"To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee.”
- Emily Dickinson
POEM OF THE MONTH
by T. Wignesan
A bemused smile lighting up
His gander gait
Under the burlap mop
Who's looking at me
Why is everyone looking at my legs
His mother telling him to be back this summer
Before the green peacocks turn to Indian blue
Droplets big as his nightshade eyes bursting at each
swan step
Boy on an errand
The stealthy guilt-ridden leaves of the linden
Motionless in the metallic green boiling flood
Boy still running in the rain
Motionless in the metallic green boiling flood
Boy still running in the rain
How old am I
As old as the linden when it was eight
Where are the caterwauling magpies this day
None to mock me in my gait
He thinks he’s running in the still hot rain
But the cars and trucks along the road shower
In their mindless manic main
Wait till you see my master drive me proud
Over the bridges under high-voltaging cables
My throat loosening up in coughs and curses
The mud drained from my tired gables
Boy still keeps running in the rain
When will the summer end
When the cotton sky turns to lead
Or when the boy stops running in the rain
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
As old as the linden when it was eight
Where are the caterwauling magpies this day
None to mock me in my gait
He thinks he’s running in the still hot rain
But the cars and trucks along the road shower
In their mindless manic main
Wait till you see my master drive me proud
Over the bridges under high-voltaging cables
My throat loosening up in coughs and curses
The mud drained from my tired gables
Boy still keeps running in the rain
When will the summer end
When the cotton sky turns to lead
Or when the boy stops running in the rain
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
 |
Original scene of poem- view from T. Wignesan’s window
Credit: T. Wignesan |
AUGUST THOUGHTS
by Floriana Hall
When the hot breath of August turns
Round the corner from July’s glee
There is much hesitation for what lies ahead
Back to school, back to work
Back to life as we know it, you see.
What’s next?
The hollyhocks stand so sturdy
Enjoy them while we can
Colors of summertime linger
Colors will change too soon
That is Mother Nature’s plan.
What’s new?
Tomatoes still bloom on the vine
Corn still is picked in time
August has its treats
But time is waning quickly
We know what follows clime.
What happens?
Lulling quiet in the city
Lulling quiet in the country
Sports around the bend
Always music to fill the soul
Always love making us free
What from?
From thoughts of where we are heading
For once August is consumed
Like a flash it is September
Like a dash it is October
Filled with warmth or cold wind
What follows?
Winter is suddenly sending us snow
Long days of gloom or merriment
Depending on our outlook of life
Sunshine breaking through at times
Time to use blessings we’re sent
What for?
May as well enjoy each day
From August to next May.
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. Website Website Contact
~~~~~
SEASONAL
by Holly Day
there were so few Canada geese hatchlings this year
nests repeatedly flooded and frozen by
the inclement weather- I sat
expectant
on the little wooden dock behind my house
a brown paper bag of popcorn sitting next to me
a pitiful handful of fuzzy goslings swimming to meet me
it made me so sad
there were so few baby cottontails this year that survived
most were buried deep in burrows flooded out by the rains
I went out searching for them, night after night
but instead of the hundreds of tiny pointed ears
that had greeted me summers before, there were only
a dozen or so scared-acting rabbits
that disappeared as soon as I got to the park
I don't know why I thought I'd be any different
than any other mother in the grand scheme of things
I had hoped and prayed for too much, I think
only to lose my unborn with the first summer storms.
HOLLY DAY is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Oxford American, The Midwest Quarterly, and Coal City Review. Contact
~~~~~
TODAY AT HO'OKIPA
by Cathy Quaglia
Blue swells crest on reef
windsurfers chase flying fish
white waves crash to shore
Blue swells crest on reef
windsurfers chase flying fish
white waves crash to shore
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
~~~~~
YOUTH
by Sebastian Lopez
into the heart of youth with its beauty.
Moveable feast of youth and warmth of becoming
under the docile stars.
Coming up from under
in the stairwell of a house party
and through the open balcony.
I’d sit with her on the ledge,
and she would look at me with her sixteen years
of knowing,
her curled hair wisping back with the wind.
I would stare back at my goddess of her time—
smiling at me.
And everything would be okay, because I too
would be beautiful—
with my seashell choker wrapped around my neck…
SEBASTIAN LOPEZ studied letters at Cornell University and journalism at City University in London. He has many creative outlets including his love for writing poetry, performing slam poetry/spoken word, and making music. He likes a lot of writers and poets, but probably feels the closest to the American ones such as Jim Morrison, Leonard Cohen, Walt Whitman, and Henry Miller. He also likes Russian literature such as Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, and Mayakovsky. He is fluent in Spanish and Russian in addition to English which is his strongest language. He is a believer in being humble with your gifts, but he’s also a big kidder with colorful behavior and speech. Contact
~~~~~
by Jefferson Hunt
In Paris, I saw her.
Où vas-tu?
But, she had another,
A dark, gypsy lover
I said I would tell him
Qu'avez-vous fait?
I would not let her have him
JEFFERSON HUNT is married with four children ages 21 to 10 and works as a teacher's assistant in special education. He also tutors after school and works as a church custodian. He maintains his teaching license by taking Master's classes. He has published short fiction at A Long Storty Short, with Cyberwit.net, and in Taylor University student publications; non-fiction with Ball State University student publications and The West Salem Times-Advocate newspaper; poetry with A Long Story Short, Whistling Shade, Lulu Poetry, poetry.com and Taylor University student publications; and he has written on various online sites such as Hatrack.com, A Novel Approach 2 Writing, Critters.org, and A Long Story Short. Contact
The dirty streets,
The muddy Seine,
The red-light alley,
The hot August night.
Où vas-tu?
Je vais voir Jean.
Je vais le faire.
Je vais le voir.
Je vais pas le lui dire.
But, she had another,
A dark, gypsy lover
She could not put away.
I could not understand,
And could not let her go.
Je lui dirai au sujet de nous.
Je vais le faire.
Ce n’est pas bon;
On ne sait pas
On m’a dit c’est vrai.
I loved her more.
It’s not fair,
But I did not understand her
And she could not let him go.
Qu'avez-vous fait?
Vous ne devriez pas avoir fait cela,
Mais ils nous ont quittés.
On ne sait pas Paris.
N’y allez pas, Paris.
And so she would not have me
And so they left Paris
And so they left me in Paris
In a dirty Paris red-light street.JEFFERSON HUNT is married with four children ages 21 to 10 and works as a teacher's assistant in special education. He also tutors after school and works as a church custodian. He maintains his teaching license by taking Master's classes. He has published short fiction at A Long Storty Short, with Cyberwit.net, and in Taylor University student publications; non-fiction with Ball State University student publications and The West Salem Times-Advocate newspaper; poetry with A Long Story Short, Whistling Shade, Lulu Poetry, poetry.com and Taylor University student publications; and he has written on various online sites such as Hatrack.com, A Novel Approach 2 Writing, Critters.org, and A Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
by BRASH
That sleep
In the stream's
Rumble
Keep
Themselves in place
With dreams
Of eventual tumble
To ocean deep
Crumble by crumble.
Rumble
Keep
Themselves in place
With dreams
Of eventual tumble
To ocean deep
Crumble by crumble.
 |
Holtsman, Leila. TUMBLING. Steel, ceramics, magnets, 2009.
Collection of the Artist, currently on loan to the Best Shot Foundation, Washington, DC.
Credit: Leila Holtsman
|
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was inspired by artwork at ARTOMATIC in Washington, DC, and specifically to artist, Leila Holtsman for her work known as “TUMBLING.”
BRASH is known for writing poetry inspired by art, in association with the Washington, DC extravaganza ARTOMATIC, and by invitation to participate in various gallery events, readings, and performances. Her latest work includes creating and performing companion poetry to the book ADDICTION AND ART and the project’s show at Blue Elephant Gallery in Frederick, Maryland. BRASH will lead workshops at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland this year. Hear excerpts from her lyrical collaboration with Daisy Birch for Ahmad Nadimi's “SUITE FOR PEACE,” Read Frederick News Post interviews BRASH for the ADDICTION AND ART SHOW. See her claim to fame under “Notable Artists” on Wikipedia. Contact
~~~~~
by Bill Roberts
of a summer storm
is predicted
to come calling,
it being summer and all,
I mean, don't they
usually come in summer?
Like the relatives,
they prefer coming in summer too,
so, I wait by the phone
for their call, but,
like summer storms,
they rarely call,
show up like a surprise shower.
BILL ROBERTS writes at least one poem a day in fifteen minutes, coaches others on how to do it too, then prepare poems to go to market. He has been nominated both for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and currently does readings with friends on "Strong Voices, Strong Women: A Celebration of Women Poets." He, a wife of 53 years and two restless dogs live quietly in Broomfield, Colorado. Website Contact
~~~~~
YOUNG BOYS, OLDER BOYS
by Gilda A. Herrera
Don’t parents know
That nothing bores
A boy as much as chores?
I think my folks have hatched a plot.
To make me what I'm not.
I told my mom I’m on my way
To go outside to play.
She stands to say,
That has to wait,
Until you’ve washed your plate.
Someone to my right,
Disappears from sight.
Soon’s that’s done,
To the door I run,
But father stops my fun.
My folks are in cahoots!
Dad makes me shine my boots.My folks are in cahoots!
I hear a rushing sound,
But see no one around.
Soon’s that’s done,
Soon’s that’s done,
To the door I run.
Before I can escape
Grandma says to take,
My socks upstairs to sort.
Again, my plans abort.
Soon’s that’s done,
To the door I run
Sneakily, I hide.
And make my way outside.
I cringe with dread,
A shadow flits across the shed.
I grind my teeth,
I stamp my feet.
Life is so unjust!
Then see someone to trust.
“Grandson, glad it’s you.
Before I can escape
Grandma says to take,
My socks upstairs to sort.
Again, my plans abort.
Soon’s that’s done,
To the door I run
Sneakily, I hide.
And make my way outside.
I cringe with dread,
A shadow flits across the shed.
I grind my teeth,
I stamp my feet.
Life is so unjust!
Then see someone to trust.
“Grandson, glad it’s you.
“I’m hiding, too!”
Eagerly, I nod my head,
When Grandpa said,
“How ‘bout we toss a ball?”
I love my grandpa best of all.
Eagerly, I nod my head,
When Grandpa said,
“How ‘bout we toss a ball?”
I love my grandpa best of all.
GILDA A. HERRERA a former journalist, is a fiction writer based in Texas who writes for all ages. She is a graduate from the School of Communications who earned her Bachelors in Journalism from the University of Texas (Austin). Her work has appeared in Long Story Short, Beyond Centauri, Stories that Lift, Stories for Children Magazine, Twilight Times. To leave comments for Gilda, please contact Long Story Short.
~~~~~
SO AUNT ELSIE SAYS
by Debbie Hilbish
A mermaid with beautiful seaweed hair,
that fluoresces when the night is fair;
on Wednesdays comes for tea. It’s tough
to brew a cup
at the bottom of the sea.
Her dress for the occasion
is as unique as she.
The top is scalloped sea shells varied blue to green
while the skirt, made of anemone,
sashays quite fluidly.
The octopus, who adores her,
loves to fix her hair, the bottom loose and flowing,
top piled with a flair of tiny little starfish
sprinkled here and there.
Pearls encircle all her fingers,
since she hasn’t any toes.
A pinch of goldfish sparkles
highlight both cheeks and her nose.
To top it off a crown of coral, she isn’t even royal;
or so Aunt Elsie says.
DEBBIE HILBISH has been writing poetry for over forty years. She has poems in the anthologies Fading Shadows, Magnolia Moon, and Counting Sparrows. Debbie also has two of her own works published BITS AND PIECES and LIFEDREAM COLLISIONS both of which include her artwork and photography. She holds poetry readings throughout the southwest and has had seminars 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. She hopes the readers of Long Story Short will see more of her work. Contact
~~~~~
by Francis Hart
Or rupture and explode -
The ocean would
Come gushing out my eyes
And nose and mouth -
My head would drift toward the beach
And settle in the sand -
And my cadaver like a craft
Would undirected float
Upon the sea -
FRANCIS HART resides in California where he received his BA in
Psychology from California State University, Dominguez Hills. His favorite poets are John Keats, Rupert Brooke and Philip Larkin (when he can understand him). His poems have been published in Obsessed With Pipeworks, Barbaric Yawp, Ardent!, Open Minds, The Road Not Taken and others. Contact
FRANCIS HART resides in California where he received his BA in
Psychology from California State University, Dominguez Hills. His favorite poets are John Keats, Rupert Brooke and Philip Larkin (when he can understand him). His poems have been published in Obsessed With Pipeworks, Barbaric Yawp, Ardent!, Open Minds, The Road Not Taken and others. Contact
~~~~~
A NAPSE IN TIME
Rich, dark brown leather patiently awaits me,
day in and day out with unfaltering loyalty.
That old couch and its jealous ways,
greedily hoarding my attention for itself.
Even if just for fifteen minutes.
Well maybe twenty. Twenty-five.
Five more, just five more minutes.
A daily ritual, my afternoon nap provides an escape from the hectic day.
A time when I can turn off the engine and pull up the brake,
allowing blank thoughts to enter my mind.
Maybe my stress and anxiety have also retired momentarily.
Even for just half an hour. Or maybe a full hour.
Oh, it’s still raining outside, better make it two
hours.
It’s not a leisurely activity but a therapeutic one.
Sores and aches melt away like an ice sculpture in Hawaii
and responsibilities burrow themselves into the sandy beach,
leaving me floating calmly atop the current,
oblivious to the fate of my woes.
I’ll make my way back to land in a few hours.
Maybe three or four, could spare five.
What’s the big rush anyway?
SHAKESPEAREAN BASEBALL SONNET #76
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variations or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
And shift my allegiance to a team strange?
Why root I still one, ever the same,
And still follow an ever-losing team,
One with a small chance of achieving fame,
Its pennant chances not even a gleam?
O, know, sweet team, I'll always write of you:
Front-runners will give you an argument;
It seems that old games are re-played anew,
And yet I deem it emotion well-spent.
In sun a season's story's daily told;
Even for fans of bad teams it's not old.
When you're gone, you're gone.
Sweet Kentucky Bluegrass
common as house spiders
and railroad spikes-
frozen green between
snowflakes and fall-
a cheap silver band Timex
watch lost, tossed
in the middle of the lawn-
still ticking, battery
weak,
and oh, so very
alone.
Midnight Kentucky Bluegrass
the night comes on.
When you're gone, you're gone.
by Jad Sheikali
day in and day out with unfaltering loyalty.
That old couch and its jealous ways,
greedily hoarding my attention for itself.
Even if just for fifteen minutes.
Well maybe twenty. Twenty-five.
Five more, just five more minutes.
A daily ritual, my afternoon nap provides an escape from the hectic day.
A time when I can turn off the engine and pull up the brake,
allowing blank thoughts to enter my mind.
Maybe my stress and anxiety have also retired momentarily.
Even for just half an hour. Or maybe a full hour.
Oh, it’s still raining outside, better make it two
hours.
It’s not a leisurely activity but a therapeutic one.
Sores and aches melt away like an ice sculpture in Hawaii
and responsibilities burrow themselves into the sandy beach,
leaving me floating calmly atop the current,
oblivious to the fate of my woes.
I’ll make my way back to land in a few hours.
Maybe three or four, could spare five.
What’s the big rush anyway?
JAD SHEIKALI is a third year student at the University of Florida. He is currently in his first poetry class, and has really benefited from the content of A Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
by Michael Ceraolo
So far from variations or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
And shift my allegiance to a team strange?
Why root I still one, ever the same,
And still follow an ever-losing team,
One with a small chance of achieving fame,
Its pennant chances not even a gleam?
O, know, sweet team, I'll always write of you:
Front-runners will give you an argument;
It seems that old games are re-played anew,
And yet I deem it emotion well-spent.
In sun a season's story's daily told;
Even for fans of bad teams it's not old.
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
~~~~~
KENTUCKY BLUE
by Michael Lee Johnson
Sweet Kentucky Bluegrass
common as house spiders
and railroad spikes-
frozen green between
snowflakes and fall-
a cheap silver band Timex
watch lost, tossed
in the middle of the lawn-
still ticking, battery
weak,
and oh, so very
alone.
Midnight Kentucky Bluegrass
the night comes on.
When you're gone, you're gone.
 |
| Kentucky Blue, Credit: Michael Lee Johnson |
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I mix memories of southern days and southern nights, hot sweaty in Florida, Georgia, Kentucky and all have one thing in common, at least, Kentucky Bluegrass to stand the heat and humidity. Everything but Jesus Christ dies and does not return- thus the symbol of a lost wedding ring in Bluegrass shows the most valued can be lost.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel at www.promoman.us from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. Michael has been published in over 24 countries. He is also the editor/publisher of five poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his website. All of his books are now available on Amazon.com. Contact
~~~~~
GODDESS OF THE SEA
by Cathy Quaglia
goddess of the sea
across ocean and reef
over burled coral beds
her soul perches high
on a white curling lip
waves climbing cresting
riding on the colossus
wondrous wall of water
rolling ever shoreward
engulfing sand and lava rock.
She's gathering mana
creating pulsating surges
feeding on the rumble
from her ocean depths
to destroy her sister Pele
torment and banish her
from every new island home
and extinguish her fires
in the craters of Haleakala until
the final legendary battle rages
thunderous volcanic eruptions
against pounding flooding surf.
One hundred foot waves
could not breach Kilauea
where Pele resides forever
with her two brothers
strong sons of Haumea,
canoe gods of Hawai'I Nei
who control the tides and currents
rejoicing in sunsets together
reflecting the moonlight
and scattering stars
as Namakaokaha'i dwells
defeated in faraway Tahiti.
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
~~~~~
by Joanna M. Weston
rises under my trespassing feet
sage trembles to my hand
lavender yields to the secateurs
releasing waves of perfume
that will subdue next winter
when I take clean sheets
from the cupboard
~~~~~
HUMMINGBIRDS AND BUTTERFLIES
by Floriana Hall
One of the nicest plants in my garden
Is my butterfly plant
Not a small modern one
But an old tall oversized one
That reaches the tip of the awning
That shades the front porch.
One of the loveliest sights in my yard
Is the hummingbird flying free
Not colliding with the butterflies flitting in and out
But gracefully synchronizing their route
To circle the purple butterfly flowers.
Oh, what a beautiful sight to see!
One of the amazing sights to watch
Is the butterflies swerving and landing
With their colorful decorated wings
Flapping in the breeze
Of nature’s soft kissed heat
That leaves me wide-eyed standing.
One of the thrills of summer to see
Is the quiet murmur and observing days
Like a slide trombone without a voice
When sitting in the shade or sun
As comfortable as a honey bun
With frosting slipping when it lays.
Summer and hummingbirds and butterflies
And life at its best it signifies!
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. Website Website Contact
~~~~~
WEEKEND IN THE WOODS
Breathing under the wooden roof
like villagers in a fairy tale
they unroll their sleeping bags,
fire up the wood stove,
sniff smoke and damp air
and stillness.
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
The country of childhood was measured by blocks,
bordered by parishes,
lit by street lights,
protected by policemen.
A country of neighborhoods,
lined with trees,
joined by manicured lawns,
scented with honeysuckle and lilac.
A country of cement stoops lively with chatter,
of gossiping women in starched housedresses,
of blue collar men in rolled up sleeves,
flinging curses at transistor radios when the Yankees lost.
A country of asphalt streets,
overflowing with kids,
licking ice cream cones.
splashing water from city hydrants,
A country of crew-cut boys and pig-tailed girls
playing stick ball and jump rope,
shooting marbles and trading baseball cards,
squandering fortunes on penny candy.
Bicycles, buses and subways transported us beyond the safety of borders.
With license and car, I left the summer of my childhood in the rear view mirror.
ROSEMARY BIGGIO is a retired high school teacher and college instructor who was born and raised in New York. She presently lives in New Jersey. She is an avid reader and freelance writer of fiction and nonfiction. Contact
_____________________________________________________
they unroll their sleeping bags,
fire up the wood stove,
sniff smoke and damp air
and stillness.
~~~~~
SUMMER'S END
by Patricia Crandall
Tall trees
darken in silhouettes
against a play of red waters
and a bright blue sky.
Crickets chirp in the cool night air.
On a squeaking porch swing
there is quiet talk.
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
~~~~~
REAR VIEW MIRROR
by Rosemary Biggio
The country of childhood was measured by blocks,
bordered by parishes,
lit by street lights,
protected by policemen.
A country of neighborhoods,
lined with trees,
joined by manicured lawns,
scented with honeysuckle and lilac.
A country of cement stoops lively with chatter,
of gossiping women in starched housedresses,
of blue collar men in rolled up sleeves,
flinging curses at transistor radios when the Yankees lost.
A country of asphalt streets,
overflowing with kids,
licking ice cream cones.
splashing water from city hydrants,
A country of crew-cut boys and pig-tailed girls
playing stick ball and jump rope,
shooting marbles and trading baseball cards,
squandering fortunes on penny candy.
Bicycles, buses and subways transported us beyond the safety of borders.
With license and car, I left the summer of my childhood in the rear view mirror.
ROSEMARY BIGGIO is a retired high school teacher and college instructor who was born and raised in New York. She presently lives in New Jersey. She is an avid reader and freelance writer of fiction and nonfiction. Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
august celebrity poet
Emily Dickinson
(1830 – 1886)
nationality: american
Emily Dickinson – Credit: Public Domain
A SOMETHING IN A SUMMER'S DAY
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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