Posts Tagged ‘Southern writing’
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 »
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[ 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
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Weeping Willows
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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.
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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
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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:
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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?
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2. If the offspring express a recombinant
phenotype, what gives it inherent beauty?
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3. If there are no alleles for morality,
why does the offspring feel an inherent sense of
right and wrong?
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4. If parent 1 was heterozygous
dominant, and parent 2 homozygous
recessive, what is the offspring’s purpose in life?
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5. If the offspring’s mos fundamental instinct
is to survive and reproduce, why does it care
about so much more?
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6. If all there ever was and is is this world,
why isn’t the offspring satisfied by it?
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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
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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.
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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.
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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).
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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
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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.
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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:
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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.
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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
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COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
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– Bill
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Saturday Share – Sandra Brodkin Dreis
Posted in Imagery, tagged NC Poets, poetry, Sandra Dreis, Saturday readers share, Southern writing on August 8, 2026| 3 Comments »
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Saturday morning readers share:
Sandra Brodkin Dreis
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Tympanal
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Cradled upside down
in fibrous threads
I rest, develop from
undefined strangeness
into my destiny.
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I wonder…
this grove, too, upended
and suspended, might be
entirely on its verdant head–
sun on a blanket with moon,
the sky grassy, ticklish.
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Here, among the branches,
every part of me listens,
every pore hears forest.
A breathing leaf, the fungal air,
insect cousins inching closer.
Bats flap above, echolocate
like drones. I fear their target.
A hundred fine scales
structure, strengthen me–
now flight filigreed
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my blood pumps, my belly
vibrates, tiny organs react,
and as sound waves waffle
and pulse–there are whispers
of wings to come.
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Sandra Brodkin Dreis
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I am cultivating the perennial, Alocasia, on my deck, so impressed that they enjoy the blasting heat and humidity as much as I do not. My Jack Russell, Jillie Bean, does not disturb them, probably thinking they are doggie umbrellas.
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My first full length poetry collection, Good Dirt has been released by Kelsay Books. Check out their site or Amazon.
Sandra
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Note from Bill – many insects are able to hear via a specialized organ, a tympanal or tympanic membrane. Like our human tympanum but visible on the exoskeleton rather than tucked into an “ear.”
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Additional poetry by Sandra Dreis at Verse and Image:
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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;
. . . . . Saturdays I present a poem or two 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:
.
.
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
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COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
.
– Bill
Candescent – Linda Parsons
Posted in Imagery, tagged Candescent, Linda Parsons, nature photography, poetry, Southern writing on July 24, 2026| 2 Comments »
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[ 3 poems by Linda Parsons ]
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The Vale
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I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall
be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.
— John 10:9
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To brave the vale, to spread its curtain,
like my father on the hillock of his final pass,
our common purgatory. My father, who fingers
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my knuckles with one hand, counts the abacus
of my backbone with the other. We’re in a waiting
period, he says is if to apparitions come
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for the main event, time is winding down.
Nothing in my own life matters, not that I share
his descent on shards of marriage vows,
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that I roam the sheepfold in search of oasis.
Only that the weather is good or overcast,
lunch is coming or done. We sit skin to skin,
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as never before, his hands the picture of his mother’s.
Maybe she’s the one in white organdy, her hair
still strawberry blond, tapping her ladies’ Bulova:
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Lordy, how the time goes. Maybe she’s the shepherd
disguised, the one who lies down at the mouth
of thievery, both door and gatekeeper for the huddled
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bleating. Let us enter the door without pleading
or birthright and be known by the one, the voice
leading us in and out to find pasture,
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fingers woven at our breast so weary from being
and trying, so strayed we can only be gathered.
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Linda Parsons
from Candescent, Iris Press, Oak Ridge TN; © 2019
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Phantom
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Strange the great presence in absence—
book I remembered on the second shelf
of the red bookcase, next to Flannery
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and Ole Fred, rounding the corner to bare
wall, or brushing my left hand, indentation
on the ring finger from years of gold.
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The mind plays tricks, clasps the gilt frame
if imagined life even after the moving truck
with his furniture barrels off, even after
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I sit shiva with my grief, days unraveled
partly by my own device, and I have, thread
by knotty thread, woven a new silken skin.
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Ghost pain, phantom pain, a limb lopped
clean, the dead bee’s sting. We are good
amputees, efficient little starfish and lizards,
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regenerating feet and tails in the shadows
where no one watches us spin and weep,
where no one sees me turn a corner
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in the dark before bed, giving wide berth,
my body’s radar still beeping and flashing
to sidestep a bookcase no longer there.
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Linda Parsons
from Candescent, Iris Press, Oak Ridge TN; © 2019
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Inner Work
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for Paula Capps Kyser
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The inner work must be done in the well
of drawer among pebbled buttons kept
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for whenever, lavender sachets spilling
their guts, Grandmama’s cat’s-eye glasses,
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my pride pierced on her pincushion.
Only there can I sift what hangs loose
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on my shoulders, the stained, the torn,
crocheted illusories never seeing
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light of day. Keys to nowhere, Irish
pence, the pocket Psalms and Proverbs
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have no providence, no commerce
in my wilderness, though I rub each
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faux pearl as talisman, the Long Nights Moon
heartsick at my window. Strayed, undone
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in the layers, I dig to the bottom, wooden
thud that nips my heel, turns me to the field
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of what never emptied in the first place,
not bargain or plea but steppingstones,
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uneaten breadcrumbs, one then another.
Buckeye and amethyst still harbor luck.
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Old stockings will do for garden stakes,
for spring coming sure.
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Linda Parsons
from Candescent, Iris Press, Oak Ridge TN; © 2019
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what never emptied in the first place . . . spring coming sure.
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What we truly lose – is it possible that is something different from what we think we’ve lost? The love of so many years now parted, disdaining; the beloved parent now departed, buried. Who wouldn’t be shattered to pieces? Who wouldn’t doubt in any power to restore?
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Linda Parson’s poems do not skip lightly across the landscape of grief. She stabs her fingers into the cold clay and wrestles with the spiky roots. Stiffened and wearied along with her, we ourselves wonder if there is any hope that warmth may return. Loss is not defeated but confirmed, in all its guises of loneliness and disruption. But we also accompany the poet into her intentional silence. She will release the past from strangling her present, from projecting her future. Perhaps what she thinks she has lost does threaten her with the loss of hope, the loss of joy. With the loss of the inner knowledge that spring comes sure. But then she turns to the field of what never emptied in the first place, and there she finds a way back. A path. Steppingstones. She is not truly lost.
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Candescent is a glowing meadow with all its messy diversity of creatures and themes. Vines and briers may twine and choke, but full fecund life grows strong through the past into the present. Life will not be overcome. This collection of poems, colorful and fragrant, affirms the resilience of the human spirit. Struggle and pain are part of us but do not make us. I take encouragement from the poet’s words: Let dead be dead . . . return, to cress beneath your feet, return to real and true.
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Linda Parsons is a member of the East Tennessee Writers Hall of Fame and has served as the Poet Laureate of Knoxville. She will be poetry instructor at the 2026 Tremont Writers Conference in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Her bio at The Poetry Foundation is available HERE; her fifth poetry collection, Candescent, is available from IRIS PRESS.
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or two 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:
.
.
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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