"I had rather be a kitten
and cry mew than one of these
same meter-mongers."
and cry mew than one of these
same meter-mongers."
source: King Henry IV, Part i
Act 3, Scene 1
POEM OF THE MONTH
THANK YOU, GOD
by Floriana Hall
Thanksgiving Day dawns
I awaken
I thank God that I do.
Breakfast time
Toast and cereal
I thank God for the food.
Household chores
Cooking and baking
I thank God while I work.
A day off
From the office
I thank God I am employed.
Serving turkey dinner at church
Helping the needy, the poor
I thank God for good health.
Every event
That happens to me
I thank God that happens to be.
Darkness falls
Refreshing sleep
I thank God I’m in his keep.
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 Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.net under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
________________________________________
ALL SAINTS DAY
by Robert Wooten
All Saints Day
All Saints Day
is my favorite holy day—
I can remember myself
going for a walk
in the bright sun,
which seemed an especially
I can remember myself
going for a walk
in the bright sun,
which seemed an especially
bright one for this day.
ROBERT WOOTEN earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University. His most recent collection FAMOUS LAST WORDS is a chapbook published by In His Steps Publishing, in 2007. His poems have been published in The Lyric, Poem, and Asheville Poetry Review, respectively, and in many other periodicals. His poetry currently appears in Old Red Kimono, Poetic Matrix, and The Dirty Napkin. Contact
NOVEMBER
SHAPES OF GRAY
THE SEA
Gazing out to sea,
B.J. LEE writes for both children and adults and has many publication credits to her name. Formerly a music librarian at The Boston Conservatory, B.J. has both a M.L.S. and a B.A. in English. She lives in Florida with her husband and toy poodles. Website Contact
Once he had a dream, a country home,
fenced with split-rail cedar hauled from the bush
a long-forgotten farm.
Remembers digging post holes with his friends,
satisfaction at sweat they’d spent,
NOVEMBER LEAVES by Robert Wooten
The most remarkable thing to Raymond
about this day and the way through it
this afternoon is the leaves that have fallen—
November’s assault on appearances—
between his feet and the sidewalk.
Three inches, six inches, a foot—
the drifts where the leaves have blown back
from the curb before the city picks them up—
leaves that close behind the way
that he is making. They crest before his knees
as if they were a prow and he a ship—
setting out, increasing its speed
through waters lighted
with the gold of the sun—
or the gathering pile of crumpled leaves
beneath a table of the god of endless revisions.
ROBERT WOOTEN earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University. His most recent collection FAMOUS LAST WORDS is a chapbook published by In His Steps Publishing, in 2007. His poems have been published in The Lyric, Poem, and Asheville Poetry Review, respectively, and in many other periodicals. His poetry currently appears in Old Red Kimono, Poetic Matrix, and The Dirty Napkin. Contact
by Jane Banning
Beyond the dead end an owl waits on a kind branch a porcupine trundles over humble tufts quills and needles brown and pine a scuttling, a settling a fleeting green scent. Poking its nose out of a dry den my heart twitches its whiskers.
_________________________
________________________________________
by Kristine Lowder
November stretches, rubs her eyes
Spits foggy plumes and frosty sighs
Her bite numbs feet and face and ears
Our breath takes flight, then disappears.
A feeble sun stoops low to drink
From rushing rivers, steals a chink
Of blushing maples, ginger breeze
Ignites a fire to tips of trees.
Soft sky strums the aching air
Flings a fleece of golden glare
Clings to trees, crowns mountain pass
Turns them into amber glass.
Coppered leaves come boating down
Glide gently into molten mounds
Branches dip, flutter damp and dew
December soon hoves into view.
KRISTINE LOWDER is a recovering Californian transplanted to the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys hiking, reading, camping and exploring the Cascades. When not writing or reading, Kristine enjoys Puccini, sunsets, walking the dog, and raspberry white chocolate cheesecake. Her latest release, an historical novel, can be found at: Website Contact
________________________________________
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Morning fog fuzzes the edges
of fences, trees, a bull grazing.
Forms I think are ducks
float on the creek.
Shapes of gray inhabit the earth.
A beast with large flat head,
protruding snout, dwindling body,
swims up through fallen leaves
dotting the grass.
Only later, fog diminished,
courage gained,
do I see the broken stub
high on the sycamore.
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
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
________________________________________
Reflections
by Callie Reese
EAGLE, GLOBE AND ANCHOR
TERRY FOOTE lives near Chicago with his wife, Pat and the memory of their departed feline. Terry's father ignited his passion for poetry and his work as a nurse inspires him to write. Terry enjoys home brewing and wine making and being spiritually renewed by nature. Contact
I look at myself
And think I am plain
You say
I am unique
I look at myself
And think I don't have many friends
You say
I'm just selective
I look at myself
And think I am weak
You say
I'm just scared
When I say I can't do something
You say
I will
I look at myself
And think I am unloved
You just smile and shake your head
Although we may not agree
You have taught me to see the reflection
You have taught me to see myself.
CALLIE REESE is a published writer from Santa Rosa, California. Having had Cerebral Palsy since birth, Callie has a unique outlook on life and the world. She has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood and took creative writing classes in high school as well as college. Her short story "The Feeling" has been published in the magazine "Women's Voices." Find out more about Callie and her work by visiting: Website Contact
EDITOR'S NOTE: November is National Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month and Callie makes a lovely Poster Girl for the event.
CALLIE REESE is a published writer from Santa Rosa, California. Having had Cerebral Palsy since birth, Callie has a unique outlook on life and the world. She has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood and took creative writing classes in high school as well as college. Her short story "The Feeling" has been published in the magazine "Women's Voices." Find out more about Callie and her work by visiting: Website Contact
EDITOR'S NOTE: November is National Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month and Callie makes a lovely Poster Girl for the event.
________________________________________
EAGLE, GLOBE AND ANCHOR
by Terry Foote
“Eagle, globe and anchor”
Said the part that remained sane
The part that remained sane said
“We’re not the ones to blame”
The blameless said
“It’s not my duty to complain”
Not complaining he said
“Only the trapped and traumatized remain”
The trapped and traumatized said
“We were betrayed and disillusioned we became”
The betrayed and disillusioned said
“With courage we battled without shame”
The shameless said
“Through the haze of horror we became tame”
The tamed said
“And we realized that we were really all the same"
TERRY FOOTE lives near Chicago with his wife, Pat and the memory of their departed feline. Terry's father ignited his passion for poetry and his work as a nurse inspires him to write. Terry enjoys home brewing and wine making and being spiritually renewed by nature. Contact
________________________________________
RITUAL
by Mary Ellen Shaughan
Room by room, I walk through the house
shutting off lights and powering down
pieces of electronic equipment
in preparation for bed.
I follow a well-worn path:
first to go is the TV, then one lamp, then two,
leaving only glowing eyes
in a couple of sockets
lighting the path through the house.
in a couple of sockets
lighting the path through the house.
Lastly, I collect my pills for morning.
Too soon I arise, enveloped in sleep,
my bedclothes still warm
and my feet not yet steady.
I waver slightly as I lean on the dresser, then
scoop up a small green pill
and larger green capsule,
and larger green capsule,
toss them deep into my mouth
and wash them down
with a gulp of last night's tea.
with a gulp of last night's tea.
Finally, I inch my way down the steps,
only to discover that leaving the night lights on
has been an exercise in futility:
I am still alone.
MARY ELLEN SHAUGHAN calls herself an "accidental poet," since her goal was to write exquisite short stories. Her poetry has been published in Timber Creek Review, Foliate Oak, Peregrine, The Mid-America Poetry Review and elsewhere. She is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. Contact
MARY ELLEN SHAUGHAN calls herself an "accidental poet," since her goal was to write exquisite short stories. Her poetry has been published in Timber Creek Review, Foliate Oak, Peregrine, The Mid-America Poetry Review and elsewhere. She is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. Contact
________________________________________
by B.J. Lee
I used to think the horizon was just a line,
but now I understand that somewhere beyond it is a place where the farthest wave
begins its journey to break at my feet.
I realize the salt air, here,
makes me breathe more deeply
than anywhere else, and that the hot sand
fills my whole soul with warmth.
Now I can hear the music in the waves,
and pause to reflect that the sunlight far out
on the deep, deep waters might be shining on
the backs of whales or joyful dolphins.
but now I understand that somewhere beyond it is a place where the farthest wave
begins its journey to break at my feet.
I realize the salt air, here,
makes me breathe more deeply
than anywhere else, and that the hot sand
fills my whole soul with warmth.
Now I can hear the music in the waves,
and pause to reflect that the sunlight far out
on the deep, deep waters might be shining on
the backs of whales or joyful dolphins.
B.J. LEE writes for both children and adults and has many publication credits to her name. Formerly a music librarian at The Boston Conservatory, B.J. has both a M.L.S. and a B.A. in English. She lives in Florida with her husband and toy poodles. Website Contact
________________________________________
THE LAST LEAF
by Patricia Podlipec
By the road stands
an oak, towering
naked except for a lone
leaf, quivering as it clings;
a rebel refusing to join
others on forest floor.
by Patricia Podlipec
By the road stands
an oak, towering
naked except for a lone
leaf, quivering as it clings;
a rebel refusing to join
others on forest floor.
Once young, unfurled
in spring green, it
enjoyed summer breezes,
endured rain and hail.
When autumn chilled
the air, the leaves
enjoyed summer breezes,
endured rain and hail.
When autumn chilled
the air, the leaves
rustled in rhythm,
flashing burnished colors
‘til winter loosened their hold;
they tumbled in crumpled
heaps, but not this wrinkled
tattered rag.
flashing burnished colors
‘til winter loosened their hold;
they tumbled in crumpled
heaps, but not this wrinkled
tattered rag.
Why feel sorry for this
solitary leaf? Is it fear
that keeps me holding on,
or the comfort of the familiar?
PATRICIA PODLIPEC was a first grade teacher for over twenty years. After retiring, she and her husband moved to Hendersonville, North Carolina where she enrolled in writing classes. Her poems and prose have appeared in 2007 Kakalak Anthology of Carolina Poets, Western North Carolina Woman magazine and CLOTHESLINES, a collection of prose and poetry by Western North Carolina Women. Contact
solitary leaf? Is it fear
that keeps me holding on,
or the comfort of the familiar?
PATRICIA PODLIPEC was a first grade teacher for over twenty years. After retiring, she and her husband moved to Hendersonville, North Carolina where she enrolled in writing classes. Her poems and prose have appeared in 2007 Kakalak Anthology of Carolina Poets, Western North Carolina Woman magazine and CLOTHESLINES, a collection of prose and poetry by Western North Carolina Women. Contact
________________________________________
ACT OF REMEMBRANCE
by Abigail Wyatt
It’s a dull wet day, not driving rain
but the kind that comes sideways
in the wind, soaking her hair, her coat,
her skirt, her new pig-skin boots.
The camera-man scans the brooding sky
to catch a crack in the clouds;
the sound engineer sips scalding tea;
the mason lays out his tools.
She watches and waits; she has no choice.
This is something she knows how to do:
the long wait for letters, calls,
for the briefest, gladdest news.
She waited again when the last news came
for the solemn drone of the plane.
Now cameras will roll as they carve his name;
in the wind and the rain, she waits.
ABIGAIL WYATT writes for her life in the shadow of Carne Brae in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher of English, she is now a freelance writer whose poetry and short fiction have been published in a wide range of magazines and ezines, both in the UK and overseas. These have recently included Words with JAM, Word Salad, and Ink, Sweat & Tears; Kohinoor, Phoenix and One Million Stories. Her poetry is also regularly featured in Poetry Cornwall. Abigail is the 'house' reviewer for Palores Press in Redruth. Her poetry collection, MOTHS IN A JAR, was published in October, 2010. Contact
________________________________________
I DECIPHER THE VALUE OF TIME
by Jacqueline Howett
I decipher the value of time,
Galaxies beckon my soul
towards a new frontier.
Yet a frail body
cannot hold
what looms ahead
in dirt and dust.
JACQUELINE HOWETT is a writer and artist who was 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
________________________________________
ON GOING BACK
by David Fraser
fenced with split-rail cedar hauled from the bush
a long-forgotten farm.
Remembers digging post holes with his friends,
satisfaction at sweat they’d spent,
beers all afternoon, later round the table, rosy faces from too much sun and Spanish red.
He has returned after years of moving on.
Does not find the garden where he tilled
He has returned after years of moving on.
Does not find the garden where he tilled
the sun-baked rows,
the rockery beside the sunny side
where he, berry-brown carried on,
nurtured sedum, hens and chickens,
all the small crevice-loving flowers,
the maples, blue spruce and pine,
the rockery beside the sunny side
where he, berry-brown carried on,
nurtured sedum, hens and chickens,
all the small crevice-loving flowers,
the maples, blue spruce and pine,
planted to break the wind,
the lawn he seeded with a sweeping hand,
watered until the well ran dry.
All is gone.
the lawn he seeded with a sweeping hand,
watered until the well ran dry.
All is gone.
What is left is tired, worn, ridden hard.
Thistles sprout among the legs
Thistles sprout among the legs
of someone’s barbecue. Doors are boarded up
with plywood panels, gutters sag,
downspouts twist askew.
He weeps for what is lost, and what remains
sad remnants of a dream,
the split rail all that he can touch.
DAVID FRASER lives in Nanoose Bay on Vancouver Island. He is the founder and editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry. He has published three collections of poetry, GOING TO THE WELL (2004), RUNNING DOWN THE WIND (2007) and NO WAY EASY, 2010. To keep out of trouble, he helps develop Nanaimo's spoken-word series, Wordstorm. Website
DAVID FRASER lives in Nanoose Bay on Vancouver Island. He is the founder and editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry. He has published three collections of poetry, GOING TO THE WELL (2004), RUNNING DOWN THE WIND (2007) and NO WAY EASY, 2010. To keep out of trouble, he helps develop Nanaimo's spoken-word series, Wordstorm. Website
________________________________________
NOVEMBER LEAVES
The most remarkable thing to Raymond
about this day and the way through it
this afternoon is the leaves that have fallen—
November’s assault on appearances—
between his feet and the sidewalk.
Three inches, six inches, a foot—
the drifts where the leaves have blown back
from the curb before the city picks them up—
leaves that close behind the way
that he is making. They crest before his knees
as if they were a prow and he a ship—
setting out, increasing its speed
through waters lighted
or the gathering pile of crumpled leaves
beneath a table of the god of endless revisions.
________________________________________
BEYOND THE DEAD END
Beyond the dead end
JANE BANNING lives in Oregon, Wisconsin with her husband and son. She has received honorable mentions in the 2008 Micro Fiction Contest and the 2009 Glass Woman Prize Contest. Her work has appeared in the University of Iowa Daily Palette, Six Sentences, Long Story Short, and Boston Literary Magazine, among others. Contact
november celebrity poet
william shakespeare
(1564–1616)
nationality: english
(excerpt)
Sonnet LXXVI
O! know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
SOURCE:
FOR A DISCUSSION ON SHAKESPEARE AUTHORSHIP, SEE
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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