Wednesday, December 4, 2013

December 2013 Poetry Page








“Somehow not only for Christmas but all the long year through, The joy that you give to others Is the joy that comes back to you. And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, 
The more of your heart's possessing 
Returns to make you glad."

- John Greenleaf Whittier
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH



A VISIT FROM SANTA
by Dale Warren
                       
Twas the month before Christmas and all through the mall
The shoppers were whining, the money was gone
The house was all clutter, that dress just too small
And they hate the fruitcake from crabby Aunt Dawn

Then to my wondering eyes a man did appear
The navy blue suit and oxfords were deceiving
He wore no holly nor bells, but smelled of reindeer
And his white beard and twinkling eyes had me believing

Santa, what happened to Christmas, with all of its thrills
We've lost the spirit of giving, of joy, and good cheer
The season of jolly has become one of stacked bills
The joy and glad tidings were meant to last the whole year

Yuletide memories are there, we must share them, and quick
Our kids must know that Christmas is much more than show
Family traditions, of giving, and of course old Saint Nick
It's so much more than getting big toys and shoveling snow

Then he was gone, and I knew not where, when or how
I was left without answers, a blank stare, and slight fear
But then I heard him exclaim, Ho Ho Ho, go tell someone now
Have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year






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TOYS NIGHT OUT
by Susan Marie Davniero


One magical night on Christmas Eve
Looking for toys Santa would leave
Turn on the string of lights
On the Christmas tree tonight

Suddenly from under the tree
Toys came alive magically
Dancing and playing around
The living room was their playground

Toy soldiers marching in a row
Dolls tying hair ribbon bows
Stuffed Teddy bears danced
as the wind up cat pranced

The toys grew tired of the pace
and went back in their place
This was a Christmas mystery
as toys were wrapped under the tree

Turn off the moonlight
Turn on the sunlight
What was Christmas Eve all about?
It can be simply Toys night out



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


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ONCE UPON A WINTER WALK
by Patricia Crandall


Once upon a winter walk
down a footworn path,
after a new fallen snow,
tree limbs were heavily laden
with stark white condensation
and footprints appeared before me.
Hush!
It is a small white
scurrying animal.
I considered the path yet not trodden.
My winter boots make an imprint
over the delicate tracks.
All beauty and majesty
are in this white kingdom.
I witness the splendor of new fallen snow,
winter wonderland white.
I alone see and shall retain
this momentary vision
during a late afternoon walk.
The wind stirs a branch,
snowflake falls lightly upon snowflake.



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


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SIXTEEN IN THE MORNING
by Debbie Hilbish


You’ll be sixteen in the morning
me, I just turned sixty-two.
I look old with all the lights on
but inside I’m young like you.
I smile as you lay sleeping with no wrinkles on your brow.
Wish I could crawl inside your head
to share a dream
somehow
paint the image of youthfulness
that animates great gram’s smile.
Sometimes she’ll confess inside
she too feels like a child.
she blushes, giggles, schemes, and dreams
just as you... and I do, too.
Though when looking in a mirror these days it is with disesteem
that life spins by so quickly
and will end but in a gleam.
You’ll be sixteen in the morning
just a whisper of a sigh
compared to your great gram fast approaching eighty-five.
You‘ll create life’s memories,
far more than you can keep.
Carry all that make you happy
toss away what makes you weep.
You’ll be sixteen in the morning
I can’t tell you what to do
but weave stories
I am hoping
you will want to carry with you


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 hosted an eight week author’s at The Reader’s Oasis in Quartzsite, Arizona 2008-2012 years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact 



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ACTS OF RANDOM KINDNESS
by Richard Schnap

Do not simply pass a beggar without speaking
Tell him you’d help him but you’re unemployed
Open a door for a man in a wheelchair
To allow him to know there’s someone who cares
Flag down a bus for a girl desperately running
To catch it before she watches it pull away
Read the poems anonymously posted
By a stranger whose verse is his only release

For someday you may be crouched on a corner
Shaking a cup with a few tarnished coins
Or the victim of some unforeseen accident
That leaves you a cripple for the rest of your life
And know that some morning you may arrive late
To learn that your tardiness means termination
While hoping your words will lift someone’s heart
Before they are torn down and thrown away



RICHARD SCHNAP is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications. Contact 



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INDIANA POEM
by Michael Lee Johnson


A few tales
of the reasons
I love Indiana.
Breaking loose from the state line
of Illinois, bursting down the Indiana
toll road near Lake Station
heading south
smelling smoke of old
gray steel mills
seeping out
of Gary
left behind me.
Work disappeared, dreams died-
steel men, strong men
ribs of fire courage of
union dreamers
long gone and most laid off
pension plans stolen,
now gas station employees
travelers of the
past, snuff chewers
labor wages and laws,
small lakes and fishing ponds
with half sunken boats
with tips pointed sky high
and memories dripping
off the lips of clouds.
I’m banging out 75 mph
in my raspberry Geo Tracker-
as Jesus said to me:
“I tell you the truth 
nothing ever changes in
Indiana but the seasons
and size of the corn ears."


AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was created by all the personal trips I made from Illinois to Indiana. 


MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Itasca, IL poet. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 26 countries, and he edits seven poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book),which is available at Amazon  and iUniverseseveral chapbooks of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has 69 poetry videos on YouTube. Contact Website Website 



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CHRISTMAS SEASON
by James Piatt


The season of storms and icy winds,
        A boon to warm fires in the hearth,
A time to reminisce and be with friends,
        The season of blessings and mirth:

Barren trees with crop all picked,
        Preserved fruit now in the larder lie,
We wait anxiously in expectation for a cold night,
        To savor a warm apricot pie:

Christmas arrives with all of its bliss,
        Each child wearing a happy smile
The turkey is cooked; the cook gets a kiss,
        Everyone becomes silent for a while:

The blessing is said, the food is passed,
        The wine is poured in goblets true,
The sounds of contentment come at long last,

        With our forks full of food, we all thank You.



JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. Broken Publications published Dr. Piatt’s d├ębut book of poetry, “The
Silent Pond”
 in 2012, and they will be releasing his second poetry book, “Ancient Rhythms” in the fall of 2013. A third poetry book will be released in 2014. His poem “The Night Frog” was recently nominated for best of web 2013. He has had over 450 poems published, and Long Story Short selected his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH  in 2011 and 2012. 
His books are available on Amazon.
 Contact 


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SANTA PULLS THE CHRISTMAS STRINGS
by Susan Marie Davniero


It was a Christmas morning of yesterday
When our stockings hung on the stairway
My sisters and I hurried down the stairs
To find our Christmas stocking gifts there
Santa came and gave my sisters and me,  
Puppets from ‘Dennis the Menace’ family  
Santa gave me the wife with blonde tresses
Teresa unwrapped the Dad puppet wearing glasses
Laura’s gift was Dennis the child of the three
Tis all came to be our Christmas destiny
For one day I grew up to become a wife,
Teresa wore glasses most of her life,
And Laura had a happy life
When Dennis made her his wife   
This is a memory that Christmas brings
When Santa pulled the Christmas strings



Susan, Laura & Teresa with Santa, Credit: Susan Marie Davniero



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


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ABLE TO SEE PUFFINS ON PUGET SOUND AGAIN
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones


She knew she’d been introduced
to cronehood when the new lenses
in her old eyes were installed.
Incredible, she thought.
She knew from friends
she’d see better
but couldn’t believe
the quality of light,
sharpness of image.
She smiled at the generosity
of her teenage surgeon
who patted her brow
as he finished the job,
gave her cheek a sweet pinch,
said there you go.
And there she went,
straight to the Sound
to watch puffins.


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; chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Contact 



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BALLAD OF THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT: 
THE PARK RANGER
by Geoff Thurgood


My cheek lays the same place each night,
settling in the thick grass of his chest,
fingers trekking tireless, searching.

My tresses spread the expanse like
fire, sweeping.  Each of his hairs standing,
tall as if first burning, frozen

endless moment of ignition;
and in that still mingling,
no ferocity, only

a bright and astounding joy.


GEOFF THURGOOD is the pen name for a husband and father of two from Lexington, KY. Though a full-time teacher for two years, he now works in a factory to be closer to his children and his thoughts. His poetry has been featured in the Atlantic Pacific Press, Chantarelle’s Notebook and Recently Eclipsed. Contact 



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THE OLD BROKEN DOLL
by Shirley Smothers


In an old house
I found an
old doll.
It looked worn
and scuffed and
like it had
taken a fall.
Her arms were
torn and all
out of kilter.
She was lying
in some kind
of dirty old filter.
Her face was
chipped, broken
and her smile missing.
She seemed to
say, “I was
meant for
holding and kissing.”
I took the
doll home, washed
and mended it
as best
as I could.
I gave her to
a sick little
girl. It brightened
her life just
as a doll should.


SHIRLEY SMOTHERS is an amateur poet but hopes to gain experience and be published in more magazines. Contact 



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PRIORITIES
by Wayne Scheer


Family comes first,
so we were told,
and we followed that
somewhat
when our son was young
and our parents old.

Now our son is on his own,
successful enough
to support a wife, three kids
and the mortgage on his home,
needing no help from us,
besides loving the grandkids.

When our folks were alive,
vacations were spent
visiting them;
my mom lived with us at the end,
I took family leave
till she died that spring.

My wife's dad, too
spent his last few months
with us.
Tough times those were,
but I'm glad we could be there
for him.

Now that our hair is white
it's time to live selfishly,
guilt free.
We did what was right,
most of the time,
so we deserve the good life.

We now face new priorities
to care for our health
to care for one another
and to spend what little wealth
we accumulated
to live in relative ease.


WAYNE SCHEER has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He's published hundreds of stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, published by Thumbscrews Press Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife. Contact 


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HONDA XMAS COMMERCIAL, 2012
by Frank De Canio


No matter that she’s only 4 ft tall,
too small for older peers to more than hear
her interrupt her selling spiel to call
out “Shotgun!” to their disregarding ears?
She settles for the backseat of the car
as they talk teenage shop among themselves.
For she’s now an adept recording star.
Hippolyta ensconced among the elves,
the Honda Civic lets the child take stock
of what they plan to do when not around
their parents. Parodying how they rock,
her flailing arms kinetically rebound
up toward the ceiling as her mien assumes
a province all but presaging their doom.
For she’s decided that the interchange
is interesting, if just as reportage.
She doesn’t worry how it might estrange
her wary sister’s female entourage
from sharing teenage secrets openly,
while she plays scribbling scribe inside the car.
Indeed. The ‘shotgun’ passenger’s esprit,
deflated when the girl has gone too far,
has registered with evident dismay,
her disapproval of the sneaky snitch
to be. It’s obvious she won’t betray -
without a ‘sworn to keep the secret’ hitch -
another surreptitious enterprise
till she has cut the gadfly down to size.


FRANK DE CANIO was born and bred in New Jersey, and he works in New York. He loves music from Bach to Dory Previn, Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, and opera. Shakespeare is his consolation, writing his hobby. He likes Dylan Thomas, Keats, Wallace Stevens, Frost, Ginsberg, and Sylvia Plath as poets. He has been published in over 200 magazines (and/or e-zines) including Danger, Pleiades, Genie, Write On!!, Red Owl, Nuthouse, Love‘s Chance, Words of Wisdom, Rook publishing, Illogical Muse, Writer’s Journal, The Lyric, Free Lunch, Art Times, Pearl; Hazmat, Medicinal Purposes, Blue Unicorn and Ship of Fools, Raintown Review and others pending. On the web, he’s on POETZ, Contemporary Rhyme, Language and Culture, and Thick with Conviction. Contact



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HAVE A COOL YULE
by Floriana Hall

The idea for this poem started with SNOOPY
Pictured on a sticky note, eyes so droopy
Wrapped up in a Christmas wreath,
His smile alters moods  from grief
Of most any kind.
When the tiny Babe arrives
A world of hope is bound to thrive,
A Christmas tree brightens the day
For any age, in every way,
Our Christmas story.
Gifts of many sorts surround the tree
There's a doll for Kaleigh,
A truck and pajamas for Micah,
Some money and booties for Abby,
Even a toy for their dog, Brownie.
Let's sing a song of happiness,
This universe needs no crabbiness.
Have a cool Yule, whatever age,
Pray, dance and sing and friends engage,
Hug and hold all your family.


FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website



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MY SON SHINE
by Shirley Securro 


You light up the
sky so bright
You light up
my life so right

You make things shine!

The dew on the grass
The trees so bare
The flowers you care
Even the birds in the air

You make things grow!

My spirit overflowing
with your love
My peace, my comfort
Sent from above

You bring much joy!

You comfort me
When things go wrong
You give me hope
So I can go on

You are light and life
Darkness can never extinguish you!



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 



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ADVENT PRAYER
by Richard S. Barnett


My heart is like a stable, Lord:
Foul, stained, draughty, cold,
Leaking—a place for goats,
Failed dreams, shame, broken promises.

Architect of the Universe,
With nowhere to lay Your head,
Here’s room enough for You—
A haven for You,

O, enter my heart, Lord:
Breathe Your life into me,
Warm me with Your Presence,
Light me with Your Salvation,
Guard me with Your Word.



RICHARD S. BARNETT: As a former petroleum geologist who has discovered more oil than Jed Clampett, Richard lives in the Hill Country of Central Texas where he explores the countryside and treasures buried in evocative texts and untold stories of the Bible. Contact 



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AT CHRISTMAS TIME
by Susan Marie Davniero

Christmas Eve night
Holiday sight
Stockings are hung
Carols are sung
Blessed Angels sing
Behold the King
Nativity hearth
Peace on earth
Neighbors call
Goodwill to all
Church bells chime
At Christmas time



Susan & Bob Davniero with Santa Claus at Knights of Columbus
Credit: Susan Marie Davniero



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




              




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



december celebrity poet 

George Wither
(1588 – 1667) 

nationality: English


George Wither – Credit: Public Domain






A CHRISTMAS CAROL


So now is come our joyful feast,
  Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
  And every post with holly.
    Though some churls at our mirth repine,
    Round your foreheads garlands twine,
    Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
  And let us all be merry.
 
Now all our neighbors' chimnies smoke,
  And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meats choke,
  And all their spits are turning.
    Without the door let sorrow lie,
    And if for cold it hap to die,
    We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,
  And evermore be merry.
 
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
  And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
  A bagpipe and a tabor.
    Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
    Give life to one another's joys;
    And you anon shall by their noise
  Perceive that they are merry.
 
Rank misers now do sparing shun,
  Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
  So all things aboundeth.
    The country-folk themselves advance,
    For crowdy-mutton's come out of France;
    And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
  And all the town be merry.
 
Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn,
  And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
  With droppings of the barrel.
    And those that hardly all the year
    Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
    Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
  And all the day be merry.
 
Now poor men to the justices
  With capons make their errands;
And if they hap to fail of these,
  They plague them with their warrants.
  But now they feed them with good cheer,
  And what they want they take in beer,
  For Christmas comes but once a year,
  And then they shall be merry.
 
Good farmers in the country nurse
  The poor, that else were undone;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
  On lust and pride at London.
    There the roisters they do play,
    Drab and dice their land away,
    Which may be ours another day;
  And therefore let's be merry.
 
The client now his suit forbears,
  The prisoner's heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
  And for the time is pleased.
    Though others' purses be more fat,
    Why should we pine or grieve at that;
    Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
  And therefore let's be merry.
 
Hark how the wags abroad do call
  Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,
  For nuts and apples scrambling;
    Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,
    Anon they'll think the house goes round;
    For they the cellar's depths have found,
  And there they will be merry.
 


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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