Wednesday, July 4, 2012

July 2012 Poetry Page

“Yet America is a poem in our eyes;
its ample geography dazzles the imagination,
and it will not wait long for metres. 

-Ralph Waldo Emerson



by Joseph Wade

They asked why, 
as if I knew why I turned left instead of right, 
went to the hill instead of the sandy shore 
where waves beat drums 
and wind sung into bottles people emptied at a party. 

On the hill, dead woods stood 
wrapped in vines of fog 
that circled it like an old man’s white hair, 
leaving the top bald, 
wet trunks exposed, 
glistening in magic-hour sun, 
everything ethereal, 
ready to wisp with wind 
cracking rotted trees, 
blowing dried leaves to be carried, 
crushed far from home. 

From the top, I saw an ocean-soul wave, 
one curl across the green roll of its lips 
to share happiness, send the world spinning on its axis, 
never expecting the crash, the splash, the water cracking, 
droplets held together in such a powerful sheet 
that each time it is expected—o 
this time, I’ll not break upon the rocks— 
and so the souls march into destruction eternally, 
never an answer, just the curl of a smile—a crash, boom, shhh. 

In the dead wood, 
lead by magic hour’s gentle hand to nothing land 
just to miss the party and watch the forest crash, 
groan like a dog dying as the fog rose in wisps like spirits 
silvered as edges of clouds under moonshine, 
ring of mercurial air mixing with sunlight wine in my chalice eyes 
pressed to the lips of my soul—drank deep—hangover 
morning come—I lay stretched naked, twisted with time- 
turned branches and trunks crisscrossed among the damned of the hill 
when the question came with sunny fingers and windy breath, “Why?” 
And, still, I have no answer, nor the waves that keep crashing.

JOSEPH WADE is an eight year veteran of the military. He currently attends Brooklyn College for Creative Writing where he is the Poet in Residence for Sex and Politics Radio. He has been published in multiple places including Grey Sparrow Press, Gloom Cupboard and Blue Lake Review. He has also been awarded the Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing, the Rosen Fellowship which published his first book of poetry, OF LIFE INFALLIBLE. For more information, please contact him at Contact 


by Floriana Hall

She sat in her stroller, patiently waiting
The start of the holiday parade
Music started, veterans marching -
Out of the stroller, she stood up
Put her hand over her heart
As the flag was displayed.

A wee lass of almost three years old
Respectfully waved red, white, and blue
While soldiers of different wars passed by.
She seemed to understand the significance
And importance of the day
Smiling at the heroes so true.

Patriotism starts early
Spruced up with a flag hair bow
A blue skirt and red shirt,
Love of country begins
Loyalty and good citizenship
She's beginning to know.

The parade was solemn but loud
Marching bands played our National Anthem
Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts stepped out,
Old cars rolled by honking their horns
Fire engines blared like bursts of fireworks
Soon it was noon and P.M.

The little girl walked back to her home
Quiet and seemingly thinking some
About the new experience
Of understanding what it's all about
Family, country, our flag -
Living in America means freedom.

FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. She and her husband have been married for 63 years and they have five children, nine grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at and She has published two new books including MISS FLOSSIE'S WORLD- Coping with Adversity During The Great Depression Then and the Recession Now (2011) and POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL OHIO - Then and Now (2011) which she compiled for THE POET'S NOOK. All of her books are available on Floriana teaches poetry at under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website


by Roger Singer

The breeze was a likable flavor.
I licked at it, pushing my fingers through
its twists, while swirls ran the length of me.

Winds of waves drove engines over my shirt,
lifting my collar, teasing the tails of my shirt
and buttons undone; in the summer of a day.

Pine trees whistle a song of air, sending my
senses onto a thought vacation.

I am fully arrived at the edge of a shoreline.
My ankles welcome the ocean. Green blue
waters blend into night.

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 Gloria Watts

There he is, beneath the shade
of the old apple tree.
Eyes closed, forehead eased
of those frowns that fill
his days, when pain surges,
snakes through that fragile frame.
Peace, a small respite, among
the greenery of a summer’s day.

GLORIA WATTS is a retired Further Education College lecturer, is an active participant in several writing forums, including the Muse Flash Success Board, Muse Prophets and Writing Friend. Her stories have been published at Bewildering Stories, Apollo's-Lyre, The Fiction Flyer, and Long Story Short. When not writing she likes to keep busy. She enjoys watercolour painting, playing piano, gardening and yoga. Contact 


by Sarah Terzo

Glad tongues sweet and cold,
we laugh and grin with green lips.
Sticky faces smile.

SARAH TERZO is a poet and writer whose science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in publications such as Anotherealm and Cemetery Moon and whose poetry has appeared in several anthologies. She lives in New Jersey and enjoys reading from her collection of over 3,000 books, raising and breeding tropical fish, and volunteering for The Turn a Frown Around Foundation, a charity that visits nursing homes and hospitals. Contact


by John Grey

I stared at the map. 
I tried to move in,
that stretch of green terrain,
that intriguingly named town,
but I stopped at the edge of the paper
and could go no further.

Then it was the sky’s turn,
a long lime gazing,
an unwillingness for the blue, the clouds,
to have me.
Nor was night of any use.
For all the moon and the stars,
I couldn’t get beyond
the rim of my eyes.

And so it is another day
rooted in where I am.
Can’t go back to Ancient Rome,
the American West,
for all the books I read.
Even tried memories, my own past,
but its roads were blocked,
its bridges down.

So here I am, in this contained world,
lord of nothing I survey.
I can only dream.
But only as far as dreams not coming true.

JOHN GREY has been published recently in the Echolocation, Santa Fe Poetry Review and Caveat Lector with work upcoming in Clark Street Review, Poem and the Evansville Review. Contact


by Tami Richards

Sugared nectar drizzling fingers
Along the forge; mango lingers,
Skin aching for more than a touch,
Euphoric; sweet yearning is such,

Smooth symphony calls low, earnest
Lighting a fire’s deep furnace,
Stoking long chords, eternal dreams,
Sealing a softly fissured seam,

Salted seabeds brimming fusion,
High tides pull in confusion,
Secrets clutch, excited union,
Low tide in ‘raptured communion,

‘Saltations of gelled embraces,
Exalting in mirrored faces,
Saints fell angels o’er such delight,
As lovers embracing a star’s night,

Seism’s rumbling can always quake,
When pounding earth, lovers do shake,
Seismologists may catch wonder
At what causes earthly thunder.

TAMI RICHARDS lives in the beautiful Willamette Valley of Oregon where she endures many months of rain in order to bask in the splendor of the Valley's well-watered beauty. Contact Website


by Amelia Abdullah

The lack of gravity swiftly grabs my interest
As I float on top of a new world.
Colorful life one hundred feet beneath me
Magnetically attracts my focus
Of serene magnificence.
Fishes of vibrant colors put the rainbow to shame
As they feed off the coral reefs
Which house fishes by the hundreds
In curvy cubbies protecting them from enemies.
Random flamboyant sea fans waving hello
With their thin mesh frame
Acting as a shade for some
Scattered starfishes who lie on the sea floor
Lethargic and stationary
Next to their slimy twin
The sea cucumber.
Slithering snakes moving fluidly
Towards their prey.
Bubble-like jellyfishes pump towards the sky
With their sensational long legs.
Admiring the hidden treasures of the sea
In a breathtaking moment.
Fascination of underwater life
Relaxing my every cell.
Thoughts of reality disappear
As I slowly become one with the sea.

AMELIA ABDULLAH is a current college student studying biology and Spanish. She enjoys writing about how she feels. It helps release stress, fear, anxiety, joy, anger, etc. that she may be feeling. Contact 


consider this
by Steve Croisant

we held court 
in a porch-swing dusk 
we drank our fill and then some 
of an iced tea moon 

we reminisced a picnic sky 
festooned with matinee popcorn clouds 
and a kite breeze 
drew whispers from the leaves 
that composed a wind chime tune 

we brand-named affection 
auditioned a bullfrog chorus and cricket band 
small lover's laughter 
trickled from your throat 
and the featherweight of paramour sighs 
syncopated to the fireworks of fireflies 

we wore streetlamp grins 
adorned with hide-n-seek romance 
and a sprinkler game symphony 
drew an audience of stars 
and maestroed an a-la-mode heat wave 

who would wrong these rites 
nor who would interfere 
while our winsome alloy moods 
are catalyst to perfection

© Steve Croisant 2003 
July 12, 2003

STEVE CROISANT has no formal writing training or education, but has been writing semi-regularly since the early 2000's. He has been a member of Columbine Poets for five or six years, and reads semi-regularly at two or three open mics in the Denver metro area. Contact 


by Stephanie Renae Johnson

paper lanterns in the skeleton bare trees,
tea lights and doilies on tables,
and bouquets sprouting fountains of film negatives.

Polaroid attended, flashy as always
in a shimmering gown that shook and
glowed at the edges;

Fuji politely declined the invitation.

Meanwhile, my childhood,
years away, got stolen from my mother’s purse—
a window smashed open to get to the trunk:

and in it, all our Kodak moments.
Our swimming lessons with yellow floaties
and school posed photographs
with flyaway hair.

A thief, somewhere, thumbs through them,
staring at children who mean nothing to them

before throwing them in a trash can,
watching them burn back to the negative

of reflected light.

STEPHANIE RENAE JOHNSON is a recent graduate of Flagler College and now works as a production artist at Xulon Press. Previously, Stephanie worked as an editor assistant for Jason Cook at Ampersand Books. Stephanie's work has been published by Prick of the Spindle, poeticdiversity, Danse Macabre, WritingRaw, Opium Poetry, Orlando Sentinel Online, and The Flagler Review. Contact 


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Julie at the market says
people ask how to cook
summer squash. She remembers
I have a favorite recipe,
would I write it down?

Charmed by her request
I set my basket on the floor.
Take the clipboard and pen
right there by the canned pop.
In front of the milk,
butchers chopping at the side,
I begin to write.

I picture myself in my kitchen
slicing zucchini, crushing garlic.
The smell as they sizzle
in olive oil.

I see them scraped into a bowl,
flecked with Italian herbs,
dusted with bread crumbs.
Mustn’t forget the Parmesan cheese,
slivered almonds, then a quick toss.

They taste so succulent in my mind
I almost moan
right there in the store.
Julie says thanks,
she’ll make copies if that’s OK.
I grin and say sure.

Twitching taste buds
send me back to produce,
I pick up my own summer squash
for dinner.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with an interest in healing writing and the benefits of writing and reading work together. Widely published in poetry and nonfiction, she writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact 


by Elaine Kaye

A grain of sand is washed away,
Waves rolling in and out in symmetric rhythm.
A mighty ocean deep blue, dark and wide;
covering the Earth, blending into the sky.
The sun sets as a new moon peeks through,
making black that sea of blue.
stars filling the heavens like fireflies,
some fall and disappear while others get bigger and brighter.
Planets trailing the powerful sun;
a dot in a galaxy of our own.
One galaxy, then another, maybe millions;
in a universe that is never ending in our bright blue sky.
We see, as we raise our eyes, knowing but wondering-
Just what is out there?
Some things we cannot understand,
as we wiggle our toes,
catching a grain of sand.

ELAINE KAYE currently lives in Florida and has also called Honolulu, Hawaii and Okinawa, Japan her home. She was a library assistant in an elementary school where she entertained classes with readings of her own stories. Ten years ago, she wrote "A Grain Of Sand" when she was a stay-at-home mom with five children. Now, she is a grandmother of two boys. Poetry has always been an escape for her, as are all forms of writing. She has written many children’s stories and short romances, though she also enjoys quilting, knitting, and painting ceramics. Contact 


by Nick Lewis

The reeded bamboo clicked
heals on wind, the mist pulsed
rumbling phrases from the surf
and the sun tickled the sand

We twisted, two leaves in a gust
striped shirts and bare feet
Birds left the billboard and it rained
in Hanalei and
snowed on Plymouth Rock
Two mountains converged in the park
throwing sparks and hot heat
A river met the ocean, mixing
salt algae salmon smoothed stones
and mud

NICK LEWIS is a Los Angeles-based writer whose work has been published in Carol Muske Dukes’ book Married to the Icepick Killer: A Poet in Hollywood and the Loyola Marymount University literary journal, LA Miscellany. Contact 


by Cassandra Kemper

Like the ocean’s grand abyss into everything, I peer at my future.
It’s beautiful in its mystery, yet anxiety is unrelenting against my pounding heart.
The haziness is gentle, flowing back and forth in a slow rhythm, but my thoughts are suspicious against the quiet calm.
What hides within the distance to forever?
What unseen event lurks in front of my very eyes?
The water is cool and relaxing, caressing my body with unspoken care.
I am tempted to let the water carry me in peace.
If only I would.
Instead, my muscles tense with apprehension, expecting a monster to expose itself from the invisible world beyond my grasp.
My flesh is vulnerable, obtaining the fragile essence of life.
The ocean is a monster in itself, being bigger than everything I have ever known.
Splashing doesn’t diminish it, nor does any violent kicking.
Besides, what would diminishing it do?
Turn it into a puddle?
A puddle is no future, as it contains no life and no mystery.
Waves graciously lift me higher towards the heavens, but I am too heavy and sink beneath them.
What is it that I want exactly?
Unsatisfied with too much and unsatisfied with not enough.
How can contentedness be found when the ocean is selfish in its unpredictability?
Floating at the ocean’s top, pondering question after question until my mind is numb from abuse, I find no answers
just acceptance.

CASSANDRA KEMPER is attending Chemeketa Community College in Salem, Oregon for a transfer degree. Contact


by Linda B. Gamble

Up my dress, sweet summer air
arms and legs left freely bare
kissed by sun’s renewing light.

Clothing bright and airy light
loosely plays with breezy air
body free to dance near bare.

Lucky trees can strip-tease bare
come the autumn’s waning light
stifling “clothes” tossed to the air.

Cold air I can’t bear, crave warmth of summer’s light

LINDA B. GAMBLE is a retired reading specialist from New Jersey. She has been previously published online in Camel Saloon and Mused. She is also soon to be published in the print journal, Edison Literary Review. Contact 


by Patricia Crandall

I gaze 

at the harbor – 

on weathered posts 
seagulls – 

Boston – 
across the harbor 
transmitting towers 

hotel – 
on the wharf 
a boy skips stones 

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 Website


by Peter Franklin

Sultry night embalms me in stickiness…
No comfort from the slow fan…languidly singing in the dark…
Barely disturbing the air around it.
Sludge-like…thick and viscous…clinging heavily to everything.
I am draped in a heavy overcoat of cloying heat.

There is no breeze, no rescue, no comfortable spot to find.
Miserable. Thrashing at the covers…claustrophobic midnight epileptic fit.
Barely disturbing the air around me.

I smile. Ironic.
For in the morning, I know that the peach that I pluck off
The tree out back will be heat-warmed by the early morning sun, residual fire from
Tonight’s balmy opera…
Ripe and succulent,
The hedonism of the juices trickling from lips to shirt front…
Carnal sensuality,
And I’ve forgotten everything that plagued me in the night.

PETER FRANKLIN teaches English and Creative Writing at Swampscott High School (Swampscott, MA). Peter received a BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of California, Davis, and has a Juris Doctor degree from Concord Law School. Peter has been previously published in A Long Story Short, and is working on a forthcoming anthology of poetry, Quiet River. Peter resides in Marblehead, Massachusetts with his wife and two children...and a Portuguese Water Dog who fancies himself a poet as well. Contact 


by Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Never wanting
to be the victim,
she stays away from
long conversations.

she wields it like a storm
in crowded areas,
tasting the fever
of small relationships,
purring into the megaphone,
slipping in and out
of a warm smile.

Irritated by absurdity,
stubborn as a Sunburn,
she is the escape artist
in a room filled with
corn fed complacency.

Anger personified.

She is less than approachable
by best wishes
and balderdash,
concentrating little on words
and more on the actions.

A voyeur.

Easy in the realization
being bothered by butterflies
sequined gowns
and too much makeup.

She hums a Foo Fighters song
in shallow tones,
darting her eyes
in and out of perspectives.

Being fully aware
that alone,
she is incomplete.

ABIGALE LOUISE LECAVALIER’s poetry has appeared in many online as well as print magazines including Fullosia Press, Feelings of the Heart, Black Cat Press, The Sheltered Poet(twice), The Same, FreeXpression, The Journal & Original Plus, Abandoned Towers, Negative Suck, A Golden Place, PigeonBike, The Linnet's Wings, Vox Poetica, The Blotter Magazine, Roses & Vortex's, Language and Culture, The Writers Block, Visions and Voices, Camel Saloon Press, Mat Black Magazine, The Second Hump, The Eclectic Muse, Clutching At Straws, Lit Up Magazine, Leaf Garden Press, Illogical Muse, Raven Images, Ken*Again, The Scruffy Dog Review, Jerseyworks, 63 Channels, Speech Bubble, The Stray Branch, Clockwise Cat, and Record Magazine. Contact


by Joan Griffin

Bluebells sway in the gentle breeze,
sway to and fro beneath the trees,
softly caressed by buzzing bees,
which the wasp sees, which the wasp sees.

Butterflies dart, flutter and fly
beneath a blue and cloudless sky
among the trees that grow so high;
and then they die, and then they die.

Butterflies, wasps, bees and bluebells,
fleeting lives that time so soon fells
with no one there to care or tell;
tears do not well, tears do not well.

JOAN GRIFFIN is a retired health worker and lives in a small Northamptonshire village with her husband. Contact


by Debbie Hilbish

I love it when you kiss my neck
like that
summer day floating down the river
when the water splashed and wind
caressed in shivers across my back.
I love it when your tongue teases flesh
like that
dragonfly faintly whispering across
the hairs on my arm so minutely,
goose bumps thrilled my flesh.
I love it when you brush my hair
like that
soft slow feel of a warm fall day
that tingles the air and allows
the sun to heat me from head to toe.
I love it when I see you sleeping
like that
magical moment just as the sun
wakes up and all the world is painted
in an ardent glow of splendor.
I love it when I feel your love
like that
first time.

DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. She has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. Debbie also hosts an author’s fair for eight weeks (every January and February) at The Reader’s Oasis in Quartzsite, Arizona. Contact


by Steve Smallwood

Seas rise and ebb and flow and converge
in their concurrent circumferential tides;
indistinguishable but for their inundations
over the curvature of the Earth.
As that, seas remain an anomaly; depth
and breadth their only identity,
"ocean" their only nomenclature
until beaching onto continental borders
and reaching in their rush of waves
and foam their terrestrial shores.

STEVE SMALLWOOD is recently retired, and has only begun sending his work out, although he has been writing for several years through several jobs, relocations and one divorce. Contact 


by Farhan Kathawala

Lush green blade of grass
Weighted down by ages compounded
Of dew,
Which mystically vanishes by noon.

Wild uncut and thick it lies
In a field of millions all the same
In kind,
But not in stoicism or vigor.

Surely the bent to white sunlight
Which each one feels
Is unique,
But though presumed to live in peace
Alone, serene, the blade feels hot
Searing slashes on its face underfoot
Of prey or passerby which cut
The tight dark tips into sharpened
Geometric planes.

And though the life of grass
Fulfilled itself in pride
And hung its head in shame,

The wind must come and sweep
And steal the grass up from its roots.
It forsakes only the base,
Foundation which mounted the

Decades of anguish and accomplishment,
Then flutters away, forever, ends
As generations do.

FARHAN KATHAWALA is a student living in Memphis, Tennessee who is unsure of the direction of his life should take. He is currently an aspiring freelance writer and will be published in the August 2012 issue of Red River Review. Contact


by Michael Lee Johnson

I stick
my hand
out toward
the sea,
roll out my palm.
I offer a plank,
a trail for you.
Follow out into the water
and the salty stars.
When you stretch out
and give your heart
to the final moment
of the glass night sky,
draw me in-
sketch my face
on the edge
of our moon-
sad and lonely
over ages of celestial
moon sleep and dust.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: My poem MOON SLEEP likely falls under the category of mystical poetry:  that which is without exact color or form but conveys a reality within the images. Within the spirit of this poem I try to awaken a remembrance, a yearning to reach out and touch.

MOON SLEEP, Credit: Michael Lee Johnson

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel:, from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at His new chapbook Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems is now available. Michael has been published in over 25 countries. He is also 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 and Barnes & Noble. Now on You-Tube: You-Tube You-Tube You-Tube You-Tube Contact


by Floriana Hall

Watching the parade of life pass by

On the Fourth of July

Not the usual parade
But poor souls who know not why or how they exist
Being pushed down the hallway
A random wheelchair and worker colliding
Or an aide tripping in her haste to help someone
Makes a case for appreciation
Of any blessings we may have
Walking, talking, making sense
Is a privilege we take for granted
In daily life with all its obligations
And confusing situations
Sometimes wondering if we make sense
Sometimes laughing at foibles
But grateful for what we have
Being kind to those who do need help
Greeting them with a smile
Like a beam of light they smile back
And feel that someone cares
About the person they used to be
Who is somewhere in the past
Glimpses of which will sometimes follow.

FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. She and her husband have been married for 63 years and they have five children, nine grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at and She has published two new books including MISS FLOSSIE'S WORLD- Coping with Adversity During The Great Depression Then and the Recession Now (2011) and POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL OHIO - Then and Now (2011) which she compiled for THE POET'S NOOK. All of her books are available on Floriana teaches poetry at under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website 


by Shirley Securro

Climb to the top and stay there
Liberate and be carefree
Let the masses see that you can be
Who you were meant to be
It is embedded in our soul and spirit
Our climbing freedom
The oxygen we breathe

Our Liberty!

Liberty, we are destined to be free
Our liberty to know and to think
To move and to be creative
Give us our liberty at the high cost
That was paid for by so many
Our happiness, our peace, our life,

Our Liberty!

Thank God for our founders and our liberty
And our destiny in Him
Don't limit our liberty
And don't try to extinguish it
Deposit liberty in our lives
Liberty to do what we want
And liberty to do what we ought

There is no liberty in wrongdoing
Be liberated to do the right thing
Let liberty ring for all like a loud bell!

Our Liberty!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Shirley Securro's chapbook  AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES for Bear House Publishing’s 2011 Chapbook Contest.

SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more.  She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" Our Sacrifices Our Heroes by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact


july celebrity poet 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 
(1803 – 1882) 

nationality: american

Ralph Waldo Emerson – Credit: Public Domain

Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857

O TENDERLY the haughty day 
Fills his blue urn with fire; 
One morn is in the mighty heaven, 
And one in our desire. 

The cannon booms from town to town, 
Our pulses beat not less, 
The joy-bells chime their tidings down, 
Which children’s voices bless. 

For He that flung the broad blue fold 
O’er-mantling land and sea, 
One third part of the sky unrolled 
For the banner of the free. 

The men are ripe of Saxon kind 
To build an equal state,— 
To take the statute from the mind 
And make of duty fate. 

United States! the ages plead,— 
Present and Past in under-song,— 
Go put your creed into your deed, 
Nor speak with double tongue. 

For sea and land don’t understand 
Nor skies without a frown 
See rights for which the one hand fights 
By the other cloven down. 

Be just at home; then write your scroll 
Of honor o’er the sea, 
And bid the broad Atlantic roll 
A ferry of the free. 

And henceforth there shall be no chain, 
Save underneath the sea 
The wires shall murmur through the main 
Sweet songs of liberty. 

The conscious stars accord above, 
The waters wild below, 
And under, through the cable wove, 
Her fiery errands go. 

For He that worketh high and wise, 
Nor pauses in his plan, 
Will take the sun out of the skies 
Ere freedom out of man.

Read the entire poem at: 

For the poet’s biography, see: 

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





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