Monday, February 4, 2013

February 2013 Poetry Page

“Love has no desire but to fulfill itself. 
To melt and be like a running brook 
that sings its melody to the night. 
To wake at dawn with a winged heart 
and give thanks for another day of loving."

- Khalil Gibran



by Debbie Hilbish

When the man came,
needing a place to dwell, 
he could look in 
and see the depth 
of the water in the well. 
No doubting 
It had been neglected. 
The rope was frayed, 
bucket weather worn, 
wheel a bit squeaky; 
but the important thing 
the essence was there. 
Almost full.

This is a good place, 
thought the man. 
the well offered up its sustenance 
giving freely and often to this new dweller. 
in the knowledge that its liquid nurtured the man. 
sustained him. 

The man covered the well in winter 
to keep it from freezing. 
Repaired the bucket 
which allowed him to reach what the well had to offer 
For his survival 
he needed. 
He oiled the wheel, 
repaired the rope 
even planted flowers around the well for beauty. 
In appreciation 
The well swelled and sang 
Yes take from me, use me. 
I give freely 
and give and give for this is my purpose. 

A drought came. 

The man continued dipping 
into the life of the well. 
I have no rain, 
I have nothing to replace 
what is being taken from me 
thought the well. 
Still, I have faith. 
In time the man will realize 
I am in need of nurturing. 
The drought continued. 
The water in the well muddied. 
The man continued to take. 
The well was patient 
continuing to give of itself 
even if a bit begrimed 

Wanting to believe 
somewhere deep inside 
surely the man will realize 
I must have returned to me 
that which I’ve given so freely. 
The well’s life substance 
ebbed lower and lower. 
Who could guess the length of time 
the drought would linger? 
The well went dry 
The man could look in 
and saw............. 
only dirt. 
This is not a good place 
thought the man. 
Once again 
the well was neglected. 
The rope frayed, 
the bucket became weathered, 
the wheel began to squeak. 
Drawn into itself 
the well had lots of time to reflect. 

Perhaps……In gratitude 
the man had covered me in winter, 
repaired my bucket, oiled my wheel 
even planted flowers for beauty. 

Perhaps……To serve him 

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. Any and all authors are welcome to join us FREE for this event... If interested in this event, please contact Debbie via email. She will send you more info. Contact


by T. Wignesan

Waking to a breaking thought
rude warblers in the tree’s dark
contort the image
in the eye
of a sundered dream
into a wholesome bounteous vision 

The symphony is expansive
trained to unnatural correctness
alien to the warbler
bends order to
mastered mindfulness
regimental violins
scold and chastise
the senses to D Major 

Now the sparrow and Segovia
minuet in the sun
lurk in the veins
clasping word on wing
numbing sense within sound
silenced within windows
the blaring harshness of the warbler 

© T. Wignesan, London – 1963 
[from the collection: tell them I’m gone. Paris: 1983.]

T. WIGNESAN was born in Malaysia where his parents settled as immigrants, and he worked and studied during most of his teens there. Then, he continued working and studying in London, Heidelberg, West Berlin, Madrid and Paris, as a teacher, journalist, labourer, clerk, and research fellow. He is a published writer in all genres. For a complete list of his published works, please visit his website. Contact



   Across the small valley
   stony faces sleep,
   clouds caught in their
   juniper brows
   and beards.

   Pushed back
   against warm granite,
   a ragged coat
   pulled snug around
   and up under my chin 
   in worn hiking boots.

   In the lingering light
   I sip twig-fired tea
   and enjoy a crust
   spread thick with
   orange marmalade.
   My laugh echoes back
   from the slumbering

   a crazy old man 
   on a cold mountain.

                          p.l. wick

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem has appeared previously in bear creek haiku #98. A small, eclectic, publication , bch., one in which my shorter works may often be found. 
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 Floriana Hall

When an illness or cold strikes
At its very own convenience
And not to our likes
We wish we could pick and choose
The time and place
But we cannot
And life moves on at its own pace.

When our car breaks down
Or we are stuck in traffic
There is nothing we can do
But go with the flow
And hope we get to know
Better days, I always say
Sometimes I have it my way.

If the weather is bad
And makes us sad
Ice and snow to stumble over
It seems like an impossible situation
which brings on some frustration
To miss any appointments or fun
So we go anyhow, and then we are done.

If we are pining for love and affection
Who can point in the right direction
Soul mates are not always what they seem
Oh, we can only dream
Of magic in the air
Of challenges we dare
And happy endings we fare.

We can pick and choose
To change bad moods
To see good in others
To forget about our druthers
And to live each day the best we can
It's the most we can ask of woman and man.

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


do you know
by Steve Croisant

i have come to know the feeling of the air that is rarefied by your flawless entrance into a room

i have come to know the "dimming of the day" as all light 

and every color seek admission to the windows of your soul

i have come to know of no horizon that could bound your wonderment
oh, but that i could be imprisoned in your realm of imagination

i have come to know the insignificance of the moon and stars
after your evening presence diminishes the nighttime sky

i have come to know the sweet addiction of your every song and sound
it is the concert of your voice that could comfort any troubled heart

i have come to know the dance that is your every graceful step
the wake of your peaceful path reveals only consecrated ground

i have come to know the surrender of the hours and days 

when time cannot fade your beauty, for your smile fades time itself

i have come to know there are no words which will render your image
for it is your mere existence that redefines all meaning

i will come to know the dreams that will take the place of knowing
and the complexities of protocol will aberrate the sincerest of good intentions

and i wonder, do you know the power you would have

if you were in love

© Steve Croisant 2003
June 7, 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 a couple of open mics in the Denver metro area. His poems have been published in Brenda Stumpf's art book, Seshat, Columbine poet's anthology, Backstreet Poetry Review, and Long Story Short. Contact 


by Julia Nadon
When I was young and in love 
I lost myself. 
I became what I thought you wanted me to be 
Do you want quiet, shy and attentive 
Maybe someone to laugh at your jokes 
I can do that 

You need someone to play shortstop on your mixed softball team 
Or a good conversationalist to blend into quiet dinners 
With important clients and other couples 
Or maybe a groupie to follow the band up and down the eastern seaboard 
I can do that 

You want someone so unsure of who she is 
That she’ll try on any persona in order to please you 
I can do that 

But not anymore 
I still can 

But I won’t 

Something happened along the way 
I grew up 
Halfway around the world from you 
And everything I knew 
Free from the entanglement of your far reaching web 
I found myself among strangers, odd customs and guttural tongues 

When I was young and in love 
I lost myself 
For years 
I held you responsible 
But I was the one 
Whose grip wasn’t strong enough 
Against the pull of your orbit 
Decades later 
I hold nothing against you 
Nor against myself 
There is something about aging and losing your eyesight 
In exchange for a sense of perspective 
Leaning towards forgiveness 

When I was young and in love 
You were my Sun 
And I willingly walked in your shadow 
I dwell in a parallel universe 
Where I am 
My own 
And shining star

JULIA NADON is a ukulele, guitar, and a long neck dulcimer player, educator, ravenous reader, kayak paddler, monarch raising gardener, swimmer, writer and songwriter. Contact 


by Charlie Cole

Let go, intransigent oak! 
Uncloak yourself, once prideful beech! 
Your gowns are in tatters. 

I’m so worn down, 
By your droning prattle, 
Your frail resistance 
In these February winds, 

When everyone else ceased 
Fighting months ago. 
Surrender; it’s natural. 
(And I will join you.) 
If you’ll just bequeath me this peace of mind.

CHARLIE COLE loved his undergraduate years at a small, rural Maine college. He has been previously published in Long Story Short, The Blue Crow, The Sandy River Review and The CafĂ© Review. He lives with his family in Maine on land once owned by his great-great grandfather. Contact 


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Both mother and grandmother 
used to exclaim in the waning rain, 
Look, there’s enough blue sky 
to make a pair of Dutchman’s breeches. 
How they knew what yardage 
such trousers would take 
puzzled me as a child. 
I took their omen as truth 
and, in truth, the storm was soon over. 
Decades later, when gray clouds threaten 
to deaden the spirit, weary the soul, 
I puzzle my friends 
when I scan the sky, 
mutter about Dutchmen.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has an interest in healing writing and leads the writing program at a Cancer Center. She is widely published in poetry and nonfiction, writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact


by Gloria Watts

Did you think I would forget you? 
Empty my mind, my heart, my soul 
of all those dreams we’d dreamed together, 
dearest one, the answer’s no. 

Did you think I’d love another? 
Let him take my heart, my soul 
share my deepest dreams, and more, 
dearest one, the answer’s no. 

Did you think, I’d pine without you? 
Weep each day and waste away 
forget that life is made for living, 
to live and love another day, 

dearest one, the answer’s no.

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 


3 AM
by Roger Singer

I know the face of 3am. 
It pulls tight at the bones of my rest, 
unwrapping the scaffolding of my cellophane sleep, 
breaking into my room; my eyes open into 
a dark sea of nothing. 

3am is a black star absent of an orbit, 
a horizon fused into the soup of blackness, 
absent of shadows or breathing. 

I hear the scampering of mice within the wall, 
rushing within its confines of night, stopping and then 
running again, fading into the apartment below. 

I am suspended between worlds, yet I 
feel as though I am falling flat to earth like a particle 
from the dust pan of a solar wind…… 

3am owns me.

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 Patricia Crandall

He blazes mountain trails
and wilds
bearded, clad in Levi’s,
wandering toward
Green Mountain panorama,
abutting jigsaw puzzle states.
He lives in caves,
sheltered against bitter winds.
The sun is his satellite,
the moon, a guiding star.
abjure the spoils within
a conscience smote

by a past debasing.

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 Susan Dale

In Venice I saw them
dancing across the spires of sunset
a twilight of gray luster lagoons
A couple with
Fred Astaire in his steps
          Ginger Rogers
                dipping and
Wayward winds broke into twilight
As they danced above the
dark waters of Othello
         shimmering with halos
                    of Venice chandeliers
                            whispering in the windows

Puddle-lit waters surrounded them
Currents reflected palaces and cathedrals
Sprays and mist kissed our faces
Gondoliers plied the waters
Wakes and swishes
Splashes of a boating song

A lone gent in suit and tie
Sat on a water-logged balcony
Dinning above the fluid poem of Venice
wrinkling the waters

Remembering all
through the fog of time
Shrouds of Venice
rising from the lagoons
Doves with iridescent wings
Ghosts of mist
And palaces swimming through
scrolls of currents

But mostly, from yesterday
they are yet dancing in my mind                                                                                                  

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Pyrokinection on November 8, 2012.  

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


by Stacy Maddox

I found you gently floating 
On a sea of broken dreams 
One lost soul to another 

I saw your beauty there inside 
It lies in the haunted depths 
Buried in the very essence of you 

You took my hand to hold and love 
Softly, cherishing every moment 
Bringing my heart back to life 

You let me be, who I need to be 
Riding on the wind, grounded in earth 
Hot as flame that burns with bright fire 

You pulled me in to the shore 
Whispering words of hope all along 
Nestled in the safety of your warmth 

My fears rest in a safe haven 
You left no stone unturned 
As we drift, under the moon and stars.

STACY MADDOX lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, Kansas. When she is not writing poems, songs and stories or taking photographs, she is tending her garden, cooking and spending time with her family and two children. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, The Medulla Project, Daily Love and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review and has won several writing contests. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years. Contact 


by Kathie Turner

One by one items stream down a conveyer belt while
beeps invade the ears of all who are within
range… beep… beep… beep.

A humble stare, an exchange of words, and an occasional
compliment interchanges two strangers;
now they are acquaintances.

Two souls uniting for mere minutes in the name of a sale,
yet their words and gestures leave
lasting impressions.

KATHIE TURNER is currently working toward a nursing degree, yet she has a profound love for writing. During her spring 2012 semester, Kathie was given the opportunity to intern for Referential Magazine. In doing so, she was given a broader view of the writing and publishing world, which was a truly cherished experience. You can also find her work published in The Rainbow Rose and Welcome to Wherever. Kathie lives in Concord, North Carolina with her wonderful husband, and their precious daughter. Contact 



Beneath clasped fingers of
   attending aspens
in the silence of the dark
—this last hushed pause—
before your spirit travels home.
I offer this prayer,
for your eternal rest
beyond the grasp of loneliness
and the cold embrace of strife—

carried aloft on tearful spirals
of sweet-sage smoke—
beyond the river of stars

           p.l. wick

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 -J

a sliver of time, a grain of
sand in the hourglass, an eternity
elapsed in a mere second,
a lifetime frozen
in a touch,
a whisper,
a kiss

wrapped in my arms;
silken brunette hair spread across
the pillow of my chest, our hearts
beating in unison, our souls
joined as one before the universe of
stars reflecting down upon us

you are mine, and I yours, forever
and always;
in this moment
beneath the silver orb glowing
in the night sky, trickling
pale lunar raindrops
upon the water’s surface like
a thousand sparkling gems

I know in the morning, in the blinding light of
dreary dawn, you will be whisked away on
the white bird's thunderous wings, carrying
you home to your friends, your
loved ones, your country

but perhaps
days, weeks, months,
years from now,
though oceans and continents apart,
when you stare into the
silver star in the blue-black heavens
you'll see the reflection of
my soul, remember the
beating of our hearts, and we'll be
forever... memories

-J is a well-renowned weirdo and self-proclaimed "misanthrope" who resides in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina in a roach-infested duplex where he aspires to greatness. Contact


by Floriana Hall

At the end of each day
Did you ever ask yourself
What did I accomplish?
Did I show love for others
And experience
A bit of heaven on earth
By being understanding
And less than selfish?

In this kingdom of heaven
Did my body's food desires
Overcome bread for my mind
And soul filled meditation?
We are nurtured
By God's symbolic teachings
To share what we have
To be considerate and kind.

Can we be Christ for others?
If we can answer positively
We are on our way to the glory
Of the most wonderful event
In our lives with the steady
Stream of compassion
And help we give -
It's the reward for our story.

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 Susan Marie Davniero

This Valentine’s Day 
A heartfelt way 
To unwrap a surprise 
The love underlies 
A gift of gold 
Embrace to hold 
Love confess 
Is so priceless 
A loving touch 
None too much 
A glance will play 
Upon you to say 
Words to be true 
Say I love you

Valentine Cat - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

AUTHOR’S NOTE: For Valentine's Day I drew a cat illustration holding a heart sending the message of love. As a cat lover, cats hold one's heart. The subject is love. Cat lovers and all lovers unite. Happy Valentine's Day to all! 

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


february celebrity poet 

Khalil Gibran 
(1883 – 1931) 

nationality: Lebanese-American

Khalil Gibran – Credit: Public Domain


Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little 

Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you
As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?

Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of
Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon
Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice?

Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge,
While you are replete with heavenly wisdom?

Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you
Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the
Field, haven of your dreams?

Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the
Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and
Filling their hands with your bounty?

You are God's spirit everywhere;
You are stronger than the ages.

Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of
You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love
Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed?

Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the
Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs
Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury?

Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands
Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if
We were hiding ourselves within ourselves?

Recall you the hour I bade you farewell,
And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips?
That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love
Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter!

That kiss was introduction to a great sigh,
Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man.

That sigh led my way into the spiritual world,
Announcing the glory of my soul; and there
It shall perpetuate until again we meet.

I remember when you kissed me and kissed me,
With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said,
"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose,
And must live apart impelled by worldly intent.

"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of
Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God.

"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate;
Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower
The cup of the sweetness of life.
As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my
Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding."

Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in
The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey
To you my heart's every beat and affection.

Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image
Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his
Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.

Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty
And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.

Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping
From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?
Do you know the greatness of my patience?

Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying
To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any
Secret communication between angels that will carry to
You my complaint?

Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life
Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.

Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!
Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

Where are you, me beloved?
Oh, how great is Love!
And how little am I!

Read the entire poem at: 

For the poet’s biography, see: 

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