Dale A. Edmands: I am a 56 year old male who has been writing since I was a young boy living on the wave-tossed shores of Nahant Massachusetts, a tiny peninsula off the New England coast. I have received numerous local and national poetry awards. In 1996 I was asked by the town of Andover Massachusetts, where I presently reside, to close their 350th Anniversary by reading my poem, "Sixteen Years in Andover." The poem , along with other town artifacts, is sealed in a time-capsule within the basement of the Old Town Hall! I have lived in Andover for nearly twenty years with my wife Linda, a Montessori teacher, and our two children, Douglas and Hannah, twenty-three and twenty respectively. Most recently, I have had two of my poems published in the online Anthology, "Bytes of Poetry," a book of love poems written by people from all walks of life, selected from thousands of entries, and conceived, designed, and produced by Alanna Webb, the webmaster and founder of Lovestories.com, one of the Web's premier poetry sites. I am also the webmaster for Kookamonga Square, an award-winning poetry site at Yahoo!Geocities:
The moon that rises in the east,
Hanging over the dormitory roof
Like a lost balloon, wears dusk
For evening dress.
October leaves would have it
Hidden, but November wind
Has stripped the trees,
Revealing this full-faced
Orb amidst a dissolving sky.
Or not dissolving, but absorbing,
Enveloping, as when hours
Later after a long day,
You appear before me,
Clean and freshly polished,
All in black; your face
Filling the night
With a promising glow.
Copyright (c) 1999 by Dale A. Edmands
Every evening I enter this tunnel called winter,
The new light at each day's end egging me on.
It is not a long drive to the school,
As if someone, or something has predetermined
The exact amount of time, and coordinated it
With the last stretch of musk melon sky
That highlights the barren hulks of trees
Surrounding the campus where shadows
Of students move in quick silence against
The night's chill. This is how the season
Will pass- Each month's weather splattered
On the walls of winter like so much graffiti,
A collage of thaws and cold snaps, snowfall,
And rain, unbearably bright days too frigid
For fun, windy nights with too many stars,
And a glowing monster of a moon, too close
To make use of the new Christmas telescope.
Until suddenly, on a late afternoon in April,
The lingering light at the end of the tunnel
Becomes a tunnel itself, an eternal portal
Through which all things must enter,
If this is why the sun returns to us again,
And our hands push forward an hour of time
With the swift and easy motion of a wing,
As if small shapes and sounds depended on it.
Copyright © 2000 by Dale A. Edmands
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