From Our Writers


The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Lowell R. Greathouse.
It was in response to the prompt: WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT…

Who would have thought?

When he opened his email and read the simple words, “Thank you, and God bless you. Your friend, Glen,” the words froze him in his tracks…stopping time for a moment.
Thanks for what? He hadn’t seen Glen in a long time and really didn’t know him all that well in the first place. What had made enough difference to be remembered all these years later? Or…even be remembered at all?
Was it something that happened in a conversation? Perhaps it had to do with what he had said or left unsaid? It was a real head scratcher.But maybe that’s the whole point of it all. You just never know. Was it what happened in a passing exchange, a look, or simply his presence that mattered? Things are remembered, savored, seen as blessings over time, even when one isn’t at one’s best.
But how do you really ever know? We travel around, passing each other in hallways and stores, along sidewalks and in meeting places, in groups and in conversations…just being ourselves, and we never know when what we say or do or who we are might make a difference to someone. Perhaps an email is just waiting to be sent. Perhaps it’s my turn to write an email to someone that simply says, “Thank you, and God bless you.” Because you just never know.



The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Ralph Cuellar.
It was in response to the prompt:   WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT…

Made It This Far

Who would have thought
we’d make it this far?
After wandering in a wilderness
of our own making
Having cast out both demons and angels
our faith remains unshaken
Running roughshod towards destiny
It’s just another day in infamy
Could we yet go a different way?



The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Mary Jane Nordgren.
It was in response to the prompt, A Four Letter Word Containing “R” AND “S”.


air transparent, air translucent
but aspects of air we cannot know
cannot see except by inference
when raven swoops over granite peak
into the valley, dipping and lifting
shifting only a feather or two to propel
guiding him on invisible currents
searching twittering gold aspens
carnelian maples
finally alighting near the top
of green sugar pine
he rests a moment
launches with two pumps of spread black wings
dives, swoops low
lifts again, talons empty
spirals high, and higher
circling with only a tilt or so
as, knowing the air like the back of his claw
he soars



Several members of Writers in the Grove will be participating in the Embraced Harvest Bazaar being held at the Old Town Church in Forest Grove on Saturday, September 28.

The WIG table will feature an outstanding selection of original children, poetry and adult books, and even music CDs from our members for sale. There will also be additional books from some local authors.

Embraced Harvest Bazaar
Old Town Church (on 15th between Cedar and Douglas)
2224 15th Avenue
Forest Grove, OR 97116

The event will run from 9am to 4pm, Saturday, Sept. 28.





The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Mary Jane Nordgren.
It was in response to the prompt, “A taste, a touch, or a smell from childhood“.

taste of childhood

grandma was a lady, precise, particular

her dining room table manner formal

but at her green-patterned, formica kitchen table

sis and I got to dig into root beer floats

and slurp every last quarter-inch of sweet-bubbled foam


Good old’ Days

The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Patti Bond.

Good old’ Days
by Patti Bond

Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s was so wonderful for many
different reasons.
Being able to play with neighbors- playing tether ball, tag in the
front yard yelling “you’re it”. Neighborhood kids talking to you
through the window screen while you are cleaning your room.
Going over to girlfriend’s house to talk, while they are busy
cleaning the house.

Getting up early to pick strawberries to
earn money for school clothes.

Then after cleaning up, hopping on my
bike and going to the craft house
and then swimming.
Going to grandma and grandpa’s in Baker
to stay and have fun Oh yea
my brother came along.
The sixties and seventies were so special.
My family and I had so much fun- sure there were
hard times but we all had a great time too.



The following was submitted by Writers in the Grove member, Bev Walker.

News Update

5 Jan 2019
A month or so ago I read a piece I’d written, titled “The Artist”, at the weekly meeting of the Senior Center Writers group. It was about my mother’s low opinion of people who take up such an occupation, and my deep desire to do just that. It was prefaced with a sub-heading of, “(Did) Your mother ever spit on a hanky and then wipe your face with it? Yeah, well…,” which met with agreeing laughter.

A few days before, I’d asked the same question of a group of people where I live with the same reaction, and the comment, “They all did that!” Well, this is an update.

The twenty-eighth of Dec, (or so) I woke early and surfing around found a morning news magazine show just ending. The reporter said, “And here’s a final note. Scientists have now verified the discovery of the best stain remover in all the world. You’ll never guess what it is. Your mother’s spit!” That’s right! All those times my mama spit on a hanky and wiped your face with it she was using the best stain remover known to man! All this time I’m thinking ‘Hanky spit! Disease! Bacteria! Germs!’ Turns out it was good for you.



The following was inspired by the prompt, Quiet, and is by Writers in the Grove member, Anne Stackpole-Cuellar.

From Quiet

Whisper of dividing cells
The branching of capillaries
Rush of vein highways
Ringing of nerve circuitry
A duet of quick and slow
by central drumming hearts
The voices outside the womb
Near and far
Coming into clarity
The cries of change
And calming waves caress
A small but penetrating call
What makes this sound?
It feels like me.


The Music Of This Land (I Love This Parade!)

The following is by Writers in the Grove member Bev Walker.

From the hands and hearts of wanderers
Comes the music of a land without equal
It’s a new song, heard everywhere
A song heard especially this day
  Led by a spinning, silver and gold array

Strangers to each other they come
To dance, to sing, and light up the stars
In one great symphony of sound
With the world in its singing hand.
  Best of all is a marching band.

Bagpipes with Scots, European violins
Meet crying Oriental strings,
And the tattoo of Spanish castanets,
Join a flute hand carved of bamboo.
  Crowds cheer, flags twirl, ribbons too.

There’s deep drums of an African soul
The stomp of an Irish jig
Hear the Plainsong of quiet ones
And even a Didgeridoo is there
  In this singingest celebration of the year.

Whistles, spoons and guitar
Horns of seashell and brass
The rhythmic beat of a Tom Tom
And a child with a blade of grass.
  Sing across this land in a marching mass.

Astride horse, a cowboy way out west
Echo’s yodeling song of the Alps
In the city a Russian ballerina smiles
At a boy spinning the sidewalk to rap.
  Flowers float and wave to jingle and tap

There’s bongo, gong and cymbal
And the quiet of a Gregorian chant
Even the roaring Rock and Roller,
Who once rocked to a lullabies cant.
  Joins this from everywhere parade.

You’d think in this mish mash of sound
Harmony’s an impossible thing
But it’s there in this rousing, bouncing, band
In their songs raised to the sky
  In this symphony of the fourth of July.