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Witness – Appalachia to Hatteras

Posted in Imagery, tagged Cynthia Ward, Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet Series, imagery, Kendal Dixon, Mary Beth Stevens, nature photography, NC Poetry Society, NC Poets, poetry, Southern writing on August 14, 2026| 2 Comments »

Wayah Bald on the horizon

[ 3 poems from the 2026 Gilbert-Chappell mentorships ]

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all selections are from the 2026 edition of

Witness: Appalachia to Hatteras

the annual anthology of the Gilbert Chappell Distinguished Poet Series

mentor program of the North Carolina Poetry Society

Weeping Willows

In a garden of weeping willows,

roots coil in secret below the patient gaze of stones,

and shadows thicken with stories unsaid and untended—

secrets no one can tell.

Yet, each leaf holds a history pressed thin by longing,

longing something forgotten—

leaves know more than anyone could ever know.

The weeping willows weren’t just there for show,

they were there for a story,

a story on how everything had gone wrong.

Once upon a time they weren’t weeping willows,

but just willows.

However, with all the history they held,

they wept.

hoping and praying they could just die,

hoping they would be forgotten

so no one would cause them more damage,

but every spring’s arrival

rattles against those hidden wounds,

making forgetting impossible.

They hide in winter, hoping no one will see,

but spring only draws attention,

when they are forced to be beautiful,

while at night they weep.

Cynthia Ward

Eastern Region Gilbert-Chappell student poet, Cynthia is a junior at West Columbus High School, where she is the school poet laureate. The Eastern Region Gilbert-Chappell Mentor is Gideon Young, Chapel Hill, NC.

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Cross #12

A random cross was performed between parent 1

and parent 2. Figure 8.1 gives the results

of the cross. Use the table to answer the

following questions:

1. If the offspring’s genotype is a result

of independent assortment and crossing over,

is the offspring really just the sum of

probability and chance?

2. If the offspring express a recombinant

phenotype, what gives it inherent beauty?

3. If there are no alleles for morality,

why does the offspring feel an inherent sense of

right and wrong?

4. If parent 1 was heterozygous

dominant, and parent 2 homozygous

recessive, what is the offspring’s purpose in life?

5. If the offspring’s mos fundamental instinct

is to survive and reproduce, why does it care

about so much more?

6. If all there ever was and is is this world,

why isn’t the offspring satisfied by it?

Kendal Dixon

Kendal is a Central Region Gilbert-Chappell student poet. She graduated in 2026 from Southern Alamance High School. The Central Region Gilbert-Chappell Mentor is Joseph Mills, Winston-Salem, NC.

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Why I Love Polka Dots

My mother is going out.

I don’t really know what this means,

I only know that

soon I will be left behind.

But she is here now,

I am here now,

and now

it is just the two of us.

I sit at the foot of the bed.

She, high priestess, poses in front of the mirror.

Girdle, garters, stockings,

lipstick, rouge, hairspray, jewelry.

The bumps of the old white bedspread

press mountains and valleys

into my sunburned summer thighs

as she twirls in front of me

in her favorite dress,

chocolate brown satiny silk

covered with

black velveteen polka dots

that shiver and pulse with a life

I don’t yet understand.

Mary Beth Stevens

An adult student of the Gilbert-Chappell Western Region, Mary Beth lives in the Blue Ridge mountains. She has written children’s books but only lately turned to poetry. The Western Region Gilbert-Chappell Mentor is Lee Stockdale, Asheville, NC.

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The Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet Series originated in 2003 at the encouragement of Fred Chappell, North Carolina’s fifth Poet Laureate. Fred felt a mentorship program for students and young adults would further the North Carolina Poetry Society’s mission of encouraging the reading, writing, and enjoyment of poetry across the state. Through a generous endowment from the family of Marie Gilbert (herself a life member and supporter of NCPS), this mentorship series is permanently funded and has thrived for twenty-three years.

Three Distinguished Poets from Eastern, Central, and Western North Carolina each mentor a middle-school student, a high-school student, a college or university student, and an adult mentee within their respective regions. The current State Coordinator is Michael Dechane, and the Distinguished Poet Mentors for the 2025-26 season have been Gideon Young (East), Joseph Mills (Central), and Lee Stockdale (West).

Applications for the 2026-2027 program open September 1 – November 15. Find more information about the Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet Series, including an application form, at the NC Poetry Society web site HERE

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Each student works with their mentor to write and edit a series of poems. In addition to public readings and presentations, GCDPS publishes an annual anthology with poetry by the students as well as the Mentors, Witness: Appalachia to Hatteras. Order your copy HERE

Cape Lookout

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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:

. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;

. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.

If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:

https://griffinpoetry.com/about/

If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.

If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to

COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM

Thanks again for joining the conversation.

– Bill

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Alone – J. R. Solonche

Posted in Imagery, tagged Alone, imagery, J. R. Solonche, Joel Solonche, nature photography, poetry on August 7, 2026| Leave a Comment »

[ 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]

Only

“Why do you not sleep?” the goddess asked.

“They are only years.

Only years.”

“I do not sleep because they’re only fears,” he answered.

“Only fears.”

“Why do you weep and weep?” the goddess asked.

“They are only fears.

Only fears.”

“I weep and weep because they’re only years,” he answered.

“Only years.”

“Why do you keep and keep?” the goddess asked.

“It only disappears.

Only disappears.”

“I keep and keep because it only appears,” he answered.

“It only appears.”

J. R. Solonche

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October

It’s a beautiful day.

It’s just about perfect.

Why just about? Why not?

Why the hell not perfect?

The temperature’s in

the sixties with an easy

breeze. Clouds, not too

many, in the blue sky.

I walk my property,

talking to myself. “These

are my trees,” I say.

“They belong to me. Every

branch, every twig,

every tree, small or big,

is mine. Every bird

that nests in my trees are

mine. Every worm that

crawls in my warm soil

is mine. Every blade of

grass that grows in my lawn

is mine. Every breeze

that blows through my trees

is mine.” Ah I would

give, I would give, I would

give all that is mine,

all this that is mine for

the girl I saw on the train

when I was seventeen.

J. R. Solonche

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Thought

I thought I had a thought.

I was wrong.

It was not a thought.

It was something else entirely.

I know a thought when I think one.

I have had many thousands of thoughts.

What I had was not a thought.

It was a feeling.

It was an inkling.

It felt like ink running down the back of my neck.

It was an itch of ink.

I scratched it until my fingers turned blue.

Then I wrote this with it.

This is not a thought.

This is a poem.

I think.

J. R. Solonche

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Today We Fly Over You

Today we fly over you,

said the geese with wings as wide as vowels

as I looked up to see them fly over me.

Remember us or not,

said the last of the geese in line

as it disappeared from sight.

Everyday I fly over you,

and everyday you do not notice me,

said the empty sky

as I looked up at the empty sky

filled with ghosts of geese,

their wings like soaring smiles.

J. R. Solonche

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In this collection Alone, by J. R. Solonche, the poems in Part I and Part III are indeed alone, one single poem lingering within each section, and these two lonely poems are each titled Alone. What then might I, as reader, expect from the eighty-five poems that jostle together to fill Part II, that wide open expanse of poems in between the opening poem and its brother poem at the book’s far shore? None of those eighty-five at first reading seem to tackle head on the question that opens the first line of the first poem in the first section of the book: How does a man get used / to living without a woman? Not head on, not at all, but perhaps tangentially and discretely? And when they seem to wander, is it really without aim or purpose? What in the world is their purpose?

What is the purpose of any poem, after all? If it is written to a purpose isn’t it really an essay or a polemic, even if disguised with linebreaks? Maybe the poem finds its purpose in simply being alone. There it reclines on the page, its shape or shapelessness an undecipherable incantation by the writer of it. There the poem stutters its grammar into being, a Rosetta stone to be picked up and picked at by the reader. Namely me. I, who have chosen to sit alone with the poem for the passage of moments it takes to read it line by line. Then probably read it again because a single passage through those curls of letters like lines of foam on incoming waves is not enough to really feel the tug of undertow.

And then at the end, after crossing the sea of the entire one+eighty-five+one poems, I arrive at the far side. Time has coalesced, an infinite sequence of points becoming finite. The words have gathered themselves and bestowed whatever my momentary mentality has been able to glean. The poems have become my past, my present, and even my future (this is getting tense). I don’t know the explicative answer to the poet’s question, How does a . . . , but I know I myself have spent alone time with these poems. We have been alone together. I have a feeling. I will write it down, my own question. Maybe sometime later when you and I are alone together, I will share it with you.

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Perhaps the answer to How . . .? is Keep writing. The sensations, observations, recollections converge to become the unifying moment. Or diverge into companionship with the cosmos. My inklings and I, we are never alone.

Read additional poems by J. R. Solonche at Verse and Image:

https://griffinpoetry.com/2026/04/29/poetry-and-earth-spring/

https://griffinpoetry.com/2026/07/31/like-grass-j-r-solonche/

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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:

. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;

. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.

If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:

https://griffinpoetry.com/about/

If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.

If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to

COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM

Thanks again for joining the conversation.

– Bill

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Like Grass – J. R. Solonche

Posted in Imagery, tagged J. R. Solonche, Like Grass Like Atoms Like Years, nature photography, poetry, Serving House Books on July 31, 2026| 5 Comments »

[ 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]

Hay Wains

They sit, a long-married couple,

side by side, in the unkempt, dusty

grass of the field, which they have

forgotten. The field has not forgotten

them. Neither has a crow, a dark,

folded thing, like a thought, perched

on the red one’s shoulder. They have

the quiet of things that have been

put away for good, the resignation

of the neglected but dignified old.

A chain, rusted into a circle, sleeps

in the weeds like a loyal dog. And

the air around them, full of the slow

humming life of roots and insects

and small burrowing animals, moves

in and through the empty spaces

where their souls used to be.

J. R. Solonche

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Better Glue

His son wanted to fly. His father

knew how to make wings. He said,

We won’t use wax this time. He used

glue. Strong glue. Industrial glue.

The kind they use for airplanes.

The son said, What about the sun?

The father said, The glue will hold.

The son said, What about the sky?

The father said, The glue will hold.

So the son put on the wings.

The father said, Don’t fly too low.

Don’t fly too high. The son said,

Don’t worry old man. The glue

will hold. And it did. The son flew.

And the father watched. And he

flew. And he flew. And the father

watched and watched. The son flew

away. He got smaller and smaller.

And the father watched until he

could no longer see the son in the far

distance. He is probably still flying

now, the son. The father sighed.

He almost wept. Perhaps he did weep.

No one knows for sure. The glue held.

The wings held. The son didn’t. He

wasn’t supposed to. It was good glue.

J. R. Solonche

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The Difference

The breeze is what we invite.

It comes in the window with

the scent of newly cut grass

or yesterday’s rain. We smile

at the breeze because we have

asked it in. We want it to stay

a while. The wind is different.

It’s a bad relation. It has a record.

It comes with a warning. It rattles

the glass. It has something to say

that we would rather not hear.

The wind is not invited. We do not

smile at the wind. We can’t. It

would wipe it right off our faces.

J. R. Solonche

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USE

The woman at the hardware store

said, “Can I help you?” as I wandered

down an aisle of paint brushes. “No,

thank you,” I said. What I really needed

was a different kind of brush, one that

could cover the cracks in my memory.

She moved on to another customer,

someone who actually knew what they

came for. But the question stuck with

me, a fleck of paint on a thumb. “Can I

help you?”Help with what? The years

piled up, drying paint cans on the shelves

of my brain, and none had the right color.

Some were labeled, The Summer of ‘82.

Others, My Daughter’s Laugh. Most were

just a vague, unhelpful shade, like “off-

white” or “beige.” I picked up a brush,

a cheap one and held it up to the light.

It felt useless. I felt useless. I bought it

anyway just for the sake of having done

something. “I see you found what you

were looking for,” she said as I paid.

“Yes,” I said. Her smile was useful.

It was exactly what I was looking for.

J. R. Solonche

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Truth is a tiny bee visiting a flower. If there is something sweet, she takes a sip, then flies off with the pollen of truth sticking to her. Does she notice that burden? Maybe only later when she feeds the grains to a companion bee (or to her larva, cute). Such are the truths of J.R. Solonche’s poems – airy and peripatetic as that bee, sweet sometimes and sometimes sticky. Able to sting, yes, but so beautiful when you lean in close. It would be a crime against poesy to weigh these poems down with any grave pronouncement about them.

So can you see me smiling as I arrive at the last line of each poem? Can you see me alight at its edge for a moment before I fly to the next? Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years is giving me permission to take a deep breath and be still for a minute. It is revealing the biggest things in the smallest things. It is leading me in close. The facts of that closeness confess their troubles, but they also spin my soul out into the cosmos.

And there is some joy out there. I’m on my way. As J.R. says, . . . I wanted to / know the universe like the back of my / hand. I did not become an astronomer. / I wasn’t good enough at math. I became / a poet, and I came to know the universe / of the back of my hand.

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J.R. Solonche is a long practiced and prolific poet. I tried to count his poetry books listed in this latest collection, Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, but I ran out of fingers and toes. He has received many awards, nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and three times for the Pulitzer Prize. He is still writing. Perhaps he is taking his own advice:

. . . You may not know

what you are doing for a very

long time. Don’t worry. The

words do not know either.

They’ll figure it out together.

Like old friends with nothing

new to say to each other until

they realize they do. . . .

from More Advice to a Young Poet

Discover more about J. R. Solonche HERE,

and so that you can immediately love it like I do, please purchase Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years HERE

And – read one more poem by J.R. Solonche at Verse and Image here

https://griffinpoetry.com/2026/04/29/poetry-and-earth-spring/

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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:

. . . . . every Friday I present a few poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;

. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.

If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:

https://griffinpoetry.com/about/

If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.

If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to

COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM

Thanks again for joining the conversation.

– Bill