m soaked with my own sweat.

My muscles bulge with every stroke of the hammer, my hands burn as I squeeze to grip the handle—gotta keep up the rhythm—I’m tired. I hear Ernie Ford sing, “muscle, and blood, skin and bones…” Keep up the rhythm for the team.

I’m tired

Three poems by Mary Dowden Reis

I. Sounds Relating to my Job

The relentless buzzing of call lights,
a cacophony of restless patients waiting for their needs to be met.

II. Color Relating to my Job

White, the color of hope and faith.
Attributes that I carried through my 46 year nursing career.
The hope that I made a difference in my patients’ lives.
Faith to sustain me during difficult times.

III. A Day In The Life

Lacing up my white Sketchers, I grab my freshly brewed iced coffee and head out the door.

Driving down familiar side streets, taking in the architecture of older homes, their wrap-around porches, window boxes filled with golden yellow and burnt orange marigolds. Lace curtains add a touch of elegance while providing privacy from prying eyes of passersby. Such a welcome respite from highway speedsters whizzing by, white knuckled driving, stressful commute. Ahead, red lights flashing, yellow bar across the road as a Heinz 57 variety of ages, height, demeanor board the bus, a few with gleeful laughter, most with sullen faces (as if they’d swallowed an entire lemon or were being sent to some God-forsaken land). As I turn my final corner the hospital towers upwards towards the clouds. My heart begins to race, anticipating what the day ahead holds. I slip my badge into the parking lot gate—it doesn’t budge!! There is no attendant until 9 A.M. Car horns are blaring behind me. I roll down my window and yell, “It’s stuck”! I reach for my cellphone and call security.

“The gate in lot D won’t open.” “We’ll send someone over.” I take a sip of my iced coffee, the coolness momentarily takes away my anxious feelings.

The day can only get better from here.

Two poems by Judy Spencer, retired music therapist 

I.
In the silence of a cadence 
His breath rattled  
from his twisted body 
As weak vocal cords  
vibrated his song 
Blue tears streaked his face 
And I cried tears  
on the keys of a piano  

And the warmth of  
Connection through a melody  
Bridged the gap  

II.
We were just kids 
But we didn’t know that then 

Those hazy summer days 
Between college semesters  

The usual job  
At Sprague’s  
Didn’t pan out 
So we traveled north  
To Shaftsbury, Vermont 

How exciting  
We’ll be making tools 

A strike had begun 
Something about  
Wages and benefits  

They called us scabs? 

We were driven 
Across the picket line  
In security vans 

We were not welcomed 
But we didn’t  
know why back then 

A chalk liner was the task 
String 
Chalk 
Crank 
And the case 
Embossed  
Stanley Tools 

Assemble  
Test 
Box 
Count 
Repeat 

Board the van 

Spittle and swears  
Rained down on us 
I couldn’t believe it 
When I saw children  
Standing there too 

All I wanted  
Was to pay my tuition 
Didn’t they understand  

The other day I was 
Looking for the hammer 
In the junk drawer 
But as is often the case 
When opening a junk drawer 
It jammed 

Peering in I saw  
The little pointed nose 
Of the tool 
I’d made so long ago 

Pulling it out 
I felt its weight 
Huh Funny 
I hadn’t remembered that 

A picket line 
Marked in blue chalk 
With workers demanding  
What they more than deserved  

And as my memory  
Cranked back time 
I could see the dust 
Settle over the years I built 
Constructed with 
Humanity and service aligned 

There were many choices  
Where I veered 
I cut too short 
Or too long 
Or just cobbed it all 

We were just kids 
But we didn’t know that then 

Yeah, a chalk liner 
Could have helped 
But a picket line 
Is what really  
Kept me straight 

The Mill
by Jean Sundstrom               

I knew she worked in “The Mill.”
Most everyone did.

I wanted to find my grandmother,
missing her and longing to see her.
She was working in the gray stone building
that framed the narrow road,
a window placed within reach with a narrow ledge
just right for a child size grip.

Looking for my grandmother
I saw a massive open room
filled with workers doing mysterious jobs.
Several eyes looked up from their mind numbing work
smiling, chuckling, nudging each other
as they saw my 7-year-old self straining to search the room.

I see her standing in front of a large bolt of woolen material
examining fabric for a misplaced knot, misguided thread,
fabric moving ever so slowly while she picked, cut and corrected,
full attention to the task at hand.

“Pssst”, Memere I’m here,” I call out in delight.
She sees me!! 
Embarrassed, she comes to the window leaving her post unattended.
“You have to go, I’m working.”

Disappointed, reluctantly I turn away
yet secretly delighted to have found her.
Having had a brief sighting of the face I loved
I was satisfied.

Another World
by Sally Terrell

Stop at the brown Amana fridge, extract five cubes from the ice tray,
cup them in your ten-year-old arms and scurry to the portable mahogany bar in the den.
Dump them on the side with the stainless steel tray.
Reach for the highball glass in the back, always a stretch.

The well on the left has exactly four bottles. You know them all.
Pick the clear one, red label with gold wings.

The clink and stack of cubes, so satisfying. Unscrew the Popov bottle,
Sniff. Burns every time.
You bend your head to the side, holding your three fingers against the glass as you hoist the jug and pour,
She said three fingers
Unscrew the tiny tonic bottle, pour it to the top, stir with your finger.
Take a sip. Burns every time.
Like the crab apple from the orchards in the woods beyond the neighborhood
you tasted on a dare.
No. Worse.

Hold the glass, both hands, walk down the hall to the den, your sisters’ former bedroom, where Lena waits for you, ironing your t-shirts and your brother’s slacks, the August air thick with the scent of Niagara spray starch and the sweat of her Friday labors.
Mack and Rachel argue about Iris, again, in celluloid from the console TV. Another World, another world when Lena is here, her calm, purposeful energy infusing the house with steady, Friday care,
a kind of love, a treasure later realized.

She takes a long pull of my creation,
smiles a toothpaste-commercial smile, tells me it’s good.
I smile back at her, thrilled.
“That’s how we like ‘em, Sal,” she nods, eyes closing.
“Long and strong,” she purrs, “long and strong.”