Sunday, September 4, 2011

September 2011 Poetry Page

"Poetry should be great and unobtrusive,
a thing which enters into one's soul,
and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, 
but with its subject.”

- John Keats


by Joe DiBuduo

Forgive, she said, it’s good
for you. Her daughter agreed,
and so did all others in the room.

“I find it hard to forgive,” I said,
“sometimes I just can’t forget.”

You don’t have to forget, you
have to learn to let go, and
allow hatred to escape and
replace it with love.

“That’s easy to say, but it’s not
my nature to pardon those who
have done me wrong.”

You only hurt yourself by thinking
like that they all agreed, and told me
by letting go my spirit would soar,
become free, and love would arrive.

I started to believe, because so many
there agreed it was the thing to do.
But then someone mentioned
Bin Laden, hatred filled the room.

Killing him was applauded and
all derided those who said it was
wrong to kill an unarmed man. I heard
their secret cheers in my mind, and

I asked, “Where’s the forgiveness and
love that filled this room a minute ago?”

It’s too soon to forgive him for what he
has done. He had to pay for killing so
many they all said.

I’m the one who admits to holding a
grudge, and these people speak of love
and forgiveness, but have none it seems
when they condone what was done.

Why even I think murder is wrong
no matter by what name. So I can only
conclude that these well meaning God
fearing people are the same as all the
others I have known.

Preaching one thing and meaning another.
Telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.
By not practicing what they say confirms
my misanthropic views.

But I forgive them, and I’m waiting for
my spirit to soar and love to arrive now

that I’m free.

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 DeAnna Lee Pope

The crisp. 
Gold leaves of autumn. 
Wash over the old. 
The shimmery leaves swirl around my feet. 
As I remember. 
The dawn I saw. 
Tapping at my windows. 
Was a welcome to the new day. 
My enemies were chased from the land. 
The land beyond the field behind my house. 
Behind and under the old dawning sky. 
We were not afraid anymore. 
I would be ready for the next challenge. 
I had time on my side. 
Time to care. 
Or even love back. 
While I watched the skies turn from the inky, night, black. 
Into gold. 
That was when I lived. 

DEANNA LEE POPE is from the Saint Louis, Missouri area. She has been writing poetry for about four years and has won the St. Louis Metro Arts poetry contest two years and the Wednesday Club of St. Louis poetry contest in 2010. DeAnna has about a dozen of her poems that have been published in different magazines and journals including Poet's Espresso, Soul Fountain, and The Pink Chameleon. Contact 


by Cathy Quaglia

Dark clouds full of rain
threaten my lightheartedness
Ah! double rainbow

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 John T. Hitchner

We go back, 
this year our 50th. 
We graduated 110, 
lost 22 since— 
alcohol, bad and broken hearts, 
convergence of fates rising and falling. 

The inevitable irony of one so healthy 
the last we saw him, 
his displayed yearbook photo announces 
he, too, is gone. 

The rest of us? 
We live in the four points 
of the compass 
and points between. 
We return every five years 
to see how we are. 

The perky cheerleaders 
are still perky, 
the majorettes still strut, 
athletes still sink baskets 
and throw deep passes, 
but none of us run as fast 
as we used to, 
and time-outs last longer 
than regulation. 

I know…It creeps up on you. 

Yes, once we looked forward 
to making high six figures, 
more money than our parents made. 
Well, you win a few, you lose a few. 
I took a hit in that meltdown. 
I guess we’re lucky now 
to put gasoline in the tank 
and pay prescription refills. 
Lucky enough to come here 
every five years. 

We look over our shoulder 
more than we look ahead. 
We know what happened back then. 

JOHN T. HITCHNER teaches Creative Writing and Coming of Age in War and Peace at Keene State College, in Keene, New Hampshire. His poetry has appeared in several journals, most recently in the Aurorean and Backstreet. His new chapbook, SEASONS AND SHADOWS, was recently released by Finishing Line Press. Contact 


by Roger Singer

A truck tire, abandoned of life,
lays breathless at roadside;
remnants of a bad night.

Dusty travelers rumble on cracked concrete.
Yellow stained cigarette
fingers bear scars of long nights
on highway 7.

Diesel fumes are the blue blood
of long roads.

Tattoos tell stories of love and
homes forgotten.

ROGER SINGER served as a medical technician at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida for three and a half years during the Vietnam era. While stationed at MacDill, he attended evening classes through the University of Tampa. When discharged, he began studies at the University of South Florida and attained his Associate and Bachelor degrees. In 1977, Dr. Singer attained his chiropractic doctorate from Logan College of Chiropractic in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had over 500 poems published in magazines, on the Internet and in books. His poetry has appeared in Westward Quarterly, Black Book Press, Avocet, SP Quill, The Unrorean, Underground Voices, Language & Culture and The Tipton Poetry Journal. Contact 


by Floriana Hall

There’s a bluebird and a cardinal 
Who hang around the bird feeder 
When the weather is sunny 
And it is ever so funny when it rains 
They perch above the downspout 
In anticipation. 
There’s a man in a wheelchair 
Who feeds the birds bread crumbs 
With a woman beside him encouraging 
Him with motivation 
To use his arms and legs more 
So that he could be free like the birds. 
There’s cigar smoke rising in the air 
Perhaps wings of birds carrying it to heaven 
And an eerie caw of the crow 
As September coolness creeps below. 
Flowers of summer are disappearing 
But the grass is so much greener 
And the space is so much wider 
Than most courtyards – 
Freedom to eat at a picnic table 
Or to just talk and relax 
A place that couples can be alone 
In their reverie of days gone by 
A place where grandchildren can play 
And feel as free as the birds. 
Like a whisk of a mixer 
The autumn days will have their say 
Until the first snow drops glisten 
We will all sit and listen 
To the tweeting of the bluebird 
And the cardinal we have heard.

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 Joseph Hart

The night is dismal dark when there's no dream.
How desperately empty the stars seem.
And all you hear's the washing of the sea
Against the window pane. But you are free.
Music comes up through the cellar door
Impeded not extinguished by the roar
Of the ocean underneath the floor.
And vicious, ugly, wicked, hateful day
Is for 11 hours kept at bay
And everything you ever had to say
Though muffled by the surges of the sea
Finds a rhythm in your poetry.

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 Abhay Adil

Hair as dark as night
Eyes as bright as lights
lips as red as roses
skin as cool as mint

Morning and noon there's only one tone
your love making me a fool
Evening and night I had my fights
fight with fate, telling me I am too late

Every past date, increasing my heart rate
I am killing myself at this stage
But it feels so great
My passion is like stars, burns and never fades.

For one day I hope
I may cope with the pain
Pain that love may be far away
And things I left on the way

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This particular poem is posted on my online portfolio at I wrote this poem a long time ago for a girl whom I had feelings for.

ABHAY ADIL is a writer living in New Delhi, India. His previous publications include a poem "For Someone Special" published on the March 5 Daily Love ezine, and several ebooks on itunes, Barnes & NobleSmashwords, and other stores. Contact 


by Twixt

Blue from blue capillaries leaked, with streaks 
by white wipes leaving some blue beneath, taints 
the transparent total.

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 Quest. Contact


by Shirley Securro

We mourn the things we lose
We're heavy with grief and despair
We survive by being in denial
And we go on!

We laugh, we love, we live
We hurt, we cry, we forgive
We suffer and strive and survive
And we go on!

We overlook
We overcome
We heal
And we go on!

We stumble and fall and get up
We dream; we reach our goals
We rejoice!
And we go on!

SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in fourteen anthologies along with other poets and is currently working on her own manuscript for publication. She has designed/illustrated two book covers for other poets/writers and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The phone rings,
a sexy male voice says,
“Hi, it’s Bill the technician,”
and waits with heavy breathing.
Instead of throwing myself
into his telephonic arms
I practice restraint and murmur,
“Who are you calling?”
He chuckles. “Skylark, don’t remember
her name, but the number’s 1492.”
Wishing I could fly
on Skylark’s absent wings,
I tell the deep curling voice
he’s got the wrong number.

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 James Piatt

Thoughts of summer have gone away
Now fading and no longer still:
The rains of fall have come to stay.

Gloomy vestiges of black and gray
Breezes arriving cold and still:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.

Warm views have left today
Flowing away into a tiny rill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.

The brilliant sun now has no sway
Autumn comes in quite shrill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.

Warm beams from sun’s ray
Now only a faded thrill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.

Balmy memories cannot stay
In the two story house upon a hill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away,
The rains of fall have come to stay.

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 Ronald Charles Epstein

Little boy
"man up"
and take your medicine,
then "monkey up"
and eat your banana.

RONALD CHARLES EPSTEIN was born in Bogota, Colombia in 1956 and has lived in Toronto, Ontario since 1959. His first publication appeared in Piedmont Literary Review in 1982. He has also been published in Harvard Review, The Antigonish Review, The Toronto Star and Expresso Tilt. Contact 


by Gregory Liffick

He opened
the hinges,
the keys
and picking
the locks.
he widened
he pried
with an

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 


by John Tzikas

Upon spying at my blitzing vertical veneer, 
towards his mother’s ventricle spittoon 
the gargling shrink on my couch 
punches the clock in a unique venue 
here the oral presentation of mouth-washers 
leaves the stench of minty fresh word association 
in his imbibing Aqualungs

JOHN TZIKAS is a Toronto, Canada based poet, lyricist, and free verse writer with a passion for classic literature and history. His poems have appeared in Long Story Short, Midwest Literary Magazine, Word Salad, Quill's, Ditch Poetry Magazine, Mused- the Bella Online, Hudson View Poetry Digest and Wordbridge Magazine. He has performed readings for more than five years in small coffee house settings, while living in Guelph and Kitchener, Ontario. Contact 


by H. Tennille Johnson

We each travel alone. At times our paths intertwine.
While journeying alone, I think of you, and I am certain we will meet again.
We voyage in circles that return us time and again to the same place, only to lead us in separate directions once more.
Together we can suspend time for a fleeting moment.
The sun, in its relentless beauty, will continue to rise 

and set all the while.

H. TENNILLE JOHNSON is a music teacher and author living in Houston, Texas. Ms. Johnson’s previously published works include a poem entitled Dealing With Myself, a short story entitled Finding Emily, and a nonfiction piece entitled The Parental Symphony: Opus No. 1. Currently, she is working on a novel. Contact


by Patricia Crandall 

carpet the red brick courtyard 
at Apple’s Deli 
in the charming New England Village 
in Southwestern Vermont. 
Young matrons with blue print babies 
and pairs of Forenza-jeaned lovers 
linger over hot blueberry tea 
and trendy sandwiches 
in true Autumn serenity.

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 Lee Johnson 

Fall, everything is turning yellow and golden. 
No wind, Indian summer, bright day, 
wind charms with Indian enchantment, 
last brides before winter snow, 
grass growth slows down, 
bushes cut back with chills, 
haven of the winter, grows legs, 
learns baby steps, pushes itself 
up slowly against my patio door, 
and says, “soon, soon, I’ll be there.” 
Winter is sweeping up what’s left of fall; 
making room for shorter days, longer nights. 

Echoes of a new season.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel at from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg.Michael has been published in over 24 countries. He is also the editor/publisher of five poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his website. All of his books are now available on Contact


september celebrity poet

John Keats
(1795 – 1821)

nationality: english

John Keats – Credit: Public Domain


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Read the entire poem at:

For the poet’s biography, see:

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