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Poems by Wanda Panduren

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In Memoriam

Wanda Panduren was born in Deford, Michigan.  She was Salutatorian of the 1943 graduating class of Oxford High School and worked for thirty years in the Probate and Superior Courts of her native state and Arizona.  She made her home in the desert east of Scottsdale where the surrounding nature helped inspire her poetry.  Wanda studied at Oakland University-Michigan, Central Arizona College, and Arizona State University with an emphasis on the arts and creative writing.  Her poems have appeared in Bitterroot, Encore, The Country Poet, Lucid Stone, Sandcutters, and various journals, anthologies, and newspapers.  She published two chapbooks: Word Pictures and More Word Pictures.  A noted writer and choral musician, one of her projects was working on a series of poems inspired by the Pacific Ocean near her summer home in San Luis Obispo, California.  Wanda served as an executive board member of the Arizona State Poetry Society and the East Valley Poets.  She was a featured poet at McGee Park Poets in Carlsbad, California; the Corners of the Mouth series in San Luis Obispo; Mars Gallery and Divergent Arts in Phoenix; and at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts in Arizona.  Her poem Basket of Fire, describing world-famous glass artist Dale Chihuly's Blue Basket of Fire, was selected by the Tempe Arts Commission to be printed into 50,000 bookmarks which were distributed to schools and libraries throughout Arizona.  A great-grandmother, she was preceded in death by her husband of forty-five years, Nicholai Panduren.  Wanda Marie Spencer Panduren: 9/13/1925 - 6/6/2005.

Please listen to Wanda's poem, 

My Swing Was Tied In An Old Apple Tree, recited by her sister, Helen Spencer Schlie.

00:00 / 01:07

Journey

 

Nakai’s flute dreams

                of places where night

tumbles from skies

                I had forgotten

                                the singing

 

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

                                and Shamans

warn of the time

when Nakai sees my eyes

                                searching

and breathes my spirit

 

through the cedars

                                of his flute

 

 

Appeared in A Small Book of Words,

p.11.  Published 1999 by Words & Spaces.

Fortune Teller

 

She reads my palm:

                               There is a legend

in my village of how I dreamed of cities.

I ventured great thoughts, planning

my Glorious Life.

                               The fortune teller,

her palm heavy with silver, tells how

she watched me toss coins into water

and how, in the warm springtime, this

small stream also dreamed glorious

dreams of overflowing its banks,

becoming a great river—

                               In the moonlight

the seer returns my gold, laughing—

                      It is too late.

 

My village and I are old.  Streets are

silent.  The wind no longer shouts from

corners where young men shared visions.

The stream does not reflect the silver of

skyscrapers.

                  I stumble through the cobwebs

of my dreams—

                               the moonlight laughs.

 

 

 

Published in Caliche Echoes 2003, p.27;  

Golden Hind Publishing Co.

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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.

                                                                    poetrytrek.com

When You Poured My Tea

 

What if

in this bright day’s noon

we could pass on the city’s streets

and our shadows could speak

jostling words of old relationships

 

I can’t forget your skin

stretched canvas-taut

over bones thin as silhouettes

of Sitka spruce

 

I hear only silence

between the notes of a trumpet’s

blatting noise

 

All I have left is

           a chiseled name

           a carved date

           a bed with no warmth

the impossibility of yesterday’s touch

 

Water boils in the copper pot

I pour one cup of bitter tea

to drink

           alone

 

 

 

Published in Sandcutters. Spring, 1994. p.36.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Basket of Fire  


Blown     twirling through space

I gather into grace

                          Silence speaks

in tongues     Come     Touch

my silk skin     soft as the sea

Open yourself        Sit with me

in black-tipped midnights    Moons

weep blue tears     Melt into me

I am eternal       I am more

than larkspur gathered

in ragged baskets      Iridescence

pours from my milky way

                  Look through me

Choose what you will

                                 I am

the mountain     lighted

by aurora borealis     Call

my name Iliamna     half spirit

half woman     tilting my face

to the heavens

                       I feed you

from my blue breasts

                   Your tongue

remembers glaciers

                              molten

baskets dancing      Gather

my mantle around you

Offer your arms       I fill them

          with miracles

 

 

 

From The City of Tempe Municipal Arts Commission Artmarks: a visual artist/poet collaboration project; commissioned in 1996.

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