Monday, April 4, 2011

Apr. 2011 Poetry Page

“Poetry is ordinary language
raised to the nth power. 
...boned with ideas, ...blooded with emotions,
all held together by the 
delicate, tough skin of words.” 

- Paul Engle



by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

I lay out my chapbooks
on the red velvet cloth, 
move back to examine the effect. 

My ear catches a voice at my shoulder— 
a young girl singing my poem. 
Entranced, I listen. 
Song over, ask her name. 

She thrusts out her hand, 
gives mine a brisk shake, 
announces she’s Lisa, 
eleven years old, sixth grade. 

I say I’m reading at two, 
would she like to sing a poem then? 
Yes! Her eyes shine, her lips curve. 

She leafs through the book. 
I hold up three fingers, 
she nods, dog-ears her choices. 

In the small group I introduce her, 
her voice rises in song: 
three poems she never saw before, 
three different tunes. 

We applaud wildly 
and thank her for singing. 
I ask if she’d like to do it again at three. 

Face beaming, she says yes, 
bends to hug me in my chair. 
Her long brown hair falls over my face.

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 Nell Berry

Jesus prayed, 
“if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.”
He sweated great drops like blood, 
“but thy will not mine to be.” 

Again He prayed and agonized, 
“Father if it can possibly be,” 
Jesus, the Son of God cried, 
“let this cup pass from me.” 

He heard the sound of footsteps; 
He knew it was His time, 
going forth to meet His captors, 
to suffer for your sin and mine. 

The mock trial His enemy staged, 
GUILTY this sinless Man to find, 
the scourging, torture beyond human endurance, 
the guilt misplaced. IT’S MINE. 

He died on the cross for you and me, 
our sin, our guilt, not His to blame, 
our transgressions nailed to the tree, 
on Calvary He bore our shame. 

Up Golgotha’s Hill, His precious blood drained. 
A crown of thorns crowned our King. 
We glorify and honor, His praises we sing. 

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. Three days had passed. She found the tomb was empty, 
“Where is He?” she asked. 
Then she saw Jesus, not knowing it was He, 
until He spoke and called her name, “Mary.” 

She reached for His hand, 
“Do not touch me,” he said. 
“I have not yet ascended.” 


The stone was rolled away, 
only the grave clothes remained. 
Jesus Christ the Lamb of God, 
Who for sinners slain. 

"HE IS RISEN!" they proclaimed. 
Jesus Messiah, the crucified, 
we praise His holy name.

NELL BERRY resides in West Virginia and has been married to Louis B. Berry for sixty years. She is a mother of four, grandmother of nine and great grandmother of soon to be eleven grandchildren. Her hobbies include cooking, sewing, crocheting and writing. She is a published author of one book, GROWING UP IN MISSOURI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES about her growing up years. She is a Christian who writes all inspirational poetry, song lyrics and short stories. Contact


by Cathy Quaglia

Alice played the game of “Let’s Pretend”
and gazed in the mirror without end 
to find a world where chessmen screamed 
and flowers quarreled and made a scene. 

Where the silly twins, Tweedledum and Tweedledee 
fearing a giant black crow, ran under a tree. 

Where the dozing Red King dreamt of Alice 
dreaming of the King and her own crown and palace. 

Where Humpty Dumpty unraveled “Jabberwocky” 
and should not have acted quite so cocky. 

Where Lion and Unicorn never won and never lost 
and plum cake sliced itself, of course. 

Where the kind White Knight, the great inventor 
couldn’t ride or invent, but on her way he sent her. 

Where Alice eagerly jumped the last brook to Q-8 
to wear a golden crown and scepter was clearly her fate. 

Where Red Queen and White Queen put her to the final test but Royal Alice was wise, and soon captured the best. 

Alice played the game of “Let’s Pretend” 
and gazed in the mirror without end 
to find her world was a vision borrowed from time 
and life a dream fashioned by the mind.

CATHY QUAGLIA grew up in New York and moved to Killington,Vermont in 1975, establishing Aspen East Ski Shop with her husband, Lee. With the emergence of snowboarding, they started Surf the Earth Snowboards, and continue to run their retail and online stores together. During this time, she was a certified professional ski instructor and resort real estate broker. She has hosted many events at the shop, including book signings with best-selling authors, Linda Greenlaw, Reeve Lindbergh, Karen Lorentz and Wendy Clinch, and The Ski Channel’s movie THE STORY to a large audience at The Summit Lodge in January 2011. She created WATERCOLOR WORDS, a collaboration with fellow Killington Arts Guild member, artist Alice Sciore, combining Cathy’s poems, “ODE TO SKIING,” “REFLECTIONS ON SNOW,” and “MOUNTAIN HOME” with watercolor paintings that Alice created for them, which are now available for sale as art prints. She is working on a book of poetry and images called LIGHT ON LIFE. Contact 


by Edward Rodosek

Sometimes I get weary of the computer
for reading electronic books 
is so unfeeling and so lifeless. 

Then I ransack all my bookshelves 
in my study and elsewhere. 

There my old beloved books 
are waiting for my attention 
as faithful as always. 

Therefore I simply must return to them 
again and again 
as to a favorite cake. 

At first I blow the dust from their hardcovers 
and turn through pages of some books. 
I love the rustling of dry paper 
and its slight yellow tinge. 

Abruptly a well-known title holds me up 
as deeply buried memories 
awaken somewhere in my mind. 

By chance I recollect a fragment forgotten long ago 
and something forced me 
to find it in the book. 

Many of the sentences I know by heart; 
so I don't search for the story anymore. 

I try to find that hidden bridge 
which would return me 
to magic bygone years of my delight 
when I got first excited 
with their eternal beauty.

EDWARD RODOSEK is a Senior College Professor at the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia, European Union. He is married and has one daughter and two grandsons. In addition to his professional work, he also writes fiction. More than a hundred of his short stories and about a dozen of his poems have been published in magazines in the US (including Long Story Short), UK, Australia and India. Recently, he published a collection of short stories in the US entitled “BEYOND PERCEPTION.” Contact 


by James Piatt

New sprouts
Beginning of life: 
Rose buds 
White, red, pink, green. 
Little sprout 
Pushing up from 
Deep rich soil: 
Rich earth 
Anxious to emit 
Fruit trees 
Green, pink blossoms 
Beautiful elderly woman 
On her hands 
And knees, 
Gently sifting 
Humid earth, 
Like she has done 
For so many seasons, 
So peaceful 
In her garden of 
Spring delights.

JAMES PIATT earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. He is retired and spends his summers along the river, reading, writing, and penning poetry. Two relatives, John James Piatt & Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote poetry in the 1800's. Contemporary American Voices (featured poet), Word Catalyst Magazine (featured poet), Apollo’s Lyre, Caper Journal, Vox Poetica, Shadow Poetry Anthology, The Penwood Review, Wilderness House Review, Front Porch Review, A Handful of Stones, Autumn Leaves, and Hanging Moss Journal, have published or will be publishing his poetry. Contact 


by Virginia Munoz

Ghosts of our struggles
disturb your sleep. 
A faint whimper and 
your head swivels on the pillow. 
In the morning 
the golden nimbus of your fine baby hair, 
standing out straight, 
speaks truth to all: 
haloed toddler 
locked in holy battle with a tyrant, 
receiving mysterious directives from heaven 
like St. Joan of Arc.

VIRGINIA MUNOZ lives in Oregon and has dual degrees in Linguistics and Religious Studies. She writes in the middle of the night while her six kids are asleep or at the kitchen counter when they think she’s preparing dinner. She has been published in the Imperfect Parent. Contact 


by Floriana Hall

It’s cut on the bias
It fits together 
Stitches small and even 
Like in a quilt 
One patch is the first step 
Another is learning 
To walk alone 
Choices to make 
One path or the other 
No cracks to fall through 
In the garden of life 
Veering to the right 
Hobbling to the left 
Picking up the pieces 
Misinterpreting some 
Reaching out for others 
Stuck in the middle 
Culture shocks 
Righteous views 
Time to rest 
A masterpiece

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 Joe DiBuduo

It only comes once a year.
To some a joy and a pleasure,
others think it an unspeakable measure 
What'll it be for you when that time arrives? 

Will you embrace that uncle in expectation 
that he’ll reimburse all of your expenses? 
Or will you shudder in horror 
when he comes calling, 
looking for hidden treasures 
and other things you didn't 
want him to know you owned?

Once a year he is generous to some, but I tell you, 
he's no uncle of mine with his threats and abuse. 
He only claims to be my uncle for what I own. 
He's no blood of mine, and if he has any at all, 
it’s ice cold.

If we don't give him what he wants, he'll send force 
to take what he claims as his own. If we resist, we'll 
find ourselves without anything at all because he has 
the law working for him. 

So fill out that paperwork, 
and give him what he claims as his, 
or be prepared for the worst. 
No one has ever said, "I Love You" 
on any call or letter to our Uncle Sam.

JOE DIBUDUO is a writer who lives in Arizona and graduated from Yavapai College in 2009 in the creative writing program. He has published several short stories and poems online, and has published one nonfiction book. He is presently working on a memoir and novel along with writing a poem a day. Contact


by Alexandra Hughes

sixteen reasons
to be positive and vote 
pro bono in favor of this poem:

your eighth grade teacher never saw it. 
the meter’s not really too bad – 
and your boyfriend’s family 
will never, ever reference it. 
Not to mention the dozen 

glorious monkeys who proudly 
resound with a timid, squealed 

“Ooh, ooh… aah aah.” 
thank you.

ALEXANDRA HUGHES is a full-time writer and novelist in Atlanta, Georgia. This poem was a crowd-pleaser at a real college “Bad Poetry Night” in 2004. Contact 


by Patricia Crandall

Swarms of trees
nurture infant buds 
soon to mature 
in resplendent array. 
An insatiable eagle 
devours prey 
by the roadside. 
Traveling in the direction 
of New York City 
a farmer carts hay blocks. 
A fiery sun 
warms passengers 
through gray tinted windows 
of the sleek, white 
Atlantic City 
is one hundred seventy five 
miles away!

PATRICIA CRANDALL has three books in print: a thriller, THE DOG MEN, a historical volume, MELROSE: THEN AND NOW, and a poetry book, I PASSED THIS WAY. She is currently working on an adventure/thriller novel and a book of bottle mining adventures. She lives with her husband on a lake in the Grafton Mountains in upstate New York. Contact 


by Michael Ceraolo

Lords of the realm, to who in vassalage
The players for a hundred-plus years were;
For these I send this written embassage
For those unions which did not quite adhere:
One, its own, league, betrayed by it backers
Just when it was on the verge of success;
One that for a few years made more smackers
From the baseball magnates' war of excess;
One with a chief chosen by management!
Until came the time of Marvin Miller,
And with him the end of sentiment;
Someone who for unions was a pillar.
And the lords would then yield and yield and yield
Until it was a level playing field.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem is part of a project called “Baseball a la Shakespeare,” a re-writing of all 154 sonnets and selected soliloquies with baseball themes.

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


by Joseph Hart

To come up with the something that is art -
Rhythms, rhymes and images and phrases -
The truths that come to those who live apart -
Inconsequential truths - in verse that dazes

The mental senses - like a single tone
Sung by a soprano singing high -
Poetry's a joy when I'm alone -
And I'll keep getting older til I die -

JOSEPH HART became aware of poetry when he read "The Highwayman." His heroes are Keats and Brooke. His happiest publication was a twenty page free verse on sleep in Audience Magazine about a year ago. If he had written the thesis, he would have an MA in Humanities. Contact 


by Nell Berry

When Jesus was born in Judea,
in a stable where cattle are fed, 
There was no room in the inn 
and the manger became His bed. 

When Jesus began His ministry, 
fulfilling the prophetic word, 
He set captives free 
and taught things no one had ever heard. 

After He began to preach, 
His disciples knew Him as Lord, 
They believed He was the Messiah, 
the only begotten Son of God. 

As Jesus’ ministry grew,
the number of believers began to grow. 
His own received Him not, 
His teaching, they did not know.
The Pharisees were afraid of Him, 
He was a threat to their way of life. 
His teaching caused them to feel guilt and shame, 
And they wanted to see him die. 

He healed, saved and delivered, 
this Man Who was called the Christ. 
He didn’t boast or make false claims, 
He was a Man Who could not lie. 

They had seen the miracles He performed, 
giving hope, where none remained. 
Many lives were transformed, 
He healed the sick, the blind and lame. 

In the annals of time, God’s plan was laid, 
for Judas to aid the chief priests and Pharisees 
and lead them to the Son of Man, 
in the sinister plan they made; 
To betray his friend, thirty pieces of silver, 
Judas was paid. 

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, “Father, if it is possible, Let this cup pass from me.”
Again He prayed, “Let this cup pass from me.” 
And wept in great agony. 

At last, Judas entered the garden, 
Jesus knew His hour had come. 
Judas approached Him and kissed His cheek, 
to indicate He was the One. 
They arrested Jesus like a common thief, 
and led Him away. 

The One Who had no sin, for all our sins to pay. 
He endured the scourging, the torture, 
the stripes on His back, 
His beard was ripped from His dear face, 
and the flesh became bruised and black. 

He was beaten beyond recognition, 
His face swollen, distorted and grotesque. 
“Is this our beloved Messiah?” 
the disciples must have asked. 

“Why is He being beaten so mercilessly? 
What crime has He committed?” 
No one there could give an answer, 
there was no crime He did. 

He came and bore our sin; 
yet by God’s wrath He was crushed; 
wounded for our transgressions; 
His crime was that He loved us. 

Our chastisement was upon Him; 
By His stripes we are healed 
He died to save us from our sin, 
by His love we are sealed.

NELL BERRY resides in West Virginia and has been married to Louis B. Berry for sixty years. She is a mother of four, grandmother of nine and great grandmother of soon to be eleven grandchildren. Her hobbies include cooking, sewing, crocheting and writing. She is a published author of one book, GROWING UP IN MISSOURI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES about her growing up years. She is a Christian who writes all inspirational poetry, song lyrics and short stories. Contact


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

She strides on long legs
into a room, along the road.
Usually looks up 
except when rocks on the lane 
catch her attention. 
Short hair, silver, 
engraved earrings, silver. 
Shirt with left breast pocket 
holds a crumpled tissue, 
camouflage for the loss beneath. 
Back straight, even when hurting, 
eyes hazel, direct to the core 
and a smile that belies the wrinkles 
mapping her face.

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 


april celebrity poet

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

nationality: american

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – Credit: Public Domain

An April Day

When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

Read the entire poem at:  

For the poet’s biography, see:

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