"Poetry should be great and unobtrusive,
a thing which enters into one's soul,
and does not startle it or amaze it with itself,
but with its subject.”
but with its subject.”
- John Keats
POEM OF THE MONTH
A MINISTER FOR ALL FAITHS
by Joe DiBuduo
Forgive, she said, it’s good
for you. Her daughter agreed,
and so did all others in the room.
“I find it hard to forgive,” I said,
“sometimes I just can’t forget.”
You don’t have to forget, you
have to learn to let go, and
allow hatred to escape and
replace it with love.
“That’s easy to say, but it’s not
my nature to pardon those who
have done me wrong.”
You only hurt yourself by thinking
like that they all agreed, and told me
by letting go my spirit would soar,
become free, and love would arrive.
I started to believe, because so many
there agreed it was the thing to do.
But then someone mentioned
Bin Laden, hatred filled the room.
Killing him was applauded and
all derided those who said it was
wrong to kill an unarmed man. I heard
their secret cheers in my mind, and
I asked, “Where’s the forgiveness and
love that filled this room a minute ago?”
It’s too soon to forgive him for what he
has done. He had to pay for killing so
many they all said.
I’m the one who admits to holding a
grudge, and these people speak of love
and forgiveness, but have none it seems
when they condone what was done.
Why even I think murder is wrong
no matter by what name. So I can only
conclude that these well meaning God
fearing people are the same as all the
others I have known.
Preaching one thing and meaning another.
Telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.
By not practicing what they say confirms
my misanthropic views.
But I forgive them, and I’m waiting for
my spirit to soar and love to arrive now
for you. Her daughter agreed,
and so did all others in the room.
“I find it hard to forgive,” I said,
“sometimes I just can’t forget.”
You don’t have to forget, you
have to learn to let go, and
allow hatred to escape and
replace it with love.
“That’s easy to say, but it’s not
my nature to pardon those who
have done me wrong.”
You only hurt yourself by thinking
like that they all agreed, and told me
by letting go my spirit would soar,
become free, and love would arrive.
I started to believe, because so many
there agreed it was the thing to do.
But then someone mentioned
Bin Laden, hatred filled the room.
Killing him was applauded and
all derided those who said it was
wrong to kill an unarmed man. I heard
their secret cheers in my mind, and
I asked, “Where’s the forgiveness and
love that filled this room a minute ago?”
It’s too soon to forgive him for what he
has done. He had to pay for killing so
many they all said.
I’m the one who admits to holding a
grudge, and these people speak of love
and forgiveness, but have none it seems
when they condone what was done.
Why even I think murder is wrong
no matter by what name. So I can only
conclude that these well meaning God
fearing people are the same as all the
others I have known.
Preaching one thing and meaning another.
Telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.
By not practicing what they say confirms
my misanthropic views.
But I forgive them, and I’m waiting for
my spirit to soar and love to arrive now
that I’m free.
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
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
SEPTEMBER
by DeAnna Lee Pope
Gold leaves of autumn.
Wash over the old.
The shimmery leaves swirl around my feet.
As I remember.
The dawn I saw.
Tapping at my windows.
Was a welcome to the new day.
My enemies were chased from the land.
The land beyond the field behind my house.
Behind and under the old dawning sky.
We were not afraid anymore.
I would be ready for the next challenge.
I had time on my side.
Time to care.
Or even love back.
While I watched the skies turn from the inky, night, black.
Into gold.
September.
That was when I lived.
DEANNA LEE POPE is from the Saint Louis, Missouri area. She has been writing poetry for about four years and has won the St. Louis Metro Arts poetry contest two years and the Wednesday Club of St. Louis poetry contest in 2010. DeAnna has about a dozen of her poems that have been published in different magazines and journals including Poet's Espresso, Soul Fountain, and The Pink Chameleon. Contact
~~~~~
MAUI AFTERNOON
by Cathy Quaglia
Dark clouds full of rain
threaten my lightheartedness
Ah! double rainbow
~~~~~
CLASS REUNION
by John T. Hitchner
We go back,
this year our 50th.
We graduated 110,
lost 22 since—
alcohol, bad and broken hearts,
convergence of fates rising and falling.
The inevitable irony of one so healthy
the last we saw him,
his displayed yearbook photo announces
he, too, is gone.
The rest of us?
We live in the four points
of the compass
and points between.
We return every five years
to see how we are.
The perky cheerleaders
are still perky,
the majorettes still strut,
athletes still sink baskets
and throw deep passes,
but none of us run as fast
as we used to,
and time-outs last longer
than regulation.
I know…It creeps up on you.
Yes, once we looked forward
to making high six figures,
more money than our parents made.
Well, you win a few, you lose a few.
I took a hit in that meltdown.
I guess we’re lucky now
to put gasoline in the tank
and pay prescription refills.
Lucky enough to come here
every five years.
We look over our shoulder
more than we look ahead.
We know what happened back then.
JOHN T. HITCHNER teaches Creative Writing and Coming of Age in War and Peace at Keene State College, in Keene, New Hampshire. His poetry has appeared in several journals, most recently in the Aurorean and Backstreet. His new chapbook, SEASONS AND SHADOWS, was recently released by Finishing Line Press. Contact
~~~~~
HIGHWAY 7
by Roger Singer
A truck tire, abandoned of life,
lays breathless at roadside;
remnants of a bad night.
Dusty travelers rumble on cracked concrete.
Yellow stained cigarette
fingers bear scars of long nights
on highway 7.
Diesel fumes are the blue blood
of long roads.
Tattoos tell stories of love and
lays breathless at roadside;
remnants of a bad night.
Dusty travelers rumble on cracked concrete.
Yellow stained cigarette
fingers bear scars of long nights
on highway 7.
Diesel fumes are the blue blood
of long roads.
Tattoos tell stories of love and
homes forgotten.
ROGER SINGER served as a medical technician at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida for three and a half years during the Vietnam era. While stationed at MacDill, he attended evening classes through the University of Tampa. When discharged, he began studies at the University of South Florida and attained his Associate and Bachelor degrees. In 1977, Dr. Singer attained his chiropractic doctorate from Logan College of Chiropractic in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had over 500 poems published in magazines, on the Internet and in books. His poetry has appeared in Westward Quarterly, Black Book Press, Avocet, SP Quill, The Unrorean, Underground Voices, Language & Culture and The Tipton Poetry Journal. Contact
ROGER SINGER served as a medical technician at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida for three and a half years during the Vietnam era. While stationed at MacDill, he attended evening classes through the University of Tampa. When discharged, he began studies at the University of South Florida and attained his Associate and Bachelor degrees. In 1977, Dr. Singer attained his chiropractic doctorate from Logan College of Chiropractic in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had over 500 poems published in magazines, on the Internet and in books. His poetry has appeared in Westward Quarterly, Black Book Press, Avocet, SP Quill, The Unrorean, Underground Voices, Language & Culture and The Tipton Poetry Journal. Contact
~~~~~
IN THE COURTYARD
by Floriana Hall
There’s a bluebird and a cardinal
Who hang around the bird feeder
When the weather is sunny
And it is ever so funny when it rains
They perch above the downspout
In anticipation.
There’s a man in a wheelchair
Who feeds the birds bread crumbs
With a woman beside him encouraging
Him with motivation
To use his arms and legs more
So that he could be free like the birds.
There’s cigar smoke rising in the air
Perhaps wings of birds carrying it to heaven
And an eerie caw of the crow
As September coolness creeps below.
Flowers of summer are disappearing
But the grass is so much greener
And the space is so much wider
Than most courtyards –
Freedom to eat at a picnic table
Or to just talk and relax
A place that couples can be alone
In their reverie of days gone by
A place where grandchildren can play
And feel as free as the birds.
Like a whisk of a mixer
The autumn days will have their say
Until the first snow drops glisten
We will all sit and listen
To the tweeting of the bluebird
And the cardinal we have heard.
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
~~~~~
DESPERATE POEM
by Joseph Hart
How desperately empty the stars seem.
And all you hear's the washing of the sea
Against the window pane. But you are free.
Music comes up through the cellar door
Impeded not extinguished by the roar
Of the ocean underneath the floor.
And vicious, ugly, wicked, hateful day
Is for 11 hours kept at bay
And everything you ever had to say
Though muffled by the surges of the sea
Finds a rhythm in your poetry.
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
~~~~~
NIKKI
by Abhay Adil
Hair as dark as night
Eyes as bright as lights
lips as red as roses
skin as cool as mint
Morning and noon there's only one tone
your love making me a fool
Evening and night I had my fights
fight with fate, telling me I am too late
Every past date, increasing my heart rate
I am killing myself at this stage
But it feels so great
My passion is like stars, burns and never fades.
For one day I hope
I may cope with the pain
Pain that love may be far away
And things I left on the way
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This particular poem is posted on my online portfolio at http://postpoems.org/authors/abhay/. I wrote this poem a long time ago for a girl whom I had feelings for.
ABHAY ADIL is a writer living in New Delhi, India. His previous publications include a poem "For Someone Special" published on the March 5 Daily Love ezine, and several ebooks on itunes, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and other stores. Contact
~~~~~
BLOWN FROM BLUE
by Twixt
Blue from blue capillaries leaked, with streaks
by white wipes leaving some blue beneath, taints
the transparent total.
TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker. He is a writer who lives in Ithaca, New York. His poetry has been published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, and Quest. Contact
TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker. He is a writer who lives in Ithaca, New York. His poetry has been published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, and Quest. Contact
~~~~~
WE GO ON
by Shirley Securro
We're heavy with grief and despair
We survive by being in denial
And we go on!
We laugh, we love, we live
We hurt, we cry, we forgive
We suffer and strive and survive
And we go on!
We overlook
We overcome
We heal
And we go on!
We stumble and fall and get up
We dream; we reach our goals
We rejoice!
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in fourteen anthologies along with other poets and is currently working on her own manuscript for publication. She has designed/illustrated two book covers for other poets/writers and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
~~~~~
MAYBE NEXT TIME
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
a sexy male voice says,
“Hi, it’s Bill the technician,”
and waits with heavy breathing.
Instead of throwing myself
into his telephonic arms
I practice restraint and murmur,
“Who are you calling?”
He chuckles. “Skylark, don’t remember
her name, but the number’s 1492.”
Wishing I could fly
on Skylark’s absent wings,
I tell the deep curling voice
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
~~~~~
by James Piatt
Thoughts of summer have gone away
Now fading and no longer still:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
Gloomy vestiges of black and gray
Breezes arriving cold and still:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.
Warm views have left today
Flowing away into a tiny rill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
The brilliant sun now has no sway
Autumn comes in quite shrill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.
Warm beams from sun’s ray
Now only a faded thrill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
Balmy memories cannot stay
In the two story house upon a hill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away,
Now fading and no longer still:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
Gloomy vestiges of black and gray
Breezes arriving cold and still:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.
Warm views have left today
Flowing away into a tiny rill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
The brilliant sun now has no sway
Autumn comes in quite shrill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away.
Warm beams from sun’s ray
Now only a faded thrill:
The rains of fall have come to stay.
Balmy memories cannot stay
In the two story house upon a hill:
Thoughts of summer have gone away,
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
~~~~~
MONKEY UP!
by Ronald Charles Epstein
Little boy
"man up" and take your medicine,
then "monkey up"
and eat your banana.
"man up" and take your medicine,
then "monkey up"
and eat your banana.
RONALD CHARLES EPSTEIN was born in Bogota, Colombia in 1956 and has lived in Toronto, Ontario since 1959. His first publication appeared in Piedmont Literary Review in 1982. He has also been published in Harvard Review, The Antigonish Review, The Toronto Star and Expresso Tilt. Contact
~~~~~
SMITH
by Gregory Liffick
He opened possibility.
Greasing
the hinges,
working
the keys
and picking
the locks.
Doors
he widened
and
windows
he pried
with an
encouraging
He opened possibility.
Greasing
the hinges,
working
the keys
and picking
the locks.
Doors
he widened
and
windows
he pried
with an
encouraging
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
~~~~~
THANK FRIDAY, IT'S GOD
by John Tzikas
Upon spying at my blitzing vertical veneer,
towards his mother’s ventricle spittoon
the gargling shrink on my couch
punches the clock in a unique venue
here the oral presentation of mouth-washers
leaves the stench of minty fresh word association
in his imbibing Aqualungs
JOHN TZIKAS is a Toronto, Canada based poet, lyricist, and free verse writer with a passion for classic literature and history. His poems have appeared in Long Story Short, Midwest Literary Magazine, Word Salad, Quill's, Ditch Poetry Magazine, Mused- the Bella Online, Hudson View Poetry Digest and Wordbridge Magazine. He has performed readings for more than five years in small coffee house settings, while living in Guelph and Kitchener, Ontario. Contact
~~~~~
by H. Tennille Johnson
We each travel alone. At times our paths intertwine.
While journeying alone, I think of you, and I am certain we will meet again.
We voyage in circles that return us time and again to the same place, only to lead us in separate directions once more.
Together we can suspend time for a fleeting moment.
The sun, in its relentless beauty, will continue to rise
and set all the while.
H. TENNILLE JOHNSON is a music teacher and author living in Houston, Texas. Ms. Johnson’s previously published works include a poem entitled Dealing With Myself, a short story entitled Finding Emily, and a nonfiction piece entitled The Parental Symphony: Opus No. 1. Currently, she is working on a novel. Contact
While journeying alone, I think of you, and I am certain we will meet again.
We voyage in circles that return us time and again to the same place, only to lead us in separate directions once more.
Together we can suspend time for a fleeting moment.
The sun, in its relentless beauty, will continue to rise
and set all the while.
H. TENNILLE JOHNSON is a music teacher and author living in Houston, Texas. Ms. Johnson’s previously published works include a poem entitled Dealing With Myself, a short story entitled Finding Emily, and a nonfiction piece entitled The Parental Symphony: Opus No. 1. Currently, she is working on a novel. Contact
~~~~~
AUTUMN TEA HOUSE
by Patricia Crandall
Leaves
carpet the red brick courtyard
at Apple’s Deli
in the charming New England Village
in Southwestern Vermont.
Young matrons with blue print babies
and pairs of Forenza-jeaned lovers
linger over hot blueberry tea
and trendy sandwiches
in true Autumn serenity.
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
~~~~~
SUNDOWN, FALL
by Michael Lee Johnson
Fall, everything is turning yellow and golden.
No wind, Indian summer, bright day,
wind charms with Indian enchantment,
last brides before winter snow,
grass growth slows down,
bushes cut back with chills,
haven of the winter, grows legs,
learns baby steps, pushes itself
up slowly against my patio door,
and says, “soon, soon, I’ll be there.”
Winter is sweeping up what’s left of fall;
making room for shorter days, longer nights.
Echoes of a new season.
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
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
september celebrity poet
John Keats
(1795 – 1821)
nationality: english
John Keats – Credit: Public Domain
TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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