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P.O.Box 637
122 N. Highway B-288
Clute, Brazoria County
Texas 77531
3 Savanna Blue

by Peggy Zuleika Lynch, Carlyn Luke Reding, and Glynn Monroe Irby.
Plain View Press, 2000, edited by Susan Bright.
Softback, 180 pages, poetry and photography.
$18 plus shipping. An additional 8.25% sales tax will apply, if in Texas.
Selected poetry from 3 Savanna Blue
Glynn Monroe Irby
Raring Back in a Chair
I’m most comfortable and at ease
when the spring of my balance
is controlled at the back of my head
with my spine cradled against the ladder back
and rocking slightly with my legs spread.
Although the impetus
      of natural rhythms may change,
while in this position,
            the stability is secure.
As when spikes of gravity
send me backward now and again,
I can still lean ahead
and regain the ultimate equilibrium.
But when I’m caught off-guard
and slip further back
onto my lower shoulder blades,
with the chair-crown square against the wall,
it’s suddenly much harder to be agile
and not so easy to spring forward at all.
When this happens
the additional strains of overloading
eventually overcome the balancing
and the contoured spindle legs
slide out from under me
      and splinter completely
            from the impact
                        of nearly everything.
Peggy Zuleika Lynch
Bright, Bright Sky
Firecrackers soar
brighten sky
in rainbow hues
remind me of you
lighting my life;
bits and pieces
of timely views.
You come and go
as bright starlight
of each startling
sky-fire burst
igniting my love
over and over again,
renewing its tantalizing
sparking fire.
Peggy Zuleika Lynch
Essential to Me
No matter where you are
whether near or far
my anticipation
of seeing you again someway
or somehow
keeps on supplying hope.
Carlyn Luke Reding
The Earl of Light
in memoriam
Earl Vivian Luke
sometimes his last name was his first

Luke loved
Friday night lights, diamond lights, gym lights,
     sunlit Gulf Coast Relays
     and the Texas Relays.
The perpetual sanctuary candle flickering
      and Midnight mass blazing.
Fairylands of twinkling industrial lights,
      beacons of security.
Carnival lights at the county fair.
      Stage lights and spots.
            Surfside Lighthouse.
Earl loved
Violet for family light
      and hummed “Stardust”
      for romance.
Daddy loved
kitchen lights over family recipes
      creating gumbo and jambalaya
      pecan pie and sugar cookies.
Christmas trees, porch lights, headlights
      turning into the driveway.
Street lights over summer evenings
      with lightning bugs in the shadows.
The night light,
      ever ready flashlights,
            and hurricane lamps.
Glynn Monroe Irby
Tall Grasses
Can you hear that sound
of tall grasses in the wind,
that sound of decades-hay
before the final shocks are made?
Listen to the whirling overhead
of golden crowns in the sky,
the sound of grain heads
yielding their seeds into the frantic air.
Listen to the sound of shadowy things
harbored inside the bramble,
and that bursting sound of cracking
through the unyielded early stems.
Listen to the raging of change
through my soul,
to the sound of breaking cane
and the shattering of my secret places
 as you clearly pierce the last
 of my perimeter reeds
 onto the outer boundaries
      of my dispersing reservoirs.
Carlyn Luke Reding
Other Storms
Rain candles dispel the gloom
of the storm’s false twilight
I imbibe
the romance of the rain
In fantasy
I cling to you in the rain
The drops
 catch in your hair
  melt on your eyelashes
 disintegrate at the touch
  consecrate the moment
I missed you in other storms
One flashed across the Alps
Lightning split the peaks
snow melt and sheets of rain
 merged in the river
  A bridge or two washed away
I missed you
in the autumn rain of Kyoto
in the typhoon over Victoria’s Peak
in the midnight storm on the Champs-Elysées
in the sudden shower on Utah Beach
      of my dispersing reservoirs.
Carlyn Luke Reding
Angels on the Ceiling
three angels
on the coffee table
one rain candle
flickering and fragrant
one glorious
double-helix candle stand
one cut crystal ball
angels on the ceiling
the altar of reflection
and the flame
Carlyn Luke Reding
The Paper Jacket
Brass and woodwinds
blend with horns from the street
announcing the bazaar with the curbside concert.
In a saturation of sensibilities,
Saturday morning diffuses around cardboard boxes
crammed with unwanted record albums
marked for sale.
Depreciation and disuse activates the Sirens.
Disillusion sings.
Discontent wails.  
Succumbing to the spell,
      she purchases the concertos,
            becomes their song of seduction.
Once she stood cellophane-crisp
before the ceremony of opening.
At the appointed time
bells chimed and candles flickered.
The celebrant wiped his hands
then slit the right side of her wrapper,
carefully removing her from the paper jacket.
Then he played and played the music.
And played the music.
And played.
After each play
he slipped her back as before,
numbered and filed for the next ritual,
until age or boredom silenced her.
      Sometimes with ceremony.
            Sometimes without.
Peggy Zuleika Lynch
Begin Again
Life is a walk through a series of doors.
Through which you have never been before.
Through which you may never, ever return.
No matter how much you beg, wish, or yearn.
Peggy Zuleika Lynch
You need to be open to opening the door
whatever the door may be.  If you’re not
aware that it can lead anywhere
you may miss an opportunity
to be whatever you want so much to be.
Never feel that the door should be
avoided if not totally swinging free.
Serendipity comes from passing through
whatever open door is presented to you.
Glynn Monroe Irby
Pipe Yards
I like it when pipes are stacked
and laid together on their sides
matching their full length of curve
into curve and lip onto lip.
I like to look into the heart
of each long pipe
and see the spherical light
playing on the inside.
To see the colors change,
and looking closer, I like to see
the colors of the clouds affect
the color of the core itself.
I do like it when pipes are polished
and their flanges are newly groomed.
Then I can easily see the view
of the sky and the trees beyond.
But also I like the rusted ones,
when their edges are held by roots
and they’ve already become
a part of the open yard of my home.
Carlyn Luke Reding
what is that sound
what is
that sound the wind makes
blowing through winter’s bare branches
blowing through winter’s bare branches
what is that sound
in the swaying spanish moss
in the damp droopy moss
the sound
hums in pine needles
slips past live oak leaves
surrounds me finely tuned
in natural stereo
the sound
in branches
what is that sound
Peggy Zuleika Lynch
Memories are wispy mists
blowing across mind
intertwined with thoughts of you.
Pleasant visions flash
like popcorn popping
until I’m entranced
with your presence.
Glynn Monroe Irby
The Fine Lace of Pecan Leaves
I climbed often on the limbs
and toward the tips of branches,
planting a spike and bandanna
into the wood’s heart to mark
the spot of my highest ascension.
For many blue summers
following that time
I could still see the shreds
among the green leaves
and rough bark.
Until the passing of one long season
when I began to focus further afield
and neglected the closer folds
nearer to the lifted eaves of my home.
By the first swing of the next season
the dusty banners were gone.
I still imagine those familiar trees.
Because now I know their instruction.
I simply enjoy the thought of climbing
and discerning the fine lace of pecan leaves
against a grey sky.
Carlyn Luke Reding
soulmates come
and go
talking of time
and its long parade
melodies of seasons
fill space
ride waves of sound
back to their origins
alone on the savanna
with each hearing
more clairvoyance
more mist
more red and blue
more moon  
more night
the strings  
the ropes  
the chains
the waves

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Contact our office for specifics,
limitations, book sales,
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Home Furnishings,
Accessories, Design,
& Sleep Shop
P.O.Box 637
122 N. Highway B-288
Clute, Brazoria County
Texas 77531

© Copyright
All Rights Reserved

Contact our office for specifics,
limitations, book sales,
and permissions.