“OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.”
POEM OF THE MONTH
SCHIZOPHRENIA NIGHT
(Devoted to John Nash, A Beautiful Mind Movie, 2001)
by Michael Lee Johnson
I am a chalkboard computer brain.
I have updated drawn raw
images even the classroom
students cannot see, hear, nor understand.
They sit quietly in Disneyland
wondering about my eccentricities
I capture their stillness, then I speak.
I am the professor, special agent of government
dream tracer of crossword puzzles.
Photographic memory in private rooms,
did I hear a critic, erase
destroy dissociative thoughts.
I walk out unsteady in disbelief.
Is there a shadow of storybooks following me?
I am a genius; I know who I am.
I spend nights in formula construction
drawing full color images of my brain,
percentages of gray matter lost.
I stick my ego to the eagle of the sky.
When on a high on an airplane, self-love,
full bloom, I keep my enemies at bay.
I shelter the skeletons of thought.
I trust Jesus because His image is stable,
every group I have ever known says "The Lord's Prayer."
Even then, new members leave, disappear, I hear what they said.
I had an MRI to trace all my youthful abuses.
There were no images there but voices I remember.
I cast their shadows, audio, visual for show, in the background.
In time, they quiet their voices. I walk beyond their images.
I pass on, they still screenplay.
You have to stretch lean, refer to sanity,
drink Asian tea, smooth out hallucinated sounds
before that stage, I took that Nobel prize,
even before, I forgave you.
AUTHOR’S FOOTNOTE: John Nash has suffered most of his life with severe
paranoid schizophrenia and has gone on to be a celebrated American mathematician whose works in game
theory, and differential geometry are appreciated around the world. The
movie A Beautiful Mind, portrays Nash's mathematical genius
and his struggles with schizophrenia and how he went on to win a Nobel Prize.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. 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 875 small press magazines in 27 countries, 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
SUDDENLY SPRING
by Susan Dale
Suddenly Spring
Muddily,
Puddily,
Fun-down
duddily
Spring
Spritzy
Spring
Of
rosy Posies
Sun-warmed
toesies
Clouds
are dancing
Prancing
Fancy puffs across the
skies
Rainbows
arch
Wings
do fly
Wearing
forsythia
skirts
April
dances
her
blossoms
Across
the earth
Sunshine days
growing
stout
Winds
turn umbrellas
Inside
out
Galoshes slosh and slip
Raindrops fall
Going
blip,
blip,
blip
SUSAN DALE's poems and fiction are on Hurricane Press, Ken *Again,
Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Feathered Flounder, Garbanzo, and Linden
Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. Contact
~~~~~
FOR BLESSING
by Shonda Buchanan
today at crittenden middle school
me and langston's ghost misted a room while
fifty sets of brilliant orbs listened, giggled into their sleeves
smiled shyly at secret crushes,
writing group poems with solid bones. after,
she came up to me, half covering nervous, watery eyes
still, brave-hearted, thirteen, she said "i write poetry"
recited a poem sweet as spring water. sweet as summer tea.
reminding me of another girl,
her hair smelling of woodsmoke and weeping willows
dragging her feet down a long lonely hallway
to finish her last line before the bell. that girl liked the quiet too.
no taunts. no bullies to say, ‘why you always writing?’
was it possible, that i had slipped
into the future to whisper my own name, "Miss Shonda"
say ‘i write poetry’
saying, look at you now, teacher friend mentor.
poet. look at you now.
she wrote her name on a slip of paper
so i would remember her. this moment.
her/my far-away eyes.
but who could forget any of this, i wanted to tell her.
no one could ever forget
such a Blessing.
SHONDA BUCHANAN: Editor of Voices from Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology, Shonda Buchanan's first collection of poetry, Who's Afraid of Black Indians? was nominated for the 2013 Black Caucus of the American Library Association Literary Award. Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Hampton University, Shonda is an Eloise Klein-Healy Scholarship recipient, a Sundance Institute fellow and a PEN Center Emerging Voice fellow. To contact the poet, visit her website or email.
~~~~~
PICTURESQUE
by Floriana Hall
Scenery that catches one’s eye -
Verdant meadows bring on a sigh
A hot apple pie from the oven
Verdant meadows bring on a sigh
A hot apple pie from the oven
Is easy to picture in the mind.
A portrait of a lovely lady's face
A President, King or Queen in place
An exploration of outer space
Will be remembered in kind.
Children at recess on a playground
Riding the bus homeward bound
Chattering or not making a sound
Lovely to see, rain or shine.
Stars at night that light the sky
Along with the man in the moon up high
Rainbows after a shower beautify
Our world on cloud nine.
A warm handshake or embrace
Brings on a smile to a friend's face
Smiles are welcomed anyplace
Like the motion of a peace sign.
Vivid imagery is open to all
Spring, summer, winter or fall
Fancy or rhetorical recall
Practical, nonsensical, or divine.
A portrait of a lovely lady's face
A President, King or Queen in place
An exploration of outer space
Will be remembered in kind.
Children at recess on a playground
Riding the bus homeward bound
Chattering or not making a sound
Lovely to see, rain or shine.
Stars at night that light the sky
Along with the man in the moon up high
Rainbows after a shower beautify
Our world on cloud nine.
A warm handshake or embrace
Brings on a smile to a friend's face
Smiles are welcomed anyplace
Like the motion of a peace sign.
Vivid imagery is open to all
Spring, summer, winter or fall
Fancy or rhetorical recall
Practical, nonsensical, or divine.
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
~~~~~
DRIVE
by Michael Ceraolo
He moves along the
baseline,
Un-cutoff by his man,
uses the basket as a
screen
though not for the
expected reverse layup
No, he
counterintuitively
floats in the air away
from the basket
and lofts a shot that
bounces
once,
twice,
and
then drops through the
hoop
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
~~~~~
FIRST HOLY COMMUNION DAY
by Susan Marie Davniero
First Holy Communion
Begins our blessed union
With Holy Eucharist receive
Body of Jesus we believe
First Holy Communion
Marks a lifetime union
Cup of wine pours
Blood of Jesus adored
First Holy Communion
Faithful commitment union
Blessed Sacrament we pray
First Holy Communion Day
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
~~~~~
DREAM LIBRARY
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
She steps from the small
boat
to the green verge by the
river,
walks in small paces
through grass
studded with English
daisies and primroses
to a terrace of large flat
stones.
Footed urns hold ivy
cascades,
red geraniums stain gray
sky
and French doors open
silently before her.
Inside the vast room, dim
despite
the long narrow windows,
books
from floor to ceiling are
interspersed
by statues of strong
women.
Linen-fold oak covers
walls
not already fronted by
books,
a fire glows in the hearth
at the narrow end.
Ladders on a rail frame high
shelves
and a circular staircase
leads
to a mezzanine where more
books
carry the eye higher.
Enchanted,
she turns a slow arc,
absorbs the smell
of old leather, dust motes
dancing
in rays of a reluctant
sun,
the glint of gilt on
ancient spines.
She trails her fingers
along the rows of books,
plucks one at random, one
that feels good,
reaches the slouched
leather chairs
in front of the fire,
settles in
for the rest of her life.
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
~~~~~
GARDEN OF EMOTIONS
by Rebecca Rose Taylor
Bright colors align the garden path
I look at the marigolds – so yellow and orange
Their delicate faces look like they’re smiling at me
Then I see the forget-me-nots – mostly blue
They remind me to tell the people I love how I feel
Next I visit the multi-colored tulips
Their blooms open and welcoming ask me to stay a while
In the back are the towering sunflowers
Their height a reminder to stand tall against the elements of
life
Now I see the roses – a multitude of hues living together
A message that I need harmony every day
The apple blossoms are gorgeous up in their tree
Their scent delightful and I take a moment to enjoy
Lilac buds are opening on their bushes
I snip a few to take inside with me
To remind me of the bliss I had on my walk.
REBECCA ROSE TAYLOR lives in a small town in Quebec and enjoys writing
poetry, fiction and articles. She also enjoys reading, quilting, knitting and
crocheting. Some of her previous publications include: Long Story Short,
Halcyon and All Rights Reserved. She is also a weekly contributor to the
Paradise on Paper blog. Contact
~~~~~
by James G. Piatt
The garden, light green, and
silent, a living essence separating
trees from gritty driveway, and
something much more…or much
less; a living verdant boundary
between austere memories, and
jovial dreams, between the
laughter of youth, and the moans
of the aging. I hear voices
troubled by storms and ills, and
those with deep worries, and
scatter the discordant remains
among the flowers to break their
monotony in the dark soil: I water
the flowers with voices infused
with laughter and gaiety, to bring
out the beauty of colors and
scents of perfumed fragrance. I
build brick paths so others may
stroll among the loveliness of the
garden that separates laughter
from weeping.
JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt a retired professor, poet and writer, is the
author of two poetry books, “The Silent Pond,”
(2012) and “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014),
his third poetry book will be released in
2015. He has had over 600 poems published. His
poem, “I Am” was nominated for a
2014 Pushcart award, his poem, “The Night Frog” was nominated for best of web 2013, his poem, “In The Meadow,”
was selected as 1 of the 100 best
poems of 2014, and his poem, “Teach Me” was selected for the 2014 poem of the year award at Long Story Short.
His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes
and Noble. Contact
~~~~~
JESUS, LEAD ME
by Susan Marie Davniero
Jesus, I pray
Lead me today
I will follow
On the path now
Lead me away
Show me the way
Take my hand
You understand
Help me cope
Give me hope
Lead me, come near
I am here
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
~~~~~
MY SENSE AND SCIENCE
by Debbie Hilbish
by Debbie Hilbish
Vinegar and baking soda
can’t mix and not erupt.
I always get a tingle
thinking about your touch.
A brick may well effervesce
if a formula’s not followed.
When sad, there’s a big lump
I can’t seem to swallow.
Science alone cannot restrain
all the heart can know.
Some put faith in Tesla.
My heart follows Thoreau.
Balance is our differences
it makes the mobile go.
DEBBIE HILBISH has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. Her first book of poetry was published in 2007, followed by a published chapbook in 2010. Debbie has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. She also hosted an eight week author’s fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona from 2008 through 2012. She is presently directing her energy towards working on her first novel. Contact
~~~~~
OUR HIDING PLACE
by Shirley Securro
We can go to our father
and hide anytime
He's our refuge, our
strength to abide
He will always be our
high tower
In him indwells all the
power
He has proved his faithfulness
He has proved his faithfulness
And so we have truly
been blessed
In times of trouble he's
always there
Surrounding us and
showing his care
There is no need for us to fear
There is no need for us to fear
He said he would dry our
every tear
If the mountains crumble
into the sea
He's still our refuge, our strength to be
Now and forever more!
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
~~~~~
CHANCES ARE YOU WILL WANT TO COME TO NEW YORK CITY
by Patricia Crandall
In 1958
Her streets were paved
in yellow brick
leading to Fifth Avenue
and 42nd Street.
You might have seen
a zealous couple
dance-walking towards
Broadway’s winking lights.
You might have heard jazz
eking out of the Metropole;
Ahmad Jamal
polishing white keys
with rhythmical fingers.
Small armies of white hats
took leave then
from hulks of ships.
Bell-bottom trousers flapped
in the glittering glass town
past steel palaces
exerting attraction on
click-clacking
high-heeled shoes and
saucy red lips,
interchanging magnetic pick-ups.
Today
foreign invasion and
a caravan of chic boutiques
marketing on the upper east side,
symbolize the best and
worst of New York.
Yet, bright young thing,
Chances are you will want to come
to New York City.
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
~~~~~
THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD
by Susan Marie Davniero
At the Last Supper spread
The Fest of unleavened
bread
"My appointed time
draws near" Jesus said
One will betray me as
Scriptures read
Blessed is the Holy
Trinity
Behold our divine history
"Take and eat, for
this is my body"
He took a cup,
"Drink from it"
This is my Blood of
Covenant?
The kiss of sinner
concedes to deliver
Blessed Jesus to the
unbeliever
Alas, mere thirty pieces
of silver
Paid to Judas’ disloyal
giver
"Hail King of
Jews!?" they cried
"Let him be
crucified!?”
Death of Jesus
miraculously defies
Rise the Son of God,
Jesus is alive
The Gospels of Mathew
foretold
Sacred Scriptures words
of gold
Glory to God, Son of Man
behold
The Greatest Story ever
told
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
~~~~~
IF YOU FIND NO POEM
by Michael Lee Johnson
If you find
no poem on
your doorstep
in the morning,
no paper, no knock on your door,
your life poorly edited
but no broken dashes
or injured meter-
if you do not wear white
satin dresses late in life
embroidered with violet
flowers on the collar;
nor do you have
burials daily
across main street-
if no one whispers
in your ear, Emily Dickinson-
you feel alone-
but not reclusive-
the sand child
still sleeping in your eyes-
wiping your tears away-
if you find
no poem on
your doorstep-
you know
you are not from New England.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. 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 875 small press magazines in 27 countries, 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
I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in;
When for earth too fancy-loose
And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud---
I build it bright to see,---
I build it on the moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee.
Cloud-walls of the morning's grey,
Faced with amber column,---
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn!
May mists, for the casements, fetch,
Pale and glimmering;
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.
Build the entrance high and proud,
Darkening and then brightening,---
If a riven thunder-cloud,
Veined by the lightning.
Use one with an iris-stain,
For the door within;
Turning to a sound like rain,
As I enter in.
Build a spacious hall thereby:
Boldly, never fearing.
Use the blue place of the sky,
Which the wind is clearing;
Branched with corridors sublime,
Flecked with winding stairs---
Such as children wish to climb,
Following their own prayers.
In the mutest of the house,
I will have my chamber:
Silence at the door shall use
Evening's light of amber,
Solemnising every mood,
Softemng in degree,---
Turning sadness into good,
As I turn the key.
Be my chamber tapestried
With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless,---glorified
When the sunbeams come here;
Wandering harpers, harping on
Waters stringed for such,---
Drawing colours, for a tune,
With a vibrant touch.
Bring a shadow green and still
From the chestnut forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,
When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,
Carpet-wove around,---
Whereupon the foot shall fall
In light instead of sound.
Bring the fantasque cloudlets home
From the noontide zenith
Ranged, for sculptures, round the room,---
Named as Fancy weeneth:
Some be Junos, without eyes;
Naiads, without sources
Some be birds of paradise,---
Some, Olympian horses.
Bring the dews the birds shake off,
Waking in the hedges,---
Those too, perfumed for a proof,
From the lilies' edges:
From our England's field and moor,
Bring them calm and white in;
Whence to form a mirror pure,
For Love's self-delighting.
Bring a grey cloud from the east,
Where the lark is singing;
Something of the song at least,
Unlost in the bringing:
That shall be a morning chair,
Poet-dream may sit in,
When it leans out on the air,
Unrhymed and unwritten.
Bring the red cloud from the sun
While he sinketh, catch it.
That shall be a couch,---with one
Sidelong star to watch it,---
Fit for poet's finest Thought,
At the curfew-sounding,--- ;
Things unseen being nearer brought
Than the seen, around him.
Poet's thought,----not poet's sigh!
'Las, they come together!
Cloudy walls divide and fly,
As in April weather!
Cupola and column proud,
Structure bright to see---
Gone---except that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee!
Let them! Wipe such visionings
From the Fancy's cartel---
Love secures some fairer things
Dowered with his immortal.
The sun may darken,---heaven be bowed---
But still, unchanged shall be,---
Here in my soul,---that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with THEE!
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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