A sad note:  our poet, Jane Ahlquist Rieman,  died on October 15, 2006.  Please scroll down to see the notice below.  Our thoughts go out to her family.
COMPLICATED  COOKING by Sally Needles Toffey	WALKING CAPERS by Jane Ahlquist Rieman
When will the hurricanes Stop boiling over         Upon the stove of life While earthquakes lurk in broiler pans On crusty earth of sunk in sea Waiting to see When their time will be When will the birds cook their  flu So the virus they make Will not become stew When will the terrorists Stop striving for strife As a stirring way of burning up life When will the politicians See the hemisphere in total And soften their screaming tongues When will they get civility back And some fresh new air in their lungs Total peace is not in creation It's just a dream of eternal elation When oh when Will the melting pot melt Into a soothing blend            October 5, 2005 Several poems below by Fran Heineman Janssen DINOSAUR IMAGE Even a dinosaur has a face        and that links me as human back to that place where swamp and vegetation provided lush cohabitation. Did that dinosaur and her mate know of coming climate change, "Global Freezing." we might call it, or was it such pollution in the skies that blocked the sunlight, chlorophyll deprived, just made food dysfunctional, dinosaur to starve her young. We are here, knowing the ending, all of science providing facts, I demand a resolution, turning Global Warming back, or at least slow the catastrophes for the sake of that creation which continues with your grandchild, and on, and on, I hope. Spring 2006 White on White   (in the painting workshop)   White   paint   clouds   chalk   petal   pale   skin   fear 1-16-05 When the poet from my past asked for my business card I knew I had lost my identity without one.  No theft but loss, a deep dark downward depth where someone who resembled me looked with eyes closed at nothing. But like the nascent plant within the seed, a glimmer of contact is growing within, and courage to try once more arises. The values of  the past, love and friendship, have come to the present, loosely encircled around my life.   BALLADE POUR LE SALADE To eat with the eyes the salad that you made me and then to taste, choose vegetables so sweet tomatoes’ gentle color tissue mushrooms eager for your nibbles. Green olives, sharp, as you said, compelling flavors the curl of parsley, subtle tuna the tingle of bleu cheese the resonances of the dressing, garlic for flavor, and a beautiful experience to share. Merci beaucoup. Frances Heineman Janssen	Oh,  how I loved walking:  whipping along on fleet foot, winging it, choosing never to drive to anyplace in easy reach by heel and toe. Herein let me tell of the ways in tribute to those so agile yesterdays. I Long brisk walks to any-old-where, in any kind of weather--no pussy foot dawdling--           whether inclement or fair: waving to people passed, heeding changes  in scene, clouds, and sky, saying hi           to friendly dogs met, barking back at belligerent ones; all walks would end in elation no matter the mood in which they'd begun. Oh, how I loved walking:  working my legs, using them! II Kicking random piles of leaves under a full  fall sun--or clouds,           even darkness would do-- coming at them on a run through russet, red, gold, umber and ocher, rsssh-rsssh, rsssh-rsssh rustling, leaves from under turning up and over--           dry ones preferred-- me run-kicking high without restraint while moving along, (provided, that is, no other adults loomed in immediate view, for then the kicks would become a bit subdued--look less deliberate,            be a bit less fun-- slower, lower, and limited in number by quite a few). True, 'twas a bit depth-less to have been daunted by decorum, even slightly,           at sixty-some! For oh, how I loved walking:  working my legs, using them! III Trekking with winter's warm-booted feet through snow that was deep--calf to knee--         high preferred-- stomp-stamp, stomp-stamp tramping, shunning shoveled sidewalks cleared to keep         the less limber, not nimble grandpas and grandmums from bruising their arms, noses and bums; me opting to stomp midst the quarried snow chunks and lumps dumped alongside (but taking time just the same for watching eyes, to proclaim it great exercise). On less lucky days with a mere few inches our plight, settling for boot prints        planted with purpose atop the dustings on grass, and reveling  in regular sights made extraordinary when topped with powder, cotton,         or glass. In short, walking with zest through any kind of snow would make the spoil sport's         dread of winter for me a delight. Oh, how I loved walking: working my legs, using them! IV Stamping in spring puddles intermittently, several select ones per walk, splat-plat, splat-plat splashing with giggling glee, (having, of course, donned feet first in appropriate foot wear, practical Patsy         again, sneaking in there). Simple but lively striding downtown, too, with clear streets to cross, real curbs,         and sidewalks had extra verve when adding a skip before each rise, followed by a quick hop up. Such easy pedestrian pleasures were these. Oh, how I loved walking: working my legs, using them! V Walk-wading through shin high water on hot summer days at the beach, push-swoosh, push-swoosh kick-splashing unabashedly, moving parallel to shore, kicking  with abandon before toddlers, teens, middles and oldsters alike, (never needing to verbalize its benefits to hips and thighs there, for remarkably, summer would banish inhibitions without a trace!). Or on blustery, more turbulent days run-rollicking, zigzag scalloping,         in a game of tag at water's edge with the waves. Oh, how I loved walking: working my legs, using them!       VI But what I miss most is basic barefoot walking on the hard-packed sand at the sea's periphery. Simple left-right, left-right stepping there, with chin up, body straight and tall,         always made me high, high enough to handle any hurdle life might hurl on my path and hold that high         for the rest of the day. Oh, how I loved walking: working my legs, using them! VII Such jaunty things my legs would do when I was an agile 62. Since they're now a disabled 70, to every friend I'm making this plea: on your next long walk, make it brisk, then somewhere on route, defy propriety--         take a risk-- and do one joyful run-rssh, stomp-stamp, plat-splat, skip-hop, or push-swoosh         for me. If followed by a few more in succession, you, too, might quite possibly say, "Oh, how I love walking: working my legs, using them!" HACKNEYED TERMS AND IMPROPER UTTERANCES by Jane Ahlquist Rieman Of all the hackneyed terms and improper utterances I detest most importantly, a much-used favorite of newsmen, is foremost in my mind, which means the same thing and 'though longer by two words, has the same number of syllables. I suspect, however, that the speaker's intent by adding the superfluous ly, is to extend the most important's already superlative import beyond itself for stress --in essence to star and underline whatever's coming next-- as though the appended ly will bring it to the fore but forgetting one cannot make a most more. For my second peeve I name that phony preface, not to mention, because--needless to say--it goes without saying, that the speaker will, in his very next phrase, say or mention, thus making him a liar and his denial, to say the least or just to mention --which says it best, as one would hope was his intention-- an all too common oxymoron, which as such I find a little much. Concerning grammar I have thin-skinned ears that shriek in pain when they hear the plural pronouns, they and their, referring to something that's singular as in "Give a kid an ice cream cone and they're delighted" and "A teenager should be allowed to chose their own clothes." It's such a careless mistake that can easily be skirted, By making those someones plural at the start it will be averted. Hearing a plural verb with a singular subject causes equal pain for me, as in "None of the peaches fall close to the tree" where the verb should be falls, of course, for the subject is not peaches but none, which means, as you know, not a single one, Where apples might fall is a metaphor I'll shun. Plus I hate it when a simple part of speech gets cross-dressed as another part like the preposition above masquerading as a conjunction to connect phrases, complex thoughts, and whole sentences, stealing attention away from what's being connected back to itself, with its fussy-sounding  plus noise instead, when the mellow 'and' has worked for centuries quite well. As a connector, plus is a word from all dictionaries I'd expel. Keeping it for math is a much better path. In New England I first heard an idiom that I hate, a negative positive that's meant to state the speaker agrees with what the speaker before him has said. So don't I is not only silly, it's non-grammatical and deserves to be given a permanent sabbatical. And each time I hear déjà vu I cringe, then brace myself for that redundant phrase that usually follows it. If folks who show off with foreign words would take time first to learn what they mean, they'd probably not say all over again right after what translates as already seen. I tend to distrust those who say you know sentence after sentence incessantly. "No, I don't" with each repetition I'm tempted to shout, because I seldom do know what the speaker's you know is about. No matter what the topic--intriguing or bland--I quickly tune out to count instead the number of times each you know has been said and miss all details of the subject at hand. And last on this list is the word,  irregardless. Augmented needlessly with a a negative at both ends, its use my Random House says is 'nonstandard .' We hear it, nevertheless, quite often on the TV news, said by those same folks who use most importantly for stress. So having now come full circle, I shall make my egress. Jane Ahlquist Rieman
Jane Ahlquist Rieman died on October 15, 2006 following surgery. She was the daughter of Alfrida T and John C Ahlquist, who was before his retirement, the general manager at Bulova Watch Company's Sag Harbor plant. Born in Providence, RI in 1934, Mrs. Rieman grew up in Sag Harbor and East Hampton, NY graduating from EH High in 1951. In 1955 she graduated from Wellesley College and married John H. Rieman, a 1954 graduate of MIT. The couple then spent two years in France, where Mr Rieman served as a lieutenant in the US Army's Com Z Headquarters located in Orléans. A former kindergarten teacher and newspaper reporter/feature article writer for THE BEVERLY TIMES and THE IPSWICH CHRONICLE, she also did PR for various charitable groups. She loved to arrange/put words, both fact and fiction, on the printed page, a love that continued throughout her life. She also loved making music, which included singing in church choirs & larger choruses and playing at the piano, flute, and recorders. These activities were curtailed, however, in 1962, when she became a quadriplegic. But with the daily support of her many friends she continued to enjoy outdoor walking and gardening. Mrs. Rieman is survived by her husband John H. Rieman of Ipswich, MA and by her daughter, Lynda Renée Riemann of San Francisco, CA. her foster family Ethel and Ted Galanis of Ipswich, MA and 2 foster grandchildren: Emily and Louis Galanis. In lieu of flowers donations in her name may be made to the Ipswich Public Library.