Saturday, September 4, 2010


 IF I feel physically as if the top 
of my head were taken off, 
I know that is poetry.


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
All dressed up
for the meeting
her secret self dances
inside the gray power suit.
It’s the only way
she can endure the boredom,
the meaningless words.
She gives an invisible squirm
on the hard chair
just to feel her silk panties slide.
Doesn’t try to pay attention.
Does try not to smile.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has a longtime interest in 'healing writing' and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Her poems, stories and articles are widely published.  Her chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle:  Poems about Caregiving.  Contact 

by Raquel D. Bailey
hanging moon...
her earring falls
into the lake

RAQUEL D. BAILEY, originally from Jamaica, is the Founding Editor of Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, sponsoring haiku, tanka & short fiction contests year round. Her poetry works appear in The Heron's Nest, Atlas Poetica, The Smoking Poet, Other Poetry, EPN, Asahi Haikuist Network, Modern Haiku, Acorn, Red Lights, Simply Haiku, Presence, Frogpond, Mainichi Daily News, Ribbons, Chrysanthemum, Magnapoets, Shamrock, Modern English Tanka, Wisteria and Cider Press Review. Raquel resides in Florida. Contact

by Michael Ceraolo
 Bike ride
down a steep hill
once a ridge to a lake
in ancient days- wind whistling in
 my ears

MICHAEL CERAOLO is a civil servant/poet who is interested in, and writes about the past, present, and future.  Contact 

brush strokes
by cm

for the first hour
the door
wide open

before the intrusion
of light,
and noise

i look over my shoulder
where the sun
usually comes,

and it’s still dark

i stand
stretch my tired bones
gaze outside
dark clouds
a sprinkling of rain
when i wasn’t looking

september 12th
the end
of my latest summer

first rain
after months
of baking heat

imagine winter

the smell of wet dust
then torrential pours,
bone-chilling freeze,
drizzled fog,
undressed trees

unskilled, unseasoned,
fresh paint

CHARLES MARIANO is the author of THE WHOLE ENCHILADA:  Recipes, Photos and Stories from Merced, CA, available on .  Charles is, in his own words,  "Elusive, reclusive, and otherwise quiet."  Contact  

by Floriana Hall
Whispering winds and murmuring branches,
Pirouetting leaves and misty enhances,
Chirping birds and scampering squirrels
The beginning of autumn soon unfurls.
Autumn with its colorful mask,
Remnants of summer, sun to bask,
So delightful, vivid and serene,
Slowly changes to a winter scene.

Crunch of leaves beneath tramping feet
As trails of forest and open fields meet
Brings peace of mind, a new diversion
On each and every fall excursion.

Howling winds and brisk cold air
Swirling leaves glide with a flair,
Now we know how autumn teases,
Now we know why autumn pleases.

A time of year thats so enchanting
A time of life that God is granting.
Before the storm.

FLORIANA HALL is the author of 12 books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books.  Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at . Floriana teaches YOU, ME, AND POETRY at the Long Story Short Writing School .  Contact .  Website 


by Salvatore Buttaci
In heaven a band of Spanish poets
Take turns reciting their poetry
To the gathered saints and angels
Who applaud their word magic.
I would like to gather there one day,
Listen attentively to the poems 
that in my lifetime lifted me from sorrow,
Gave me a new heart to love again,
Breathed new life into flowers
And made them vibrant again forever.
I would like to hear the voice of Neruda
Reveal the secrets that danced its way
Through the stanzas of his verse,
Those metaphors that sparkled like stars
Shedding light on a dark and lonely world.
My soul would leap with so much joy!

SALVATORE BUTTACI’s poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, and Christian Science Monitor. He was the recipient of the Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. Retired from teaching, Salvatore Buttaci lives with his wife in Princeton, West Virginia.His new chapbook Boy on a Swing and other poems is available from 

 by Roshan Chutkey
On a stormy night when the rain
Came down in droves, the fireflies
Chirped unguarded, like heavy-duty
Light blistering through an aperture

Up there, the pulpy clouds bled when
Whipped by the thunder in scribbles
Without any roughened brow, outshone
The dear moon and cocooned her

Down there, the hue was a sullen black
But they exchanged invisible handshakes,
The clouds and the fireflies, the creatures of
Night, dazzled by each other, led one another

On the lost home tracks, tiptoeing the unfamiliar
Galvanized by the grisly weather, whimpering,
With the innocence of twilight, up until daylight
To love someone for the virtue of being loved

ROSHAN CHUTKEY works for an investment bank in Kuwait. In his spare time, he enjoys reading and writing, both prose and poetry.  Contact

by Maria Ercilla
They say we’re crazy,
declare it in hushed voices
as we pass by.
After all, we follow our hearts,
take pleasure in brooding,
welcome rain with open windows,
bless cloudy skies.
They see us all the same.
they spit out 
like a mouthful of chewing tobacco.
We are a scary breed to them,
the sane.
We are unstable.
We talk to ourselves,
drink like desert survivors,
and are always on the brink of love
or despair.
Yes, we are crazy,
but only for cutting ourselves open 
so as to pull out of our very beings
the emotions  
that let us know we are alive
and having done so 
commit them to paper
so that the sane may sleep soundly
in their glass houses. 

MARIA ERCILLA was born in Havana, Cuba and came to the US at the age of four.  She graduated from UCLA and has taught English, ESL and Special Education to high school students for the past twenty-three years.  Her latest writing accomplishments are Second Place in last year's Writer's Digest Competition for Poetry and publication in Calyx and CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE LATINO SOUL. She has written a short story collection called THIRTEEN MIRACLES AND COUNTING and is working on her second novel. Maria lives in Los Angeles, CA with her family.  Contact 

by Ron Koppelberger

Encouraged, to the wayward advance of mongrel yelps
And snails beneath stones, the whooping will
Of snake tongues and frog legs
In dewy dreams of childhood splendor. The secret return of
Youthful glee in prisms of rainbow allure and diamond
Distress, in closed corridors of love and open gates born
By the rust of hinges in

RON KOPPELBERGER aspires to be a force in writing and publishing.  Over the past years, he’s written 15 novels, 79 books of poetry and published 100 poems in a variety of periodicals. Ron  lives in Florida and is a menmber of The American Poets Society.  Of his work, he adds,  “I love to offer an experience to the reader.”  Contact  

by Barbara McCarthy

“Sparkling Barbara shoes!”
A poor girl’s ruby slippers—
In a land, that is not Oz,
But Matthew is the Wizard,
His eyes light up when he sees her shoes,
Like a fiery constellation,
Matt is a galaxy of hopes and dreams,
A child’s voice—
A shooting star of inspiration.

BARBARA McCARTHY is a writer living in the always-complicated borough of Brooklyn. Her non-fiction work, “The Singing Lesson” recently appeared in The Legendary.  She attended Pratt Institute’s Writing Program. Barbara has been a nurse for twenty-five years. She writes because she cannot sing. Writing allows her to hit the high notes and the low notes without annoying the neighbors. Contact   

by Abi Wyatt
I have washed and ironed
the sheets on the bed;
I have burned
your worn-out clothes;

the assortment of things
you didn’t pack
I have hidden
where I cannot see.

I have moved your desk.
(I needed the space.)
The blue earrings you bought
I won’t wear.

The turquoise necklace
suits me well but
it brings me
out in a rash.

Your e mails  and texts
are all erased,
except for
one or two

The poems you wrote
lay safe in a box.
I keep them,
just in case.

ABI WYATT lives in the beautiful county of Cornwall in the United Kingdom.  She was formerly a teacher of English but is now a full-time writer.  Her poetry has been published in a number of independent magazines, most recently Word Salad, First Edition and Poetry Cornwall.  Contact 

by Vincent Spada

Down the street he went, 
his hands waving wildly above him 
Hair all messed and matted 
Crazed, like a lunatic 
Shoes falling from his feet 
Jacket split and frayed and ripped 
Face with a beard deepest brown 
Fingernails, full of the dirt 
Seeing and hearing no one 
Walking quickly in his direction 
Going where nobody knows 
Talking loudly to the empty air

VINCENT SPADA is a writer and poet from Methuen, Massachusetts.  His poetry book, One Under the Sun was published this August by Brambleby Books, UK. Also check out Vincent's newly released children's book: Said the Kitty to the Cat - Top That!  on Amazon UK.  Contact 

wet work (for ethelbert)
by Shonda Buchanan
you slay us.
acai berry kiss of moonlight wrings 
the women you love 
as you watch
we sweat for you
jasmine in your eyes, unseen peace nestled 
in mouth of river jordan leans through 
i see a prophecy in your palms
talk of old ways, goddesses you've loved
come and gone, but still here
we taste you when you sleep
turmeric lips to your mason hands
lick of silver, brush of lemony air
just enough to keep you scented
kissed, pulsing, heathered
rising up.

SHONDA BUCHANAN, poet, creative nonfiction/fiction writer and an essayist, is the editor of "Voices From Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology." She is currently working on a second collection of poetry, memoir and novel and is an assistant professor in the Department of English at Hampton University.  Contact 

by Luke Armstrong

The honesty of ADHD is that
There are more countries than
Years to live
More unmet lives than
Seconds to be alive

Learn anything
Ignore everything

Have no attention span
For gloom

With every instant 
There’s only time
To boldly bound from this to that
And back to the cradling twilight

As a non-fction writer, LUKE ARMSTRONG’S work has been featured in dozens of travel publication including Outside, Perceptive Travel, Folate Oak, MatadorTravel, and his piece Finding Maximón was nominated for the 2010 anthology of Best American Travel Writing. A volume of poetry "iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About", was published by Small Poetry Press in February, 2010 and is available on .   His second novel How One Guitar Will Save the World is scheduled to be released in late 2010. Luke resides in Antigua, Guatemala, where he directs the humanitarian development organization Nuestros Ahijados.  Contact 

Editor’s Note:  September is Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) Awareness Month

by Frank De Canio

We who are about to die,
will not yet perish,
nor fade amidst the fixed impressions
of this pristine eye.
But tucked away behind the gloss,
in this plush array and afterpiece
of images, we may still arrest elusive bliss,
and salvage mortal visages.
For baptized in a halide wash,
translucent sheets of cellulose
become a mirrored soul.
In this emulsive coat and brushed-up artifice,
we may still forestall the passing imperfections
that soon beset us all, who are about to die.

FRANK DE CANIO was born and bred in New Jersey.  He loves music of all kind, from Back to Amy Winehouse.   Shakespeare is his consolation. His work has appeared in Sunken Lines, Genie, Write On!!, Red Owl, Nuthouse, Love‘s Chance, Words of Wisdom and many others. On the web, he’s on on POETZ, Contemporary Rhyme, Language and Culture, and Thick with Conviction.  Contact

by Brandon Rushton
O great poet of tomorrow
You have yet to embark on your journey
For today you may be young
Only a child with a bright imagination
But you shall grow in the years to come
Your emotions will become strong
Your heart full of ambition
You will question your feelings
Not able to contain your thoughts
You will reach for the pen
You will find shelter in your words
Truth in your metaphors
Freedom in your symbolism
 And liberation in your work
For today, it is I who finds joy in every rising sun
It is my young heart that is full of passion and dreams
But even I will age with time
I will at some point step aside
For it is our duty to open the roads
For the next generation of dreamers and idealists
When that day comes o great generation
I hope you let me stand among you
And to rejoice beside you
May you always appreciate the work of those who came before
May you hear their voice, remember their words
But most importantly find and create your own
We may be separated by years
By generations or even centuries
But we are all connected through poetry
Hoping and longing for those who come after
To find and travel the path that sets them free
Find your path young poet
For greatness will guide you all your days
For I have lived but two decades
I look at the children of today
And see the bright future of tomorrow
For I am writing in the prime of life
Where I aspire to change the world
Yet I know the future waits on the horizon
Poet of tomorrow I hope you someday feel the same
O great poet of the future
May you grow slowly into the person you will become
May you hold close each experience of life
I try to imagine the day that you will find your muse
O how majestic it will be

BRANDON RUSHTON is a college student attending Saginaw Valley State University.  He is majoring in History with a minor in creative writing.  He finds an escape in poetry and also a place where he can express emotions that the world at times refuses to see.  Contact

by Nancy Julien Kopp
Painting with oils,
watercolors brushed across canvas,
clay molded by loving hands, 
marble chiseled to exquisite form
Artists ply their trade,
by the golden light of day
and velvet depths of night,
with passion and verve.
One more artist joins the rank.
The writer brushes words over paper,
molds a story bit by glittering bit,
chisels a novel to survive the ages.
The writer gathers life’s stories 
from country roads to city streets,
written from the depths of a heart
bursting with intensity and rapture.
Artists all, masters of creation,
be they painters, sculptors or writers,
leaving footprints on canvas, marble and paper--
heartfelt tributes embraced by mankind.

NANCY JULIEN KOPP draws from her growing-up years in Chicago and many more in the Flint Hills of Kansas for essays, stories, poems, and articles. Her work is in nine Chicken Soup for the Soul books, two Guideposts anthologies, magazines, newspapers, and ezines. A former teacher, she still enjoys teaching through the written word.This poem received third place in the statewide Kansas Authors Theme Division (Pen Life as Art) in 2007. Website . Contact 

by William J. Jackson

My dream muse made me scrambled eggs at dawn
she cares for me surprising me with love
after I've been out roamin' all night long
in a maze or some kind of night initiation
there she was, young, cooking, wanting a hug
my helper with yellow scrambled egg dawn
she helps mend my soul when it feels broken
my tired soul feels healed by what she does
her loving touch after I've been away so long
I'm cut off at the ankles, strangled in my song
I see her and my love is all stirred up
as she looks up making scrambled eggs at dawn
giving me respect pulling me up when I'm down
she never dampens down my soul with junk
after I been gone out there making the rounds
she's ready to feed me with her egg foo yung
then we rest together when breakfast's done
without her I'm just nowhere, a yawn;
she gives me scrambled eggs, yolks of dawn

WILLIAM J. JACKSON is the author of a novel, Diving for Carlos, about growing up Midwest, available on He grew up in Rock  Island, Illinois, and has lived in New York City, the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, and in Chennai, India. He is currently working on a suspense novel set in India. Contact

MARGARET’S SONG           
by Cathy Quaglia
I am a child
I am a student
I am a woman
I am a dreamer
Kahlil Gibran
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Gift from the Sea
I am strong
I am grateful
      home again
      at peace
I will always be
      everything I am
      loving you all forever.

CATHY QUAGLIA is an avid skier and windsurfer living winters in Killington,Vermont and summers in Haiku, Maui. In 1975, she and her husband, Lee, founded Aspen East Ski Shop and when snowboarding became popular, Surf the Earth Snowboards, and continue to run their retail and online stores. She was a certified professional ski instructor and resort real estate broker, and has hosted successful book signing events at the shop with authors, Linda Greenlaw, Reeve Lindbergh and Karen Lorentz.  Contact 

by Jacob M. Guerra 

You were soft,
 but never so frail that I
 could feel what was underneath.
 Now I hardly know you.
 Your eyes, once a crystal sea,
 are now a sunken abyss,
 which is fitting
 for the distance that
 exists between you and this world.
 How I wish
 I could pull you back in,
 but some lights
 are stronger than my own,
 and a voice
 whispers this fight
 is over for good.

JACOB M. GUERRA is currently working on his MFA in Creative Writing near his hometown of McAllen, TX. He enjoys writing in a variety of forms, especially poetry and screenwriting.  Contact

by Jacqueline Howett
When man has no enchantment 
the heart is sacrilege.
I tread carefully
the man’s home, sleeping 
In a place I don’t wish to go.
No- I don’t have to know 
Whether he’s my friend or foe,
For I hold the heart of plenty, 
My cup is never empty 
I am the hearth of his fire,
The warmth of his tomorrow,
Where his spirit I set free.

JACQUELINE HOWETT is a writer and artist, born in London. She is currently an English-Greek American living in Florida. She has published poems, articles, fiction and cover art and is presently editing several novels.  Contact

september celebrity poet:
Emily Dickinson


nationality:  american

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul

read the entire poem at
the university of toronto's
for emily dickinson’s biography , see 

Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.