“Poetry is ordinary language
raised to the nth power.
...boned with ideas, ...blooded with emotions,
all held together by the
delicate, tough skin of words.”
- Paul Engle
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Alice played the game of “Let’s Pretend”
New sprouts
Swarms of trees
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
nationality: american
An April Day (excerpt)
For the poet’s biography, see:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/henry-wadsworth-longfellow
Quoted for educational purposes only.
_________________________________________
POEM OF THE MONTH
SINGING A POEM
AT THE WELL-BEING FAIRE
AT THE WELL-BEING FAIRE
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
I lay out my chapbooks
on the red velvet cloth,
move back to examine the effect.
My ear catches a voice at my shoulder—
a young girl singing my poem.
Entranced, I listen.
Song over, ask her name.
She thrusts out her hand,
gives mine a brisk shake,
announces she’s Lisa,
eleven years old, sixth grade.
I say I’m reading at two,
would she like to sing a poem then?
Yes! Her eyes shine, her lips curve.
She leafs through the book.
I hold up three fingers,
she nods, dog-ears her choices.
In the small group I introduce her,
her voice rises in song:
three poems she never saw before,
three different tunes.
We applaud wildly
and thank her for singing.
I ask if she’d like to do it again at three.
Face beaming, she says yes,
bends to hug me in my chair.
Her long brown hair falls over my face.
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. Her chapbooks include “Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer,” “Voices on the Land,” and “End-Cycle: Poems about Caregiving.” Contact
~~~~~
JESUS, THE CRUCIFIED
by Nell Berry
Jesus prayed,
“if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.”
He sweated great drops like blood,
“but thy will not mine to be.”
Again He prayed and agonized,
“Father if it can possibly be,”
Jesus, the Son of God cried,
“let this cup pass from me.”
He heard the sound of footsteps;
He knew it was His time,
going forth to meet His captors,
to suffer for your sin and mine.
The mock trial His enemy staged,
GUILTY this sinless Man to find,
the scourging, torture beyond human endurance,
the guilt misplaced. IT’S MINE.
He died on the cross for you and me,
our sin, our guilt, not His to blame,
our transgressions nailed to the tree,
on Calvary He bore our shame.
Up Golgotha’s Hill, His precious blood drained.
A crown of thorns crowned our King.
We glorify and honor, His praises we sing.
Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. Three days had passed. She found the tomb was empty,
“Where is He?” she asked.
Then she saw Jesus, not knowing it was He,
until He spoke and called her name, “Mary.”
She reached for His hand,
“Do not touch me,” he said.
“I have not yet ascended.”
HE IS NOT DEAD!
The stone was rolled away,
only the grave clothes remained.
Jesus Christ the Lamb of God,
Who for sinners slain.
"HE IS RISEN!" they proclaimed.
Jesus Messiah, the crucified,
we praise His holy name.
NELL BERRY resides in West Virginia and has been married to Louis B. Berry for sixty years. She is a mother of four, grandmother of nine and great grandmother of soon to be eleven grandchildren. Her hobbies include cooking, sewing, crocheting and writing. She is a published author of one book, GROWING UP IN MISSOURI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES about her growing up years. She is a Christian who writes all inspirational poetry, song lyrics and short stories. Contact
~~~~~
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
by Cathy Quaglia
and gazed in the mirror without end
to find a world where chessmen screamed
and flowers quarreled and made a scene.
Where the silly twins, Tweedledum and Tweedledee
fearing a giant black crow, ran under a tree.
Where the dozing Red King dreamt of Alice
dreaming of the King and her own crown and palace.
Where Humpty Dumpty unraveled “Jabberwocky”
and should not have acted quite so cocky.
Where Lion and Unicorn never won and never lost
and plum cake sliced itself, of course.
Where the kind White Knight, the great inventor
couldn’t ride or invent, but on her way he sent her.
Where Alice eagerly jumped the last brook to Q-8
to wear a golden crown and scepter was clearly her fate.
Where Red Queen and White Queen put her to the final test but Royal Alice was wise, and soon captured the best.
Alice played the game of “Let’s Pretend”
and gazed in the mirror without end
to find her world was a vision borrowed from time
and life a dream fashioned by the mind.
CATHY QUAGLIA grew up in New York and moved to Killington,Vermont in 1975, establishing Aspen East Ski Shop with her husband, Lee. With the emergence of snowboarding, they started Surf the Earth Snowboards, and continue to run their retail and online stores together. During this time, she was a certified professional ski instructor and resort real estate broker. She has hosted many events at the shop, including book signings with best-selling authors, Linda Greenlaw, Reeve Lindbergh, Karen Lorentz and Wendy Clinch, and The Ski Channel’s movie THE STORY to a large audience at The Summit Lodge in January 2011. She created WATERCOLOR WORDS, a collaboration with fellow Killington Arts Guild member, artist Alice Sciore, combining Cathy’s poems, “ODE TO SKIING,” “REFLECTIONS ON SNOW,” and “MOUNTAIN HOME” with watercolor paintings that Alice created for them, which are now available for sale as art prints. She is working on a book of poetry and images called LIGHT ON LIFE. Contact
~~~~~
OLD BOOKS
by Edward Rodosek
Sometimes I get weary of the computer
for reading electronic books
is so unfeeling and so lifeless.
Then I ransack all my bookshelves
in my study and elsewhere.
There my old beloved books
are waiting for my attention
as faithful as always.
Therefore I simply must return to them
again and again
as to a favorite cake.
At first I blow the dust from their hardcovers
and turn through pages of some books.
I love the rustling of dry paper
and its slight yellow tinge.
Abruptly a well-known title holds me up
as deeply buried memories
awaken somewhere in my mind.
By chance I recollect a fragment forgotten long ago
and something forced me
to find it in the book.
Many of the sentences I know by heart;
so I don't search for the story anymore.
I try to find that hidden bridge
which would return me
to magic bygone years of my delight
when I got first excited
with their eternal beauty.
EDWARD RODOSEK is a Senior College Professor at the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia, European Union. He is married and has one daughter and two grandsons. In addition to his professional work, he also writes fiction. More than a hundred of his short stories and about a dozen of his poems have been published in magazines in the US (including Long Story Short), UK, Australia and India. Recently, he published a collection of short stories in the US entitled “BEYOND PERCEPTION.” Contact
~~~~~
SPRING AT THE FARM
by James Piatt
Beginning of life:
Rose buds
White, red, pink, green.
Little sprout
Pushing up from
Deep rich soil:
Rich earth
Anxious to emit
Nourishment,
Fruit trees
Green, pink blossoms
Beautiful elderly woman
On her hands
And knees,
Gently sifting
Humid earth,
Like she has done
For so many seasons,
So peaceful
In her garden of
Spring delights.
JAMES PIATT earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. He is retired and spends his summers along the river, reading, writing, and penning poetry. Two relatives, John James Piatt & Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote poetry in the 1800's. Contemporary American Voices (featured poet), Word Catalyst Magazine (featured poet), Apollo’s Lyre, Caper Journal, Vox Poetica, Shadow Poetry Anthology, The Penwood Review, Wilderness House Review, Front Porch Review, A Handful of Stones, Autumn Leaves, and Hanging Moss Journal, have published or will be publishing his poetry. Contact
~~~~~
ETERNAL
by Virginia Munoz
Ghosts of our struggles
disturb your sleep.
A faint whimper and
your head swivels on the pillow.
In the morning
the golden nimbus of your fine baby hair,
standing out straight,
speaks truth to all:
haloed toddler
locked in holy battle with a tyrant,
receiving mysterious directives from heaven
like St. Joan of Arc.
VIRGINIA MUNOZ lives in Oregon and has dual degrees in Linguistics and Religious Studies. She writes in the middle of the night while her six kids are asleep or at the kitchen counter when they think she’s preparing dinner. She has been published in the Imperfect Parent. Contact
~~~~~
THE PATTERN
by Floriana Hall
It’s cut on the bias
It fits together
Stitches small and even
Like in a quilt
One patch is the first step
Another is learning
To walk alone
Choices to make
One path or the other
No cracks to fall through
In the garden of life
Veering to the right
Hobbling to the left
Picking up the pieces
Misinterpreting some
Reaching out for others
Stuck in the middle
Culture shocks
Righteous views
Time to rest
A masterpiece
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
HE'S NOT RELATED TO ME
by Joe DiBuduo
It only comes once a year.
To some a joy and a pleasure,
others think it an unspeakable measure
What'll it be for you when that time arrives?
Will you embrace that uncle in expectation
that he’ll reimburse all of your expenses?
Or will you shudder in horror
when he comes calling,
looking for hidden treasures
and other things you didn't
want him to know you owned?
Once a year he is generous to some, but I tell you,
he's no uncle of mine with his threats and abuse.
He only claims to be my uncle for what I own.
He's no blood of mine, and if he has any at all,
it’s ice cold.
If we don't give him what he wants, he'll send force
to take what he claims as his own. If we resist, we'll
find ourselves without anything at all because he has
the law working for him.
So fill out that paperwork,
and give him what he claims as his,
or be prepared for the worst.
No one has ever said, "I Love You"
on any call or letter to our Uncle Sam.
JOE DIBUDUO is a writer who lives in Arizona and graduated from Yavapai College in 2009 in the creative writing program. He has published several short stories and poems online, and has published one nonfiction book. He is presently working on a memoir and novel along with writing a poem a day. Contact
~~~~~
BAD POETRY NIGHT
by Alexandra Hughes
sixteen reasons
to be positive and vote
pro bono in favor of this poem:
your eighth grade teacher never saw it.
the meter’s not really too bad –
and your boyfriend’s family
will never, ever reference it.
Not to mention the dozen
glorious monkeys who proudly
resound with a timid, squealed
“Ooh, ooh… aah aah.”
thank you.
ALEXANDRA HUGHES is a full-time writer and novelist in Atlanta, Georgia. This poem was a crowd-pleaser at a real college “Bad Poetry Night” in 2004. Contact
~~~~~
TRAVELING A SPRING THRUWAY
by Patricia Crandall
nurture infant buds
soon to mature
in resplendent array.
An insatiable eagle
devours prey
by the roadside.
Traveling in the direction
of New York City
a farmer carts hay blocks.
A fiery sun
warms passengers
through gray tinted windows
of the sleek, white
limousine.
Atlantic City
is one hundred seventy five
miles away!
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
~~~~~
SHAKESPEAREAN BASEBALL SONNET #26
by Michael Ceraolo
Lords of the realm, to who in vassalage
The players for a hundred-plus years were;
For these I send this written embassage
For those unions which did not quite adhere:
One, its own, league, betrayed by it backers
Just when it was on the verge of success;
One that for a few years made more smackers
From the baseball magnates' war of excess;
One with a chief chosen by management!
Until came the time of Marvin Miller,
And with him the end of sentiment;
Someone who for unions was a pillar.
And the lords would then yield and yield and yield
Until it was a level playing field.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem is part of a project called “Baseball a la Shakespeare,” a re-writing of all 154 sonnets and selected soliloquies with baseball themes.
MICHAEL CERAOLO is a fifty-one year old civil servant/poet who is interested in, and writes about the past, present, and future. Contact
~~~~~
TWO STANZAS ON POETRY
by Joseph Hart
To come up with the something that is art -
Rhythms, rhymes and images and phrases -
The truths that come to those who live apart -
Inconsequential truths - in verse that dazes
The mental senses - like a single tone
Sung by a soprano singing high -
Poetry's a joy when I'm alone -
And I'll keep getting older til I die -
JOSEPH HART became aware of poetry when he read "The Highwayman." His heroes are Keats and Brooke. His happiest publication was a twenty page free verse on sleep in Audience Magazine about a year ago. If he had written the thesis, he would have an MA in Humanities. Contact
~~~~~
JESUS, MESSIAH
by Nell Berry
When Jesus was born in Judea,
in a stable where cattle are fed,
There was no room in the inn
and the manger became His bed.
When Jesus began His ministry,
fulfilling the prophetic word,
He set captives free
and taught things no one had ever heard.
After He began to preach,
His disciples knew Him as Lord,
They believed He was the Messiah,
the only begotten Son of God.
As Jesus’ ministry grew,
the number of believers began to grow.
the number of believers began to grow.
His own received Him not,
His teaching, they did not know.
The Pharisees were afraid of Him,
He was a threat to their way of life.
His teaching caused them to feel guilt and shame,
And they wanted to see him die.
He healed, saved and delivered,
this Man Who was called the Christ.
He didn’t boast or make false claims,
He was a Man Who could not lie.
They had seen the miracles He performed,
giving hope, where none remained.
Many lives were transformed,
He healed the sick, the blind and lame.
In the annals of time, God’s plan was laid,
for Judas to aid the chief priests and Pharisees
and lead them to the Son of Man,
in the sinister plan they made;
To betray his friend, thirty pieces of silver,
Judas was paid.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, “Father, if it is possible, Let this cup pass from me.”
Again He prayed, “Let this cup pass from me.”
And wept in great agony.
At last, Judas entered the garden,
Jesus knew His hour had come.
Judas approached Him and kissed His cheek,
to indicate He was the One.
They arrested Jesus like a common thief,
and led Him away.
The One Who had no sin, for all our sins to pay.
He endured the scourging, the torture,
the stripes on His back,
His beard was ripped from His dear face,
and the flesh became bruised and black.
He was beaten beyond recognition,
His face swollen, distorted and grotesque.
“Is this our beloved Messiah?”
the disciples must have asked.
“Why is He being beaten so mercilessly?
What crime has He committed?”
No one there could give an answer,
there was no crime He did.
He came and bore our sin;
yet by God’s wrath He was crushed;
wounded for our transgressions;
His crime was that He loved us.
Our chastisement was upon Him;
By His stripes we are healed
He died to save us from our sin,
by His love we are sealed.
NELL BERRY resides in West Virginia and has been married to Louis B. Berry for sixty years. She is a mother of four, grandmother of nine and great grandmother of soon to be eleven grandchildren. Her hobbies include cooking, sewing, crocheting and writing. She is a published author of one book, GROWING UP IN MISSOURI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES about her growing up years. She is a Christian who writes all inspirational poetry, song lyrics and short stories. Contact
~~~~~
PORTRAIT OF THE POET
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
She strides on long legs
into a room, along the road.
Usually looks up
except when rocks on the lane
catch her attention.
Short hair, silver,
engraved earrings, silver.
Shirt with left breast pocket
holds a crumpled tissue,
camouflage for the loss beneath.
Back straight, even when hurting,
eyes hazel, direct to the core
and a smile that belies the wrinkles
mapping her face.
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. Her chapbooks include “Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer,” “Voices on the Land,” and “End-Cycle: Poems about Caregiving.” Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
april celebrity poet
 |
| Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – Credit: Public Domain |
When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.
Read the entire poem at:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/henry-wadsworth-longfellow
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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