Friday, February 4, 2011

Feb. 2011 Poetry Page

“Love is the flower of life, 
and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, 
and must be plucked where it is found, 
and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.”

-David Herbert Lawrence



by Amye Nicole Bird

I'm afraid my tears have wet your quilt
As I lay my cheek against your hand,
I haven't thought of a word to say
Or whispered that I will surely mend.
But even if I screamed right now
I have my doubts that I'd be heard,
For the fingertips that danced with mine
And the works of beauty they once shared,
Stitching life, love and us together
For all those precious bygone years,
Now lay silently still within my hand.

Yes, I should have said goodbye already,
Or bid my last farewell,
But I find my hand's too tightly clasped
Stuck firm, still wrapped 'round in yours.
For hours, I've sat here in the silence,
Watching the continued world outside the glass,
Moving quickly, never ending,
Flowers blooming, wind is blowing,
So many rushing lives going on without a care,
As the noontime rays continue down
Stinging me with their flickering glare.

The nurse seems like she's in a hurry,
To change the sheets and clean the room,
Making ready for the next soul upon her list,
After all, it is her occupation to continue on as well.
But I myself am in no hurry
To lastly leave your side,
To never again feel the dancing of your fingertips
So warmly, wonderfully in love with mine.

AMYE NICOLE BIRD is a thirty-six year old lifelong resident of Utah. She is a happily married, stay at home mother of four young children. It is her wish to inspire the love of reading and writing poetry in her children as it has always inspired her. Her poetry has appeared in The Story Teller, Northern Stars Magazine, Write On!! Poetry Magazette, The Sheltered Poet, The Poets Haven, Eye On Life Online Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in The Poet's Art, Westward Quarterly, The Pink Chameleon Online, The Stray Branch and Love's Chance Magazine. Contact


by Cathy Quaglia

gliding easily,
breaking the silence
with the soft “shhh…shhh…” of your skis
as they sweep up sprays of powder
at each turn.

Here and there,
the sun catches snow crystals,
turning them to diamond dust.

Ever so gently
the slope steepens,
drawing you into widening, flowing, sensuous arcs.
And suddenly, magically,
you’ve found the mountain’s rhythm!

You’re flying, soaring, feeling your spine tingle,
laughing inside at the incredible feeling
of freedom and beauty and motion,
because you just can’t believe
anything in this world
could be

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 Floriana Hall
February can be a lovely month
Though cold winds may blow
Sweethearts nestled by the fireplace
While dying embers glow.
February can be a month of love
Traipsing through the snow
Buying Valentine cards and candy
Or flowers or plants that grow.
February can be a lover’s month
Zapped by Cupid’s bow
Or by amorous longings for a mate
The heart has made it so.
February can be a lively month
For children we may know
Ice skating, sledding, building snowmen
Making snowballs wherever they go.
February is a lovable month
Nature’s crystal white fashion show
Enjoying chocolates and hot chocolate
Brings happiness, seems apropos.
February is a month of love
Sending caring messages to friend or foe
Doing kind deeds for the less fortunate
Like St. Valentine long years ago.

FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve 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 and Floriana teaches poetry at under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact  Website  Website


by Bill Roberts

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

Sweet of face, smooth of skin,
she bubbled over with laughter,
so intent on discovering herself
and life's
close-in, far-away pleasures.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She held my hand, took my heart,
swayed with me to music we shared,
whispered to me, guided me through
uncertainty, understood when I faltered.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

Eager to learn, just as eager to share that
knowledge, content with our journeys,
careful with difficult choices, caregiving
to those who had fallen to adversity.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She endured through years both difficult
and joyous, met and conquered her own
demons, settled into life's quiet rhythms,
dancing a bit slower, still my partner.

I once knew a girl that looked just like you.

BILL ROBERTS is a Pushcart-nominated poet from Broomfield, Colorado. He has been widely published in online and small-press magazines (nearly a thousand in about 200 journals). He has had a poem nominated for Best of the Net in 2009, and another poem in 2010. Bill offers a seminar on how to write a poem a day in 15 minutes, and then take it to market.  He has a new Australian terrier, Princess Honey, who is trying to discipline him to use the big bathroom outdoors.  Contact 


by Tanya Sinha 

Up until now, my life’s been a mess
A ball of confusion, chaos and some stress
I’ve had my bleak days-
My mind spinning like a windmill, out of control
Felt I was a lost cause-
Running out of ways, to save my tired soul.

Minutes turned into the hours
Hours passed into the days
But the incessant ticking of the clock
Didn’t help me change my ways.

Those were the moments
When the sun didn’t grace my window
But I ignored the darkness
And refused to keep my spirits low.

My trials and my doubts, 
My fears and the pain
Then gradually disappeared, 
To make my life more sane.

Minutes turned into the hours
The hours went into the days
And with the incessant ticking of the clock
I was graced with sunshine again
Graced with sunshine again.

TANYA SINHA is a twenty-five year old poet/lyricist/songwriter from London, England. She has been expressing her thoughts and feelings on paper for the last five years. She is enthusiastic and passionate about her work and believes that genuinely and imaginatively expressing oneself wholeheartedly is the key to capturing the reader’s attention. She has been published in Storm Books and was a semi-finalist for three entries in Song Of the Year in 2006. She enjoys all forms of art including music, painting, and dancing to her writing. Contact 


by Annique le Roux

I have failed to explain

Too many times to count
To what did this amount.

I remember fallen crumbs
remainders of my meal
The coffee warm in my hand
Change in my pocket jingling as I stand.

I feel the safety of my coat
as the wind buffets
My mind pondering as I walk
I do not even hear him talk.

I stop.

It is cold
He shows it. 
I feel for a coin. 
Extend my hand.

Rough fingers touch me
I feel their history
His eyes meet mine
Our thoughts seem to intertwine.

I understand
I feel there is more
than what I am
This man.

I take my leave
The wind feels colder
And I think of him.

ANNIQUE LE ROUX is a fun loving, proud South African girl who fell in love with writing at the age of thirteen. She has not stopped writing since and has developed a dream of publishing a novel. Contact


by Twixt

It’s as if nature and the natural world
receded across the skull of the earth
in my interest and focus and thought left
to thinking in its small central circle
lacked exits.

TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker. He is a writer who lives in Ithaca, New York. His poetry has been published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, and QuestContact 


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Burn your tongue
with hot chiles, savor
the flavor under the heat.

Feel rage bubble
in your breast
though you tamp down tight.

Prick your fingers
on a hundred cactus spines
or stub your toe so hard
your eyes cross in pain.

Listen to the soaring crescendo
of a symphony loaded with cymbals
and the beat of rock that forces
your feet to dance
and you’ve met red.

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 Gloria Watts

A presentable man, tall and fair
the kind of chap you’d take anywhere,

Mother loved him, Dad didn’t care.
it trundled on our affair.

Time passed by, we tied the knot
fairly happy we were not,

but you know how it is - time flies by
came the day I said goodbye.

Oddly, it seems he left a space
and when in memory I trace

remembered contours of his face,
sharp tears escape from faded eyes

love wells up – and I’m surprised.
I guess it’s love, for overall

he was fairly presentable.

GLORIA WATTS is a retired Further Education College lecturer who lives in a small market town in Northamptonshire, England.  She spends most of her time writing poetry, flash fiction, and short stories; several of her works have been published online.  When not scribbling, Gloria enjoys watercolor painting, gardening, playing piano and her regular yoga classes. She is an active participant in many writing forums and particularly appreciates the support of her fellow writers at Writer’s Village University, a forum offering classes on the different aspects of writing, and her monthly meetings with her local Writing Circle. Contact


by Jacqueline Howett

Unexpectedly, the watchful spirits looked in,
There’s no broken hearts here.

The pruning season for the young in love:
has not yet begun,
Maybe not for many a sun;
They must be the lucky ones.
When they left, the lovers
Looked at each other,
cracking into laughter.

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


by Martha O’Quinn

A statuette no taller than a ruler,
his gilded beauty barely skin deep
incites young and old to scream, swoon as
tinseltown alights from limos onto red carpet.

Armani and Versace gowns adorn
starlets, décolletage subtle or not,
jewels on loan – all for Oscar.
They cling to arms of tuxedo-clad escorts
with gel-slicked, bed-hair heads.

Show me a true golden icon;
Oscar Wilde and his portrayal
of the human condition.
Listen to soothing sounds of piano jazz
as Oscar Peterson tickles the ivories.
Dance to the beat of Oscar Lopez’s Latin guitar.
Contemplate the heroics of Oscar Schindler
and horrors of the Holocaust.
Dream of the Acropolis, the Parthenon as
moonlight filters into a room in the
Grecian Oscar Hotel.

Vote your conscience – superficial or simon-pure?
And the winner is . . .

Hold that thought; here comes George Clooney!

MARTHA O’QUINN is a writer who lives in Hendersonville, North Carolina. Her southern heritage is the inspiration for poetry and creative nonfiction. Contact


by Gregory Liffick

Looking at
a globe
of the world,
the countries
so much
it is as if
the face
the planet
has a
skin condition
that flares up
during wars
and settles
into the
of borders.

GREGORY LIFFICK is an artist, musician, and teacher of special education and college night school courses from Ontario, California. He has been a poet, he says, for most of his adult life. His online poetry chapbook collection entitled “WATERSHED” is available to print online. Contact  Website 


by Richard Luftig

This samba luna
    determined never to take
no for an answer.

    Esta vida, este lugar
tugging on the heartbeat
    of the pliant sea.

Silencio mi corazón
    afraid to take
a step in any direction

    so as not to drown
in an ocean
    of remembered sadness.

y olvidar.

We dance because
    we still have
legs and breath,

love because
    we have nowhere
left to turn.


Esta, este = this
Luna = moon
Vida = life
Lugar = place
Corazón = heart
Amar = to love
Recordar = to remember 
Olvidar = to forget

RICHARD LUFTIG  is a professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio. He is a recipient of the Cincinnati Post-Corbett Foundation Award for Literature and a semi-finalist for the Emily Dickinson Society Award. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States (including Art Times) and internationally in Japan, Canada, Australia, Europe, Thailand, Hong Kong and India. His third chapbook "OFF THE MAP" was published by Dos Madres Press in 2007. Contact


by Cathy Quaglia

Mountain home
where we play
and find some rest
from yesterday.

Walk through snow
against the wind
gaining strength
and peace within.

We gather wood
and build our fire
time slows down
as we desire.

These moments rare
cherished much
bring us together
keep us in touch.

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

EDITOR’S NOTE: “MOUNTAIN HOME” is an artistic collaboration between Killington, Vermont artist, Alice Sciore’s paintings and Cathy Quaglia’s poetry, known as WATERCOLOR WORDS. 


february celebrity poet 

pablo neruda 
(1904 – 1973)

nationality: Chilean

Pablo Neruda – Credit: Public Domain

Love Sonnet XVII 

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, 
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: 
I love you as one loves certain obscure things, 
secretly, between the shadow and the soul. 

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom 
but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma 
that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body.

Read the entire poem at:  

For the poet’s biography, see:

Quoted for educational purposes only.

All work the copyright of the respective authors.