UNTITLED
The garden we can now see
Was first seen in one mind only.
In its pursuit a cultivator of minds
Became a tiller of the earth.
How many gardens has she seen that we have not?
How many unnoticed souls,
Like this unseen garden,
Has she clothed in garments
Like these, loose, bright and lovely?
She likes her gardens mostly free,
Gives nature the most delicate direction,
Wants the earth covered with the lightest garments,
Loose, bright and lovely.
--Bernie Lootens
ODE TO GRANDMA
My grandma’s yard
She’d stand there with her
K-mart white cotton shoe
The kind that looked
More like slippers
Pushing her hearing aid in
With the back of her pen
Sliding her hand in the
Deep pockets of her knit shorts
She’d pull out one cigarette
My grandpa would stop
Strumming his guitar
And pause from Johnny Cash
To yet, “You’re putting too much water on them, Jo!”
Despite their efforts
There were some mistakes
The hanging flower pot
That grandpa made
From her pressure cooker
But they learned
Through the year by doing
Not by reading a book or
Writing a 3-5 page description paper
What other words describe snow
Besides white, cold, falling
Does anybody know?
She learned by dropping
The first seed in the ground
Wondering how much water to use
Looking to her husband next to her
And realizing he didn’t look much smarter
And saying to herself
I hope this works
Grandpa would move his Old Style
Down and say,
“You’re putting too much water on them, Jo!”
---Sherry Thompson
LIMITED KNOWLEDGE
Romeo and Juliet
She would read it to us 10th graders—
She knew
We didn’t know
What it all meant.
She’d explain the old English,
She didn’t expect us to read it
On our own.
No, she would read it to us.
And we watched the movie,
Not the newer one with Claire and Leonardo,
But the one from the 70s.
I don’t remember much,
Other than the girl was young
And Beautiful.
She even acted out a scene
From McBeth.
She played three parts,
By herself,
I don’t know which parts,
I never read it.
She was surprised when I read W. Somerset
Instead of VC Andrews.
She had us write book reports and she always
Knew the book
Always.
She read everything,
Not just Shakespeare,
That’s what she read to us.
But I can’t remember what else,
Hemingway? I don’t know
She didn’t care if I sat in the corner
And read Salinger instead.
I like her, she was old and jolly
Like a grandmother
And she praised us for our tiny accomplishments
We probably took advantage of that.
I liked her
I don’t know why
I can’t remember her name.
–Corey Schumacher
GEESE, SWANS, MOLES, AND ME
I don’t think I’ll ever catch a glimpse
Of Shakespeare in his garden
Hewing the dirt, planting a bulb
Watering the plants.
Maybe he will come, though,
Like the elusive great pumpkin
To the pumpkin patch
On Halloween.
I’ll camp out one night to see . . .
Me, the swans, geese, and moles.
We’ll each take turns staying awake
Standing guard
Waiting for Willie to show.
Will he? We whisper to each other
The swan hopes not
(he doesn’t want to be disturbed)
the goose doesn’t care
either way.
He waddles around the pond
His mother open wide
Trying to instill fear in us . . .
But we just laugh.
The moles spend their time
Eating the peonies
While we sleep
They claim he never came . . .
Wait . . .
Aren’t moles blind??
--Corey Schumacher
TYPICAL DAY AT THE GARDEN
I sit on this lifeless grass—soon to bloom.
The brownish-tan grass imprints my bottom, as I shit for comfort.
A disturbing “ring ring” intrudes my sunny thoughts.
I then gaze into the pond as the slight, gentle breeze creates never-ending ripples that
Chase after one another—but can’t seem to catch the ripple ahead.
The proud statue looks over the pond and the hidden garden—just as it should. For it
Cannot move.
I notice a girl on the pine bench jauntifully yapping on her green cellular phone as her leg
moves along with the conversations excitingness, flicking her flowered sandal on and off
her foot.
A tiny critter falls on my navy blue cut-off capris as I give the little guy a flick.
He lands with his legs a kicking while he lies on his backside—I hope he didn’t break his
back.
Two more cell phones engage in trite conversations.
“Mush, I love you honey,” one says goofily in love.
I wish there was a sign that said “NO TECHNOLOGY!”
So the garden can be enjoyed peacefully.
–Meg Sandy
SHAKESPEARE’S GARDEN
A stroll through the garden
For inspiration we were told
The sun shone down brightly
A welcome change from the cold
We talked and we joked
As we headed up the hill
“There it is,” one girl pointed
As the arbor came into view.
The subject of our assignment
We approached with expectation.
Composing a tribute to the garden
Took great contemplation.
We crested the hill
And walked to the garden
Some laughed and some groaned—
An inspiration it wasn’t.
The arbor was litter
With a tangle of brown
Brittle leaves of a vine
Still dormant from winter.
I walked underneath
And into the garden.
Flowerless bushes poking up
From a floor of dead leaves.
I inspected it closer
And found green here and there,
Some small purple flowers,
And bigger ones of yellow.
I recognized a rosebush
By the thorns its branches bore
And there were parsley and herbs
Growing on the garden floor.
I studied the bust
Of Shakespeare, the Bard.
The character in his eyes
And the ladybug in his ear.
I walked out the back way
And strolled down to the pond.
Two geese on the far side
Searched for food in the ground.
Other students were looking
At a majestic creature on the pond.
The one we’d been warned about,
“Don’t mess with the swan!”
One of the sculptures adorning
The campus this year
Was anchored in the lake
On top of a pier.
The tall silver warrior
Abstractly designed,
Transported the pond
To a different place and time.
The sunshine sparkled and glistened
On gently rolling waves.
The summer sound of a mower
Floated over on the breeze.
The hillside was bordered
By tall trees on three sides.
The setting was quite charming,
Except for the flies.
I sat down on the bench
And read Barb Lootens’s journal.
Her own personal notes
About the Shakespeare memorial.
I walked back through the garden
This time under its spell.
I saw the hard work, love, and devotion
Of Barb, Bernie, and Belle.
Little plastic flags
Dotted the floor of the garden
Bearing the names and the needs
Of each bush and each flower.
I knew they’d been placed
With love and great care
By the ones who had worked
So painstakingly there.
It’s clear from her journal
That few besides the Lootens
Have helped in the care
Of Purdue’s Shakespeare garden.
Professor Mellin to the rescue—
He will take care of the garden.
So all of their hard work
Will not be forgotten.
He says he’s just an amateur
To which I would remark
Professionals built the Titanic
But amateurs built the Ark!
Today is Tuesday, Ap0ril the 23rd
The anniversary of Willie’s death
And., by a strange quirk of fate,
Also the date of his birth.
So Happy Birthday Dear Shakespeare,
Thanks for the laughs and the ears
Your works created so divinely
They’ve survived 400 years!
My thanks also to you,
Professor Lootens and Bernie,
May the work you’ve created
Survive 400 years too!
And lastly may I say
To Bob Mellin, our guide,
Thanks for appreciating the dream
And keeping the garden alive.
--Barb Pryatel
UNTITLED
Come and sit in Shakespeare’s Garden, and enjoy the view,
watch as the swan swims and the birds sing on the limbs.
Have a picnic, catch some rays, watch as the sun goes down
at the end of the day.
All at Shakespeare’s garden!
Talk ‘til you’re blue, or have a laugh or two, sing a tune,
enjoy the moon, or even watch as the flowers bloom.
All at Shakespeare’s garden!
Dream of the future, remember the past, with a little help
from the nearby grass.
Catch a buzz, kiss and hug, maybe even fall in love.
All at Shakespeare’s Garden!
Shakespeare’s Garden, Oh what a sight it is, even though
the moles like to dig,
dig,
dig!
--Tanna Patton
SONNET ONE
When mine eye first delighted to your fair,
This moment did begin the journey of my hope,
That within me you’ll see’st the heir
Of the empty crown that your slate doth note.
When then mine ear had witnessed your faith,
Thus starting the courting, and doting, and woo;
For the moment’s so crucial in when I must sayeth
that for your affections there’s not much I won’t do.
the touch of soft skin, taste of sweet lips, smell of fine hair,
For these joys I must dream, but awaken in frown;
But as I am a dreamer, we shall dance in the air
In your heart I will be, on my head lay the crown.
Fair is your Faith, in faith art thou fair,
true is my love, it exists stronger nowhere.
--Jimmy Trosper
SONNET TWO
The time for guessing comes to close through you,
For love has not come easy, nor hard, nor ever for me
Until the time that’s recent passing shown be true
in your smiles, and frowns, and trust; this is to be.
For these gifts I give my honor to thee in a brie
promise of eternal lo9ve on knee and heel before this bust,
And let our signed and sealed and witness leaf
Be love’s testament, which shall forever be our trust.
on this lovely day of bonding, my heart shall fill with pride,
Allow my love to fill your void, my verse to rid your doom;
You shall make a most lovely, beautiful bride;
Kind love shall be your reward in Groom.
I guess no longer, for now I am most delightfully sure
That she who promises love to me, is of whole heart pure.
--Jimmy Trosper
TRIBUTE TO THIS CLASS
. . . it’s a beautiful day out
. . . is he coming out here too?
. . . there’s not much alive yet is there?
. . . that’s really a wig? no way.
. . . you found what in the ditch?
. . . does her dress really have to be just like the brides?
. . . yeah, you should ask, I think he’s really cool.
Just another day, this one at Shakespeare’s Garden
--Molly Burgess
GARDEN BLOOPERS
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways . . .
What?! That’s been done before?
Well, OK—How about this . . .
Ode to a garden fair
There is so much here
In such a tiny square
The wind is blowing through my hair
The flowers are waving, I . . . I . . . Ah . . . Ah—CHOO!
Excuse me—allergies
Not quite what you had in mind, huh?
This is a lot harder than I thought . . . let me see . . .
I got it!!
Sky, inky black, no stars shine
A white glow smeared on the dark night
the ghastly head seems to waver on the wind
Floating over the dead frosted hummocks
A Death-like screech splits the air . . .
Sorry, what did you say . . ?
This is supposed to be a G-rated poem?
Ya know winning the Nobel Prize would be easier than . . .
All right, all right . . . I’ll give it one last try. MHMM!
Sometimes when you stop
To smell the flowers the bees
Have other ideas.
You LIKED it—really?! Well, in that case
I have more—LOTS more!!! Like . . .
Shakespeare’s garden is
Flowers, herbs and trees. ‘Nuff said?
This haiku is done.
Or maybe you’d like this one . . .
Lovely garden on the bank
What? Did you say my time is up?
Are you sure? I could go on!
I don’t mind. My time really is up?
Well, OK!
--Megan Schammert
Ode to Amateurs
Weeds and Geese and Moles, Oh, My!
There they go again!
Zeroing in on the Morning Glories,
Attacking on all fronts,
Choking the life out of the innocent Plant life.
Get out the weed-whacker,
Spray some Scoot; the fence won’t last much longer!
Maybe a mallet would help!
While you’re at it, grab poor Willie here a helmet,
Maybe an umbrella, or a coat.
The weather around here is about as predictable as
A presidential election.
Poor guy gets antiqued, varnished, then pelted by
Chunks of ice.
I don’t even think Bondo can take much more of this!
Some guys just can’t catch a break.
Uh..oh…forgot to turn off the hose again.
No wonder we have a pond.
That’s why the Geese come back, you know.
Ahhh…finally…the new bust has arrived!
But…it’s…um…Busted!
I guess that’s what you call irony!
Shakespeare was an amateur too!
--Benjamin Starkey
HOT STUFF
Now that is some HOT STUFF!
Hot like those summer nights
Sweltering heat, side streets on the South Side
Burning feet on the asphalt
So close to night, all we could see were eyes and teeth
Man, I’m talking about HOT STUFF!
Hot like that one last note that hangs in the air
The sax so sharp you can taste it—
Just BITE it—
Feel it getting closer, and closer,
And harder and harder
Pushing and pulling and reaching,
And then…
And then…
That is some HOT STUFF!
Hot like lovers…
Who kiss like each taste is a touch of the soul
Leaning into bodies and fumbling with clothes
Hot like concrete left steaming from the rain
Hot like blackness with white eyes and white teeth highlighted by streetlights
Hot like women with a roll in their step and a mona lisa on their lips
Hot like men with strong hands and warm hearts
Hot like…
Hot like…
--Kimberly Hayes
Looking up to the Lootenses
It was the ‘60’s
A new grade, a new class
A new language
How could I learn another,
Not having learned my own?
Then I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens.
Her smile warmed my heart
Of course, it was just for me
She answered my questions
She made me feel confident
I can do this!
It was still the ‘60’s
More classes, more subjects
More experiences, more activities
More life, and graduation
How could I do these things?
Then I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens
Her smile still warmed my heart
Of course, it was just for me
She took us caroling—in French
She invited us to her home
Teachers actually did this?
She advised me
She showed she cared
I had value!
Then finally, graduation
I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens
What will I do without her smile?
PNC at Barker Mansion
English Composition
I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens.
Her smile warmed my heart
Of course, it was just for me.
She believed in me!
Through the ‘60’s and the ‘70’s
In town, in stores
At flea markets and craft shows
At the mall, at the book sale
I’d look up…
There was Mrs. Lootens
Her smile always warms my heart
Of course, it was always just for me.
She always wanted to know about my life!
It was the ‘80’s
Proudly out and about
With my newborn daughter
Then I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens.
Her smile warmed our hearts
Of course, it was just for us
To be able to share my pride
She made me feel she was proud too!
It was August 1987
My first day of work at PNC
Waiting for that first person
In my office
Then I looked up…
There was Mrs. Lootens
Her smile warmed my heart
Of course, it was just for me
Her hug and welcome
Filled my soul.
Waiting for that second person
Then I looked up…
There was Mr. Lootens
His smile warmed my heart also
His hug and welcome felt the same
Of course, it was just for me
He’s always been there too!
It is April, 2002
I don’t see them as much
Or talk to them as much
But I think about them often
Then I look up…
And there they are
Barb and Bernie Lootens
Their smiles warm my heart
Their hugs and kisses
Fill my soul
Of course, it’s all just for me
And I know I am loved.
It’s an honor to know them
It’s an honor to love them
It’s an honor to have looked up to them
And I always will!
--Jean Ann Morton
UNTITLED
“Never shame to hear what you have nobly done,” quoth he.
“That damn Bard,” said I.
“And eat your vegetables, and speak up,” quoth she.
“That damn Barb,” said I.
Said I! What use?
‘gainst a squalling little Lootens,
weeding out my worms of immobility,
uprooting my verbs intransitive,
and with some degree of glee, quoth she,
“Speak up, have faith, stand firm!”
I spin now with quoths-she,
torrential storming, pouring quoths-she,
feeding me, feeding me, feeding those seeds
that have grown another mouth
and some gestures,
well taught and gently used.
Never shame to hear what you have nobly done.
--Beth Rudnick
Rose's Child
In the garden she made
To honor Shakespeare’s memory,
She tends her mother’s peonies.
Rose’s child remembers.
--Bernie Lootens