Please listen* to Wanda's poem,
My Swing Was Tied In An Old Apple Tree, recited by her sister, Helen Spencer Schlie, and Helen's family poem,
In Some Other Future Time.
Nakai’s flute dreams
of places where night
tumbles from skies
I had forgotten
of waters No one
takes my hand
to lead me
to the cool lakes
of my ancestors
where Coyote walks
a path for my feet
to place themselves
on parched clay Little stones
stumble In the shadows
high mountains watch
warn of the time
when Nakai sees my eyes
and breathes my spirit
through the cedars
of his flute
From A Small Book of Words (1999).
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Wanda Panduren was born in Michigan. She studied at Oakland University, Central Arizona College, and Arizona State University with an emphasis on arts and creative writing. Her poems have appeared in Bitterroot, Encore, The Country Poet, Lucid Stone, Sandcutters, and various anthologies and newspapers. Wanda served as an executive board member of the Arizona State Poetry Society and was a featured poet at McGee Park Poets in Carlsbad, California; the Corners of the Mouth series in San Luis Obispo, California; Mars Gallery and Divergent Arts in Phoenix; and at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts in Arizona.
Wanda Panduren 1925-2005.
Fortune Teller When You Poured My Tea
She reads my palm: What if
There is a legend in this bright day's noon
in my village of how I dreamed of cities. we could pass on the city's streets
I ventured great thoughts, planning and our shadows could speak
my Glorious Life. jostling words of old relationships
The fortune teller,
her palm heavy with silver, tells how I can't forget your skin
she watched me toss coins into water stretched canvas-taut
and how, in the warm springtime, this over bones thin as silhouettes
small stream also dreamed glorious of Sitka spruce
dreams of overflowing its banks,
becoming a great river— I hear only silence
In the moonlight between the notes of a trumpet's
the seer returns my gold, laughing— blatting noise
It is too late.
All I have left is
My village and I are old. Streets are a chiseled name
silent. The wind no longer shouts from a carved date
corners where young men shared visions. a bed with no warmth
The stream does not reflect the silver of the impossibility of yesterday's touch
I stumble through the cobwebs Water boils in the copper pot
of my dreams— I pour one cup of bitter tea
the moonlight laughs. to drink
Appeared in Caliche Echoes 2003.
Published in Sandcutters, Spring 1994.
Copyright ©. Rights to individual poems are retained. All rights reserved, except as otherwise noted. Reproduction done for other than personal or internal reference use without expressed permission is prohibited.