“You are the person who has to decide. Whether you'll do it or toss it aside; You are the person who makes up your mind. Whether you'll lead or will linger behind. Whether you'll try for the goal that's afar. Or just be contented to stay where you are.”

- Edgar A. Guest
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

A FLASH AND A CLICK

by James M. Tilton

My aunt is one of those women

Who likes cheap crafts

And long prayers

And family portraits.

Not just one portrait,

Many portraits.

Enough portraits to fill a scrapbook.

A scrapbook which is, in itself, both a craft and a prayer.

So, every Easter and every Thanksgiving and every Christmas,

She corrals the family to the fireplace,

The one that she says reminds her of the Saturday Evening Post.

There she spends five minutes arranging us,

And re-arranging us,

Like a choreographer that will never be satisfied.

One minute has passed.

The dancers are still patient.

They smile as the choreographer reaches in,

And grabs shoulders,

And angles bodies,

And tells the children to come to the front.

Two minutes have passed.

The dancers have begun to joke.

They reach their arms around each other,

Flicking ears and pinching necks,

While the choreographer works on, unconcerned.

Three minutes have passed.

The dancers have started to sweat,

Standing in a group by a fire.

They complain,

But the choreographer does not hear them.

She is too focused on coaxing the shyest cousin from behind her parents.

Four minutes have passed.

My grandma is complaining that the turkey is going to burn,

And my grandpa is threatening to go watch the football game.

My uncle pulls out his phone and checks the score,

And his wife slaps his hand and tells him to put it away.

The choreographer works on.

She steps back and observes her work.

She is nearly satisfied

“Quiet!” she says, and my grandma stops her complaining.

“I’m putting the camera on timer,” she says, and my uncle puts his phone away.

“Smile when the red light starts blinking,” she says, and my littlest cousin grins,

Showing the camera his first big tooth.

Five minutes have passed.

My little brother, having watched my aunt and uncle,

Slaps his cousin on the wrist.

She starts to cry,

And my aunt has to pick her up.

My mom is on a knee trying to make my little brother apologize,

But he is hiding behind my grandpa’s wheelchair.

And there is a blinking red light and a flash and a click.

JAMES M. TILTON is an author and high school teacher from Southern California. Contact

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ALL SAINTS DAY

(November 1st)

by Susan Marie Davniero

In our Church’s history

To honor in blessed memory

Faithful martyrs’ burdened life

Days are over, no more strife

For Heaven’s rest release

To await glorious peace

Come November 1^st to pray

To honor All Saints Day

Stained Glass Cross Drawing, 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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LONG-WINDED
by Floriana Hall

There's no one around

But the wind makes the sound

As it twists and turns through the town.

It howls and it shouts,

"I'm in charge now

And I'll decide how

To make the trees bend,

To make seasons blend."

Smoothly to wildly increasing

Days of light slowly ceasing

Bare of leaves now

Frowns on many a brow

As acceptance dawns

In November

Like a prelude to remember

Who is in charge -

Mother Nature laughing

At the changing landscape!

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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AUTUMN RITUAL

by Patricia Crandall

Plum foliage

swells upon changing trees.

Leaves

tumble to the ground

in a play of wind,

crisping and curling

where they fall.

Beauty and color reign

in a time so fleeting,

breathtaking, and sobering

for the stark ritual

that is to come.

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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MY DAUGHTER ANN

by James G. Piatt

When upon your smile I rest my gaze,
I see truth untangled from the earth’s maize

I smile and find my heart filled with glee,
When beneath the clear sky I sit with thee.

The flowers do not have a sweeter scent
Than your smile which is heaven sent,

You are my joy, and my serenity,
When you sit and quietly converse with me,

Your softness and beauty too, is
A grace sublime and honest too,

So let us sit awhile just you and me,
Under the boughs of the apricot tree, and

Listen to the dove that sings, and
The soft murmurings of little things!

JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt a retired professor, poet and writer, is the author of 2 poetry books, “The Silent Pond,” (2012) and “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), 2 novels, “The Ideal Society” (2011), and “The Monk,” (2013), 33 short stories, and over 545 poems. His poem, “The Night Frog” was nominated for best of web 2013. His poetry books and novels are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact

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REBOUND

by Michael Ceraolo

It was an ordinary missed free throw

that bounced high off the back rim

so that no one was in position to grab the ball

Three guys leaped high for it,

a rugby scrum in the air,

but again no one could grab it

and the ball was tipped up

Again another scrum in the air,

again no one could grab the ball,

again another tip in the air,

until in the third aerial scrum

someone was able to gain possession

MICHAEL CERAOLO is a 56-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had one full-length book (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press) and a few shorter-length books published, plus numerous magazine publications. Contact

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WORD PLAY

by Barb Phillips

Words, to me, are sexy;
I could play with them all day.
Caressing sounds they offer
With the thoughts that they convey.
I bend and twist them often;
But the truth is always clear;
I write so they will listen
To the things they need to hear.
I like the feel of typing
As my fingers slip and slide;
I start and I don't stop
Until my need is satisfied.
My husband - he gets anxious
When I start with page and pen;
It irks him when he sees me
Writing words down once again.
My laptop drives him crazy;
He considers it a trap.
He'd rather me be playing
Squirming softly on HIS lap.
But, as it is, I write;
It's still the only way I know.
Manipulating words
Until they swing and sway and flow.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: "Word Play" was written to show the joy the poet gets by being able to manipulate words to make them swing, sway and flow. She considers it a gift to be able to compose and transfer from brain, to pen, to paper, what is in her head, and ultimately, make it rhyme....

BARB PHILLIPS has been a nurse for 18+ years, but has been writing poetry for over 30+ years, and only recently has felt the need to share the words she has kept hidden in pretty boxes in her closet. Barb writes every day that she is not working at her regular job, in addition to having hundreds of poems already penned from years past. Her goal is to compile them and possibly have a book published. Contact

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CORN HUSK DOLLS

by Patricia Crandall

One stands tall,

two stand small.

Flaxen hair,

pin-eyed stare,

basket of strawberry flowers.

Three pretty maids

all in a row,

fabricated

within an hour.

~~~~~

VFW FOR ALL TIME
(Dedicated to Gerard Fischetti, VFW Member)

by Susan Marie Davniero

VFW for all time

Traces roots since 1899

Veterans come together

At the VFW chapters

Veterans of Foreign Wars

Supports veterans’ causes

From 1899 to everywhere

The VFW is always there

Standing up for veterans’ rights

The VFW for the good fight

Veterans are never alone

At the VFW you’re home

Susan and Robert Davniero (Veteran) in front of the VFW chapter

Lindenhurst, NY, 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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CRANBERRY SAUCE
by Floriana Hall

Poor Mr. Turkey tries to get lost
To avoid being garnished by cranberry sauce,
He himself would rather pick them
Gobble up the berries off the stem.

They fed the Pilgrims and Indian tribes
And helped some of them survive
Cold blasts of winter in Plymouth Rock,
Newcomers from England and some Mohawk.

In thanksgiving for safe landing, they ate their fill
Caught Mr. Turkey running up a hill
Added some corn and cooked with skill
Over hot coals, turning at will
While the cranberries cooked in the pot.

The end result was a feast with a lot
Of prayers in gratitude for this day
Thanking God for bringing them here
To this land of prosperity held so dear.

Through struggle, through strife,
Those left lived a new life
Freedom of religion and press.

To this day turkeys are dressed
With cranberries drizzled over them
Or as a side dish.

Mr. Turkey rarely gets his wish!

~~~~~

ACROSS GENERATIONS

by Jon Bowers

In Central Park, a blustery gray November day,

Sans the vendors--practical and savvy.

Umbrella spread, I cross from the Dakota,

Drawn without will

to Strawberry Fields.

Wet, shivering I should turn back.

Head down, striding, I reach the mosaic.

Fatigue fades, cold and rain forgotten

as I view the single embedded word: "Imagine."

A tingling up the back of my neck.

Alone among eight million in the City,

save one young woman in her early twenties.

Well-dressed--business type.

Trembling in cold slanting drizzle,

arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

Fashionable in her beret.

An eternity separates her from his heyday.

Yet her tears mix freely with the rain

that falls quietly

on the cold concrete homage at her feet.

And it is my privilege to witness raw emotion.

I approach, we talk. A hand briefly on her shoulder.

No further words--

Shared respect for one who gave voice to peace.

JON BOWERS: Contact

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OAK ROCKER

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Decades ago my brother-in-law

gave me his father’s chair,

a turn of the century

oak rocker that lived in his kitchen.

His dad won it in a poker game

(some housewife was really annoyed)

and carried it home upside down in the rain,

the strangest umbrella ever seen.

First in his own kitchen, then in his son’s,

the dad rocked and read the paper,

puffed his Lucky Strike, had a nip of bourbon.

The rocker lives in my kitchen now.

I rock and read the paper, forego the cigarette,

sip a mug of tea and think of those men.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with poetry widely published in journals, anthologies and Internet magazines. She has a special interest in healing with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew. Contact

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THE ROAD TAKEN
by C. David Hay

Could we but travel back in time
And speak the words unsaid,
To ponder the road not taken
And the place it might have led.

The past is like a window,
On the outside looking in -
We see where we have ventured,
Not where we might have been.

Often a journey wearies and wends
As we never intended it to;
Too late we learn there's no return
From the "Land of Did Not Do."

So be content with blessings sent
On the path we chose to trod
And know it was the better way -
We put our trust in God.

C. DAVID HAY is a retired dentist residing in Indiana. He is a graduate of Indiana University and IU School of Dentistry. He is the author of five books of poetry. He has been widely published and has had his poetry read on the British Broadcasting Channel. Dr. Hay has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry and is recipient of the Ordo Honoris award from Kappa Delta Rho. He received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from IUSD. He is an avid scholar and collector of Native American artifacts. Contact

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A COLLECTION OF NATURE

by Patricia Crandall

We gather

acorn cups

nut covers

twigs

curled leaves

fern fronds

mushrooms

pinecones

grubs

from a boundless

expanse of God’s forest

~~~~~

NEW HARVEST MOON
by Floriana Hall

Oh, Harvest moon
You shined too soon
In the wee hours of the night
Waking me up with a fright!

You zoomed past the bedroom and kitchen
So fast like a flash of brilliance.
I could have sworn it was daylight
But I do not swear about anything.

Going back to sleep was difficult
Expecting to see more of you
Like shadows creeping,
I could hardly wait until daylight.

Walking on eggshells for a while,
Funny how quickly one forgets
About the night before,
Not telling anyone,
Did not want to be a bore!

Did you stop my computer's function
Or was it my fingers still jittery
From the near frightening experience
Of God's amazing creation?

Will the next Harvest Moon
Be in tune with yesterday?

~~~~~

FALL IS GOLDEN

by Michael Lee Johnson

The last golden yellow apple

hangs like a healing miracle

bow down old apple tree

winter is coming.

Life is a single thread this time.

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 27 countries, and he edits 9 poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom which is available at Amazon and iUniverse (136 pages book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 71 poetry videos on YouTube. Contact Website Website

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MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE

by Susan Marie Davniero

Macy’s seasonal tradition

Since 1924 a celebration