Thursday, October 4, 2012

October 2012 Poetry Page

“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought 
and the thought has found words."

-Robert Frost



by James Piatt

The ethereal notes of rusted strings of an ancient
Lyre ripple across the smooth face of the silent pond.
Then the haunting sound of an Indian flute touch the
Hidden longings within the misty caves of my nomadic
Heart, the soft soothing melody reverberates in my brain.
The ancient rhythm calling to me, haunts the
Essence of my past residing in the depths of my being.

The darkness of the night, with only remnants of a
Waning moon, glistening in the haze of the misty
Night, the lingering howling of coyote voices, and
The guttural echoes of bull frogs croaking on the
Sides of the stream, beckon long lost memories,
That echo nostalgically, in my soul. I walk
Noiselessly upon brown pine needles strewn
Upon a deer’s path, and listen to the silence.

Listen . . . listen . . . listen to the silence,
Listen to the absence of the din of humanity,
Allow ancient voices singing inside your heart
To open your mind to lost reminiscences, let serenity
Enter into the caverns of your soul like a dove fluttering
With a gentle softness into the safety of a huge white
Barked Sycamore tree, where it can only be found
By those who love to hear its soft cooing.

Do you hear it? Do you hear it? Notes from an
Indian flute echoing in your mind, an ancient
Melancholy rhythm bubbling up in the membranes
Of your soul. It is that which was before you were, and
Will be after you are no longer here, It reverberates
A cadence that beats like the pulsations of your heart, the
Lovely haunting notes reproduce images of what went before,
Images of a calmer more peaceful time, a time when
You were a young naiveté, and your life was carefree.
Do you remember?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ANCIENT RHYTHMS is the first poem in my second poetry book as well as the name of the poetry book itself.

JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. Two of his relatives, John James Piatt and Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote their poetry in the mid eighteen hundreds. Their poems inspired his style of poetry. His book of poetry, 'The Silent Pond' is forthcoming in October 2012 by Broken Publications. They will be publishing a second book, ‘Ancient Rhythms,’ in the winter of 2012. Unbound Content will publish a third, yet unnamed, poetry book, in 2013. He was the featured poet in Word Catalyst Magazine in 2009, and Contemporary American Voices in 2010. Long Story Short selected two of his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011 and 2012; Phati’tude Literary Magazine in their spring 2011 issue featured an interview with him. He has had over 235 poems published in over three dozen magazines, journals, and anthologies during the past three years. Contact


by Susan Marie Davniero

Welcome Autumn’s dawn 
Crisp sunny morn 
Harvest bounty call 
Fruitful gifts of fall 
By way of park’s trails 
Nature’s foliage prevails 
Paints colors on trees 
Blowing in the breeze 
Acorns slip on the ground 
Cooling fall abound 
Ripe auburn shades 
As the warmth fades 
Amber spice blend 
Flavors of fall again 
Autumn days mellow 
Comes winter tomorrow

SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art, Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog "Susan Marie" is her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact 


by Abigail Wyatt

All this, all this to leave behind, 
this squawking, raucous morning hymn; 
this stately swan, ungainly now, 
one rubbery leg astride its own pure back, 
long neck half-looped and bead-bright eyes a-glare 
that urge me closer if I dare but stare me, hissing, past; 
and lounging ducks on verdant banks, 
and rooks as big and black as death; 
and green, such green, a litany 
of shades from tender-pale through bolting 
to autumnal blush of pink. 
All this, all this, a lifetime’s work 
to catalogue such grace. 
I cannot think to leave it so; 
I cannot, yet I must.

ABIGAIL WYATT lives in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. She writes poetry and short fiction. In June, 2012, 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories' became available via Her new blog is at Contact 


by Floriana Hall

There's nothing but level ground left
Where a neighborhood school thrived years ago
On top of a hill
Memories still can be pictured
As children dressed up in costumes
Paraded down the hill on Halloween
From the brick building 
To entertain citizens and family.
An October day at its best
With falling leaves and the rest
Like spooky skeletons dance
And masks that cause fright
Passing out candy at night
No more.
No lights, few children left on the street
Not like before.
Driving by the top of the hill
My heart remembers, with a sad thrill
When Halloween was vibrant
And school was in session
Do we all learn this lesson
Nothing is permanent on earth
But memories live on 
Of the top of the hill.
Happy Halloween!

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 Debbie Hilbish

Full moon’s yellow face 
shimmers on the lagoon, 
whispering unconditional love 
to the lonely loon. 
None turned ears to listen 
when the loon lets out a cry. 
My unconditional love 
has left me for the sky! 
The cliffs, they bled red lichen. 
Reeds bent in a sigh. 
You’ve let in a fantasy, 
a mockingbird replied. 
To love you as you are 
is what we heard him say 
His quintessential love, oh loon, 
won’t end your lonely days. 
He’ll be back, leaves cackled, 
when the tide is rushing in. 
Pick fool, moon or fantasy 
this cycle will not end

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 Hal Lorin

All in all it isn't bad, 

The rock, the hill, the heavy days, 

The grand expansive overarch of time. 

It has been good for me. 
For a metonym, I am in excellent condition Pushing the rock 
has hardened me and 

The trembling hesitance that ends the day 

Has made me philosophical and sage. 

Each evening when the rumbling starts I stand above The long view of the 
bay, the grove, the temple, 
I am within the promise of the rosy-fingered eve. 

And out beyond, I see the ancient wine-dark sea. 

I am behind the rolling rock, among the playful goats, Along the 
path we long have tread together 
I have the cooling evening breeze as I descend, 

Like all men toward the evening and the end of day. 

And in the morning we will start again Climbing after breakfast from the 
radiant field Warmed by the Sun whose path is like our own. 

We will ascend, the rock and I, once more, together 
On the rising path within the buttercup and clover. 

It is all, after all, in how you look at it. 

Despite my epic reputation, my own life is not special It lacks only an illusion of the 
chimera of a dream. 

Where the goats do not climb beyond our farthest point The heather blooms, the hill 
lies bright beneath the sky. The rock is now my instrument. It is itself the reason 
There is nowhere else for us to be 

There is no edge over which we can be pushed. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Blue House, Volume 3, Issue 3, August 2004. 

HAL LORIN has published in edited e-zines and printed anthologies. He has written four novels and two books of poetry. He has published books and articles in aspects of Computer Science and Technology. He has been a Consulting Faculty Member at IBM Systems Research Institute and has held graduate level professorships at New York and Hofstra Universities. He has spoken at universities and international symposia in Europe, Africa, and Asia. He is Principal Consultant of The Manticore Consultancy. He is a resident of New York City. Contact 


by Shonda Buchanan

“I’m not going to share 
my family secrets with you” 
My great aunt is a beautiful cobweb spinster. 
What she remembers, she keeps. 
Waving spider hands of knowing 
And not knowing 
At us. 

I flip through family photo albums 
See sharecroppers’ kids, black rivers of hair, 
Our bareback laughter 
Sun-fingered skin. 

It is with this that I kiss feathers and shadow 
Craving fearless opaque eyes to look 
Back at me. 
Our Indianness obscured by smoldering courthouses 
By furious erasers and time. 

In all the photos, soft fluffy 
Good Times afros and hip-hugging polyester pants. 
We don tattered jeans and hand-me-down T-shirts. 
Unaware of shadows that cross our breasts like signs. 

Not a Dreamcatcher on any wall. No one to save us 
From ourselves, or secrets we didn’t know we had. 

We don’t wear feathers or buckskin anymore. 
But we whoop and holler 
We scream.

SHONDA BUCHANAN, poet, creative nonfiction/fiction writer and an essayist, is the editor of "Voices From Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology." Working on a second collection of poetry, memoir and novel, she is an assistant professor in the Department of English at Hampton University. Shonda’s poem, "AT BUCKROE BEACH" was nominated by Long Story Short as the 2010 POEM OF THE YEAR. For more info, please visit Contact 


by Wendy Schmidt

His maddening midlife crisis, 
was utterly cliche; 
sporty red convertibles, 
justified gym trips, 
hyper cyber sex, 
hair-raising transformations. 
Dismayed and disillusioned, 
I watched as the man, 
plummeted off his pedestal. 

If only the unfaithful fool, 
had instead attempted; 
deep sea diving, 
clown college courses, 
scaling the Chrysler building, 
championship bowling. 
The cheating chump’s, 
lack of originality, 
one more hopeless humiliation. 

How to explain his stale style, 
humdrum antics, 
without losing face? 
A thread of thriller, 
hinting at horror, 
he's a split personality, 
Jekyll and Hydish, 
dutiful husband by day, 
dark and dangerous by night. 

It won’t put a permanent halt, 
to litigating lawyers, 
or one stop no fault, 
but may be more intriguing. 
A shady plot twist, 
akin to film noir, 
edgy black comedy, 
anything is preferable, 
to a stereotypical sitcom.

WENDY SCHMIDT is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. Pieces have been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, and Haunted Object Anthology. Contact


by John Tzikas

Faces and places 
I have seen 
Faceless and placeless 
I must seem 

Fiendishly trying to get grounded 
As words from my mouth sound all mousy 
Capitulating from an unyielding mind set 

Erratic envoys are 
Sarcastic savages 

Faces and bodies 
I do trace 
Faceless and nameless 
I give shape

JOHN TZIKAS is a poet/lyricist residing in Hamilton, Ontario. He writes about work, relationships, sports and everyday trials and tribulations. In his spare time John teaches writing composition and performs readings in small cafes. Contact


by Peter Franklin

I now breathe for you, 
As you are unable...last 
Breaths taken and released. 
Legacy left behind - 
Hope. Happiness. Care for 
The Everyman. 

Time will certainly chill the pain... 
Receding in foggy fingers in advance of the mind's 
compassionate fires. Remembrances will remain warm to the 
Inviting. Reassuring. Calming. 

I now breathe for you, as you are unable... 
Lengthening shadows create tender moments from a loving 
It is from these embers 
That future fires will burn.

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 Bobbie Shirley

Grandmother and I took the Greyhound bus
to a city in Tennessee.
A town being built, overnight.
People said strange things about this city.
Secret things, whispers,
indicating mysteries were about.

Grandmother and I got off the bus.
Military Police were everywhere, with MP
on their sleeves. German Shepherds strained
against their leather harness.
Dogs brave and noble watched for something
we couldn’t see. While entering electric fences,
we were told to show our passes.

“Hold-up there, mister,” one of the guards said.
A man was pushed against a wall, “Open your suitcase.”
The man fumbled with the latch as sweat appeared
on his face. His suitcase was full of whiskey
and the guards were upset. Grandmother said
“Oh! Lord, hope my jelly jars don’t click together.
They’ll think I’ve got liquor.”

We waited until we had escorts to take us
into the city. My aunt and uncle came to collect us,
we were family. My cousin Don and I were like
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, only I was a girl.
Exciting adventures we had in this city.
Grandmother sent Don and I out to pick blackberries
for pies, jam, preserves and jelly. The picking
competition was on each thinking they were best.

My uncle worked for Union Carbide a large building
That sat high on a hill glaring down
at the pre-fab town. At night, its ghostly stare
scared the children. We didn’t want to go there
cause we thought the Halloween monsters
slept in Carbide’s dungeon.

Each year, we attempted to carve the best slingshot.
Might need this weapon to slay the monster
all the murmurs were about.
We’d walk a mile to swim in the new town’s pool.
Walk back home starving for peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches with iced sweet-tea.

Don and I grew up and the truth about the community
came out. This mystic town was Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
Its mysterious purpose was to make the Atomic Bomb.
I had played in the fields that enabled the mushroom
to grow, which formed the cloud that hung over
Hiroshima and Nagasaki. 

BOBBIE SHIRLEY started writing poems in grammar school but was advised by her father that becoming a secretary was more realistic. Instead she became an accountant where she learned to speak the language of numbers to answer, solve and total. She missed poetry’s beauty. Bobbie now writes poems again. She reads in a local coffeehouse. Contact


by John T. Hitchner

Again I open a door
to see my father fling a bowling ball—
table lamp smashed to shards, 
living room wall a gouged gaping mouth--
late night revenge after strings of splits.
The first time my father and I bowled together
he pressed his fingers
on the tips of my rented shoes

“Do you have enough room?”--
his touch reassurance.

He stressed alley courtesy:
“Wait your turn. 
“Let the person in the lane next to you go first.” 

My father was a small man,
arm and leg tendons intense
as the smash and tumble of pins,
his follow-through graceful ballet.

Flashes of temper passed with age.
He repaired the wall, 
his eyes and fingers precise 
as numbers on a score sheet.
Monday night poker replaced
Thursday night bowling— 
nickels and dimes in the kitty 
small change from singles and fivers on the bar. 

In late years
grandchildren held his hands. 
“My 300 games!” he bragged. 

Our last game together
my last roll a split,
his a strike:
his raised fist trophy enough.

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 Susan Dale

I am thinking a thousand miles and a day
Around a bend and back to tomorrow
Lost among dreams - clouds
And the shrouds of yesterdays’ ghosts
I cling to the hand of Chronas,
He is running;
I run with him
Down a dark corridor of time
He carries enigmas of truths
I interpret them
Toss them over my shoulder

We brush against walls
Echoing far-off bells

Inside the broken darkness
We head towards a light
that whispers my name
It calls me home
Always home

SUSAN DALE’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. Contact


deep enough and without borders
by Steve Croisant

if i could design words 
that would disappear and leave 
your image on the page 
i would have drained 
the wells of ink by now 

if i could mill the page 
deep enough and without borders 
to hold what meanings you evoke 
i would have grown 
and felled a forest by now 

if i lived every second 
as sweep hand on a clock 
i would envy hands 
of the minutes and the hours 
that caress your timeless face 

yet everything 
is as should be 
for if the words 
the page 
and time 
could contain 
and define you 
i would be without pursuit

© Steve Croisant 2003 
August 14, 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 Patricia Wellingham-Jones

If you hang over the abyss
and look death in the eye
then manage not to fall in
you learn one thing:
Enjoy every day.
True, some days aren’t fun,
others are full of hard work
and some you think haven’t got
a bright spot anywhere.
Well, look for it.
You’ve got life.
That’s a celebration in itself.

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 Karen Douglass

The soul breathes
just under the skin
and grows--
   baby skin to mother/father skin,
   one lover to another skin--
firm, pliable membrane
that lotions muscle, bone, and cell.

A perfect touch
can haunt the soul
too wild to confine
in the dark, smooth
cells of the heart. 

KAREN DOUGLASS’s books include Red Goddess Poems; Bones in the Chimney (fiction); Green Rider, Thinking Horse (nonfiction); Sostenuto, (poems), The Great Hunger (poems) and Two-Gun Lil (poems). Contact


    for "BANJO"

Spent and gone the shimmering day, gone to violet dusk,                                      
The kookaburra laughing his echoing Morpheus haunt;
When, there in the shadows ’neath an, epitaph, bloodwood tree                                                
swirled wretched mists of the bush—
   hopelessly thirsty ’n’ spent.                            
And the vapors gathered themselves into forms—
   beckoning me to see:                                   

There, was Gilbert, shot dead at Stockman’s Ford;
Ol’ M’Ginnis who sleeps in the depths of the Murray;                                                       
Salt Brush Bill and his mob from the Overland
—starvin’ muttons that could barely creep 
or hurry—
and Macpherson,
young Macpherson, still gripping the reins of
   the legend, Rio Grande.
I needn’t see the name carved in that sorrowful bark,
He, who’s memory rested, would ask none for a gilded call.  
Hale for the swagman, the drover and brumby
and Geebung boys—a bushman’s bard, over all.
Long had he gone,
   gone home to his outback—
                    gone, a-waltzing Matilda with me.

       A.B. “Banjo” Paterson, 1864—1941:  Australia’s “National Poet.”

                                                                                      p.l. wick

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  for “BANJO” is an honorarium of the colorful writer, A.B. Banjo Paterson, Australia’s“National Poet”—author of Man from Snowy River and other stellar works including Waltzing Matilda. Recreated: an overview of the legend and characters who surround this noted word-stylist from the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, utilizing style and formatting that he would have used. 

p.l. wick is a versifier, never a “poet.” p.l. wick has been contributing to periodicals for over forty years: youth publications to literary journals, even outlaw biker magazines. One trade book of illustrated verse is credited, and an eleventh chapbook is being completed. Born in the first half of the last Century—two pennies are always kept ready for the boatman. Contact


by Michael Lee Johnson

Dancer of the shoe poem,
I trip over your shoe string
dress or gown
and keep walking with a beat
but, you're missing a step,
let me take you there,
or did the ghost of the night
take your slippers away-
move right, slightly left,
back one half step.
Dancer of the shoe poem.
It's my duty
to take you away
in a love feast.
Thank you for this dance.

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 Roger Singer

I am a captive between words,
held within the air of voices, pulled by
stars without names as they slip behind clouds,
shadowed tightly in the gray of life.

I am without wings from your fire.
A sheet torn, twisted out of nights where faces
look familiar until I awake.

Black magic stirs the pages, releasing
stories of rain as skies fall with song,
covering me in the undertow of sleep.

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 Nick Lewis

The night fishermen
cast line and sardine
into the black air
Silver scales shimmer
in bright clusters
separate to
small, spiraling stars-
in soft arches-
blinking, flickering
until a gentle
glunk! in the
distance pierces
heaving tide
and a slow draw
from a cigarette
between calloused
cut fingers
sparks the

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 Lawrence Syldan

They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
The children rap the drums and blow trombone:
The business of the time is busyness.

No wonder when I leave an ugly mess
And sigh, then clean it up without a groan:
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.

Pure projects must be found, for more is less
When visioned in the past, an eerie zone:
The business of the time is busyness.

Who is this? Please go on and make a guess.
I rap for hours on the telephone:
They say sit quiet, but I must profess.

Old Hericlitus, you both curse and bless
The rushing river that is you, and own
The business of the time is busyness.

Standing Nowhere, we clasp hands, chat, and face
The home of the sunlight—which is unknown.
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
The business of the time is busyness. 

LAWRENCE SYLDAN is a retired teacher and counselor. He has been published in numerous literary magazines and in an anthology, “Sparks Of Fire,” addressing in poems and prose the works of William Blake. Nowadays however, he has melded his avocation (writing poetry) with his vacation (writing poetry). In the last two years he has been writing prose poems and free verse, so called. Earlier in his life he wrote formalist poems; and he has taken up the enterprise of having a book published. Contact


by Shirley Securro

When I pass by the house on Bay Street at twilight it's always a treat
The beautiful candles in the windows are always lit and at times I just stop and sit
The candles are luminous, colorful, and bright as they light up the neighborhood
and what a sight!
Every window has one in place almost looking like someone’s face.

The house on Bay Street has a warm beckoning vibe.
That house almost seems to be alive; where there is always laughter filling the air
and people milling around everywhere;
cars, RV'S, vans, cycles and bikes to race
just adding to the personality of that place.
If the house could speak what would it say?
Would it beckon me to go on my way
or would it welcome me with greetings of the day?
Would it tell me of the love that flows inside and out
and the hopes and dreams spilling about?

It would tell me that it was very much loved, cherished, and respected.

The House on Bay Street!

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


by Floriana Hall

If I could change the world, I would 
If I would change the world, I could 
Make so many improvements 
For everyone’s good. 
There would be no poor without food 
There would be no warlike moods 
There could be peace in every nation 
If I could convince them love is the foundation 
Like a wall of formation. 
Although I could not change nature’s calamity 
I would have faith and help others to cope 
With misfortune not of our own making 
Love is always here for the taking. 
We cannot control the forces of chance 
But we can live life with the dance 
No matter what problems we face 
We would believe in the human race 
Being a gift from above 
Bestowed on us like wings of love 
No dark clouds in the sky 
Could make people cry 
If I could change that, I would. 
Oh, if only I could!

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 Sarah Terzo

Warm by dancing fire,
gray cat contemplates my lap.
Flames leap with bright feet.

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 Patricia Crandall

The moon is serene, 
halved in darkness. 
As it balloons, 
stars sprinkle the heavens, 
at its full, round face.

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


october celebrity poet 

Robert Frost 
(1874 – 1963) 

nationality: American

Robert Frost – Credit: Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain)


I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
   And left no trace but the cellar walls,
   And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
   The orchard tree has grown one copse
   Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
   On that disused and forgotten road
   That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
   I hear him begin far enough away
   Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
   Who share the unlit place with me—
   Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
   With none among them that ever sings,
   And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

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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