LONG STORY SHORT: POETRY PAGE: September 2013

“Language has not the power to speak what love indites: The soul lies buried in the ink that writes."

- John Clare
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

MY GREAT EXPECTATIONS

by John Grey

Midnight,

I’ve been battling homework,

five solid hours, sleep in my corner.

Cometh the scholar,

cometh the revelation,

fourth coffee, seventh book,

I truly do hate calculus,

but love this Dickens novel.

Legend has it

his friends convinced him

to change the ending.

No, no, it was me!

It happened just as the clock struck

and my mother yelled up,

“Go to sleep.”

Calculus, like all math,

is inviolate but with

literature at least

there’s always the chance

that some brave soul

will rescue Anna Karenina

from the train track,

or whisper in Romeo’s ear,

the girl’s not really dead.

But the indefinite integral will always be

the antiderivative.

The linear operator can’t help

ingesting a function and spitting

out a second function.

All that’s required of me

is to know these things.

But if I don’t, they still are.

But imagine Estella, wizened and gray,

her cruelty frozen into wrinkles,

dried up throat

cackling the worthlessness of men.

Or Pip, dissolute, broke,

one more wino on the dismal

streets of London.

Didn’t happen.

What I wish for this world

encompasses leaps of faith

but can’t be measured in increments.

JOHN GREY is an Australian born poet who works as a financial systems analyst. Recently he has been published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris. Contact

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SCHOOL DAYS

by Shirley Securro

When I was young and went to school

The teacher taught the Golden Rule

"Sit up straight and bow your head

It's time to have the prayer read

Fold your hands and close your eyes"

Many times we could hear her sighs

"We need to ask our Father above

To teach us all about His love

To keep us pure and not to lie

To be honest and true to get us by"

She would announce loud and clear

And if you pretended not to hear

She didn't hesitate to tug your ear

It wasn't considered child abuse then

It was all about why we should and when

The Bible was the ruling force

We went to Sunday School of course

We didn't have songs like "Bring Sexy Back"

There wasn't anything that we did lack

"Touch My Body" by Mariah Carey?

We were taught we needed to marry

Things were different times gone by

I can still hear those teachers sigh!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Shirley Securro will be doing a reading of her poem “SCHOOL DAYS” this month at her high school alumni banquet for over 200 people.

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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PICTURES ON THE WALLS

by Floriana Hall

All types of pictures on the walls

Portray the era, the year, the happening

Walking from room to room

At home, at doctors’ offices

On buses, in stores

A ruse to keep people thinking

And wondering about the person or thing

Inspired by whatever talent the artist possessed

A wonderful memory or not -

Oil or water colors aligned or blotched

Pencil graphics and abstract

Queens, Kings, Presidents and Dictators

Ancestors, young and old

Scenery magnificent to behold

Raised or subdued

Can change the mood to spellbound

Compel the viewer to investigate

The origin and history behind it

Art lover or not.

Art can be just looking out the window

The clouds in the sky or the sun up high

Woods to walk or put out the fires

Mountains to climb or valleys to descend

Floods to overcome, loss of possessions

Like winds of chance

That take off like tornadoes

Or become them

Safety inside looking at the paintings

Meandering from room to room

Pictures on the walls

Dreaming of the best times in life

In the form of art

Photo albums of the best of times

Page by page turning slowly

While the rage may continue outdoors

In an age of global warming

Which some scientists agree

Is in the process of causing havoc.

Some think the end of the world is at hand

Some people keep their opinions to themselves

The answer is no one knows for sure

But are at peace and daily endure

Exhibitions spectacular.

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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FOLLOW YOUR DREAM

by Susan Marie Davniero

In the night’s air
Dreams are there
Doorway to other side
In sleep we lie

Journey of sleep
Into dreams creep
Dreamer of dreams
Sleepy schemes

Dreams foretold
Window into our soul
Prophecy insight
Visions at night

Wishes or sorrows
Todays or tomorrows
Nightmares confess
As you rest

Awaken it seems
Is but a dream
Waking life theme
Follow your dream

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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I SAW A TREE A-FALLING

by T. Wignesan

I saw a tree a-falling

a-falling down on me

I had no way to turn

it was close on me

I thought it was a plot

to force me out

I knew I could not

even hold it or shout

It was a tree I sheltered

on many a longing day

And now it was so altered

coming to make me pay

I asked it why it longed

to touch its upmost brim

When all around no foe

turned the sun down dim

I touched its bark to hear

I thought I heard a cry

Two leaves it shed on me

and brushed its bark up high

I asked it why it stood

alone and left to brood

It shook its sticks in emphasis

as if to say it was good

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

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BELT

by Gregory Liffick

Tried

to break

into show

business

like a

rock

through a

window.

A voice

that could

shatter

glass.

Sang

for any

ears,

overlooking

that hers

were

tin.

GREGORY LIFFICK is an artist, musician, and teacher of special education and college night-school courses from Ontario, California. He has been a poet, he says, for most of his adult life. His online poetry chapbook collection entitled WATERSHED is available to print online. Contact

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SHREWD INVESTMENT

by Frank De Canio

The channeling of impulses that press

on us into more cultivated aims

is like the blossoming of consciousness

out of the wayward thrust of childish games.

The loss is only felt when, thus engaged,

we’re driven to indulge life’s pleasure source

until our basic cravings are assuaged.

But once we’re on a more productive course

and parlay Nature into dividends,

instead of money spent at her behest,

we benefit from self-enhancing ends,

forgoing fun and games for what works best.

And if forbearance blinkers disco lights,

it scans illustrious, if sober, heights.

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, Ginsburg, 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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GOING FISHING

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

You go for the fishing.

I go for the mountain stream

gurgling and purling

through stones where dippers stride

down and under, across rippled sand,

then up and out on a different rock,

juicy tidbits clamped in their dripping beaks.

You go for the fishing.

I go for the pine-scented air,

the rough bark at my back

as I settle in with a book

then forget to read,

eyes caught on billowing clouds

above sharp-tipped green fringe.

You go for the fishing.

I go for the sandwiches

laid with chips on a red-checked cloth,

the amble upstream to see how you’re doing,

admire your string of trout in a chilly pool,

the rush of wind off snow-capped peaks,

air crisp in my lungs.

You go for the fishing.

I go for the day in the mountains,

soul-refreshing. The fresh trout dinner

delicious but incidental.

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

~~~~~

WITHIN REACH

by Allison Grayhurst

Within reach – kaleidoscope breaking.

I know what works, the machine is retreating

and each candle has dripped into oblivion.

God’s grace is nestled like nectar on my handkerchief,

it drips when it is squeezed but opens wide

when I take delight in its sunset colour.

The phone call I made 13 years ago has

been returned. Someone I dreamed of is

living without hope. That dream is sailing

on a raft into the unpredictable sea. I will sing

though I fear they will stop me. I will sing

though my face is flushed with doubt’s

preoccupying disease.

The joy we’ve been waiting for is coming.

I see it coming, gradual, like all good things.

I will not be afraid.

I will lift up my heart

and make room for what follows…

ALLISON GRAYHURST has had over 200 poems in more than 130 journals, magazines, and anthologies throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012), South Florida Arts Journal, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, Poetry Magazine; Fogged Clarity, Out of Our, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Decanto, and White Wall Review. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press in December 2012. She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay. Contact

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NO GREATER WEALTH
by Susan Marie Davniero

There is no greater wealth found
Than in the silent peaceful sound
When taking your own life’s path
Absent of false worship on behalf
Of wealth, materialism and greed
There can be no lesser creed
With all the money sought
Love cannot be brought
Seek to measure real life’s worth
By way of peace and love on earth
Aim to live a life to share
Giving your love, help, and care
Help a neighbor and volunteer
Needy people are always near
In the end it will make sense
Life is more than dollars and cents

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

~~~~~

MOMENTS AGO

by Debbie Hilbish

Wasn’t it

moments ago

I spun in the schoolyard

going round

and round the mulberry bush

holding hands

so we wouldn’t explode

from the thrill of recess?

Wasn’t it

moments ago

in the tangle of youth,

that first kiss

making cheeks blush and heads spin

faster than the whirligig

that I loved so much?

I can smell the air and your lips and your hair

with a clarity of moments ago:

Where I’ve parked the car,

now,

I just don’t know.

Please don’t tell me

it was

moments ago.

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 the annual eight week Author's Fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona 2008-2012 years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact

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THE POWER WITHIN ME

by S. Kumar

I asked for help of friends so many,
A few said YES, the rest said NO.
I thank them all - not a grudge to any,
And why I do it, does anyone know?

The kind ones gave a willing YES,
They sure made my task wee light.
Even kinder was Great Mother Goddess,
Within me when I'd none in sight.

The naysayers taught me only to rely,
On myself and the good God alone.
How falsely do the dark clouds belie,
The great powers I'd in me alone.

They taught me to do my task myself,
And gain freedom from others' pity.
I learned a lesson that the 'No' itself,
Was a lucky blessing of the Almighty.

The power of a thousand million suns,
Is just ready for use if I will.
It's more than what I ever could run,
For even the toughest task uphill.

S. KUMAR is a teacher living in Kolkata, India. His passion is writing and teaching communicative English. His publications include a published technical school textbook on computer Java programming, a short story and poem published in national daily and international magazines. Visit a website on personality development. Contact

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IN FULL BLOOM (Cinquain)

by Lucille Gang Shulklapper

Flowers

show true colors

soaked in rain, blown by wind

petals fall in delirious

riots.

LUCILLE GANG SHULKLAPPER is a widely published poet and fiction writer with work appearing in journals including Long Story Short, Slant, Prose-Poem Project, Red Booth Review, and Consequence, among others, as well as in four poetry chapbooks, the most recent titled In the Tunnel (March Street Press, 2008). She has led poetry workshops for The Florida Center for the Book and those facilitated through the Palm Beach Poetry Festival community outreach program, taught reading K-college, made recordings for the blind, and raised a family. Contact

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A SEA OF WHEAT NEAR MOURA

by Neil Leadbeater

Among the waving fronds, brittle stems and soft wheat-eared

loveliness

we spent our afternoons;

the place where the grain field was an inland sea,

the ground a shimmer of cymbals.

Lying there in the breeze-blown crop

you felt the force of Cape Cod cranberries

bursting on your tongue;

zesty muscat flavoured grapes and the sweet, tangy juice

of a succulent navel orange -

and I thought it a marvel

that all these things should come to you

in the one curvaceous moment

while Moura basked in the 4.00 o’clock heat

her low-lying farms pitched like loaves

in the burn and shine of hills.

NEIL LEADBEATER is an editor, author, essayist and poet living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His latest book, Librettos for the Black Madonna, was published by White Adder Press in 2011. His work has been translated into Spanish and Romanian. Contact

~~~~~

OLD FRIEND

by Patricia Crandall

Thirty years

have passed old friend

since childhood romps

through green pastures

and cow dung

were worthy pastimes.

When trespassing

over wooden fences

and climbing

octopus apple trees

were ultimate achievements.

Do you remember

chasing headless chickens

in the barnyard?

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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THE AGEING TROUBADOUR'S PROPOSAL

by Abigail Wyatt

Come live with me. Why more delay

when summer's slipped too soon away?

As shadows lengthen, days shrink too;

I have grown old and, likewise, you.

Beside me, lady, please you sit and sup;

for, like these flames, my kindling love leaps up;

and, though all the night a tempest blow,

I will not fail, nor will I let you go.

And I will make a mattress of green leaves

where you shall rest to weep away your griefs;

and I will sew a blanket sweet with flowers

to bless your darkest hours.

A nightgown of white linen fine

I'll give to you if you'll be mine;

and slippers soft with fleece

that you may sleep in peace;

a gown of rich brocade spun gold

with jewel encrusted in its folds:

and, if you'll have me, I will prove

that I am fit to be your love.

And for your pleasure I will play and sing;

that in your ears sweet melodies may ring

to drown the bell that tolls us on our way -

so live with me - what profits more delay?

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. Visit her new blog. Contact

~~~~~

FALLING LEAVES

by Carol Smallwood

swirl and when you think

you know the prevailing wind,

scurry like brown mice

or thoughts when trying

to sleep

The barn is obscured

by new development and

the house is now gone-

the barn still red, hangs

tight

Nearby stands one tree

with fallen leaves crumpled

by sea change without

having seen the sea

Each day you drive by

you feel more the stranger

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Forge, Spring 2012.

CAROL SMALLWOOD’s books include Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching, foreword by Molly Peacock (McFarland, 2012) on Poets & Writers Magazine list of Best Books for Writers; Divining the Prime Meridian (WordTech Editions, 2014); Bringing the Arts into the Library (American Library Association, 2014). Carol has founded, supports humane societies. Contact

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GOD WILL SEE ME THROUGH
by Floriana Hall

Oh, Lord, when I am fearful
I always call on You
To change my life from tearful
I know You'll see me through.

Oh, Lord, when I am doubtful

You restore my faith again

I will no more be fretful

You'll take away my pain.

Oh, Lord, when I feel hopeless

You will bestow on me new hope

All qualms You will dismiss

To help me be calm and cope.

Oh, Lord, when I am fruitful

In deeds and words I say

Your trust will lead me forward

To brighten others' day.

~~~~~

ALL IN A DAY'S WORK

by Susan Marie Davniero

Labor’s dimly world is lit

To the worker's benefit

Rise by means they stand

Meet work day's demands

Gathering wages pay

Carry them through all day

Pile of work climbs

On the edge of time

By the work force hands

United they stand

Susan Marie Davniero at her work table - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

~~~~~

LATE SEPTEMBER, JERSEY SHORE

by Linda Gamble

Summer’s infestation’s gone.

Few humans dot the beach,

heads down, they push along the shore,

sit in groups huddled against the wind,

clutching sun’s waning warmth Gritty

shrapnel blasts exfoliate suntanned limbs,

foreshadow the sting and bite to come.

Eerie mists cross the beach, form

strange hieroglyphics in the sand

urging departure, purging the frivolous.

LINDA GAMBLE is a retired reading specialist who previously published articles in educational journals, but is now free to enjoy her first love of poetry. Her poems have been published in Edison Review, Mused, Long Story Short and Camel Saloon. Contact

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

september celebrity poet

John Clare

(1793 – 1864)

nationality: English

John Clare – Credit: Public Domain

source

AUTUMN

The summer-flower has run to seed,
And yellow is the woodland bough;
And every leaf of bush and weed
Is tipt with autumn’s pencil now.

And I do love the varied hue,
And I do love the browning plain;
And I do love each scene to view,
That’s mark’d with beauties of her reign.

The woodbine-trees red berries bear,
That clustering hang upon the bower;
While, fondly lingering here and there,
Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower.

The trees’ gay leaves are turned brown,
By every little wind undress’d;
And as they flap and whistle down,
We see the birds’ deserted nest.

No thrush or blackbird meets the eye,
Or fills the ear with summer’s strain;
They but dart out for worm and fly,
Then silent seek their rest again.

Beside the brook, in misty blue,
Bilberries glow on tendrils weak,
Where many a bare-foot splashes through,
The pulpy, juicy prize to seek:

For ’tis the rustic boy’s delight,
Now autumn’s sun so warmly gleams,
And these ripe berries tempt his sight,
To dabble in the shallow streams.

And oft his rambles we may trace,
Delv’d in the mud his printing feet,
And oft we meet a chubby face
All stained with the berries sweet.

The cowboy oft slives down the brook,
And tracks for hours each winding round,
While pinders, that such chances look,
Drive his rambling cows to pound.

The woodland bowers, that us’d to be
Lost in their silence and their shade,
Are now a scene of rural glee,
With many a nutting swain and maid.

The scrambling shepherd with his hook,
’Mong hazel boughs of rusty brown
That overhang some gulphing brook,
Drags the ripen’d clusters down.

While, on a bank of faded grass,
Some artless maid the prize receives;
And kisses to the sun-tann’d lass,
As well as nuts, the shepherd gives.

I love the year’s decline, and love
Through rustling yellow shades to range,
O’er stubble land, ’neath willow grove,
To pause upon each varied change:

And oft have thought ’twas sweet, to list
The stubbles crackling with the heat,
Just as the sun broke through the mist
And warm’d the herdsman’s rushy seat;

And grunting noise of rambling hogs,
Where pattering acorns oddly drop;
And noisy bark of shepherds’ dogs,
The restless routs of sheep to stop;

While distant thresher’s swingle drops
With sharp and hollow-twanking raps;
And, nigh at hand, the echoing chops
Of hardy hedger stopping gaps;

And sportsmen’s trembling whistle-calls
That stay the swift retreating pack;
And cowboy’s whoops, and squawking brawls,
To urge the straggling heifer back.

Autumn-time, thy scenes and shades
Are pleasing to the tasteful eye;
Though winter, when the thought pervades,
Creates an ague-shivering sigh.

Grey-bearded rime hangs on the morn,
And what’s to come too true declares;
The ice-drop hardens on the thorn,
And winter’s starving bed prepares.

Read the entire poem at:

http://poetry.about.com/od/poems/l/blclareautumn.htm

For the poet’s biography, see:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare