“Painting is silent poetry,
and poetry is painting
with the gift of speech."
-Simonides of Ceos, quoted by Plutarch
POEM OF THE MONTH
I_still_only_see_what_I_want_to_see.com
by Tami Richards
Eyes glazed over in a silica world,
Eyes glazed over in a silica world,
Its wide web, no expression denied,
Fingertips seeking bounty of pleasure;
Knowledge, indiscretion, kings, power, love,
Were the wallpaper made of silver
Thusly indulged would be the eye's mirror,
Each seeker creates a unique mirror
For reflecting light over the wide world,
Beaming from clouds lined in finest silver
From which chains had been shaken, lo! denied,
Before the mirror reflected the love
Once bound secreted to self-pleasure,
Eyes riveted to the warring pleasure
No report ever hides from the mirror,
Always a war, beating, acts of no love,
Abounding into the silica world
Where no opinion or thought is denied
Officed in a mirror without silver,
Though much plastic promises silver,
Dry seems promises of plastic pleasure,
As of the land of gold is oft' denied
Those who never reflect in the mirror
Only to expound on acts of the world
In fetid coffins encased with no love,
Eyes seeking their own images of love
Find it not in mounds of polished silver,
But in knowing arms embracing a world
That delights in the virtuous pleasure;
Fields of glass on silver make the mirror
From silica truth not of eyes denied,
A love that seeks itself won’t be denied,
It is in truth that beauty finds love,
In a place beyond the wide world mirror
Where gold shines brightly on burnished silver,
To breed a truth into a fine pleasure;
Beauty the mirror reflects to the world,
Eyes click 'round a mirror never denied
Longing's wide world panting in feral love
Polishing silver for viewing pleasure.
SEPTEMBER AND SERENDIPITY
by Floriana Hall
What is there to discover in September
That we have not noticed before?
Is there a different song to remember,
Is there a whiff of atmosphere in store
For a month of simplicity?
Will the climate be pleasant
To please different localities
Of every race and nation
With the usual formalities
And different conversation,
A month of duplicity?
September is a month of change
For students, lovers, and friends
Some say, "Some things never change"
But everything begins and ends.
A month to make amends?
Like a stone skipping over water
Making water fonts splash
Sipping what we can
And skipping what is trash,
A month of complicity.
Love September in the sun
Or in the rain - it's just begun!
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. She and her husband have been married for 63 years and they have five children, nine grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. She has published two new books including MISS FLOSSIE'S WORLD- Coping with Adversity During The Great Depression Then and the Recession Now (2011) and POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL OHIO - Then and Now (2011) which she compiled for THE POET'S NOOK. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
AUTUMN DAYS
by Susan Marie Davniero
Autumn days witness
Brimming nature’s dress
Sun shines duller
Upon Autumn color
Slip fluttering leaves
Escapes the trees
Gold, orange, brown
Blush the ground
Sunset cast a haze
Picture Autumn days
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
~~~~~
CHILDHOOD
by Bill Lynam
Childhood is evanescent, a history book, someone else’s story,
Gone before we thought about it.
No reflection on that other self—who was he or she?
A memory hanging out there like an old movie.
A piece of clay molded in third grade,
colored with pastels of whatever hue,
shining, still bright behind the coat of varnish
covering it—a hand print.
A photo of a moment in a school play.
A figure on the stage in costume,
all his or her peers speaking their lines,
mute on the emulsion, bright but gone.
Abraham Lincoln in a cut-out paper hat
a long coat made from grocery store bags
with painted black buttons and slash pockets;
declaiming a few lines about the times.
A grade report with the teacher’s notes;
how the kid did against the national ratio bands.
Language arts, comprehension, reading, math
social studies, science-70 percentile mostly.
A Note: “See you at the PTA Mrs. Jones,
I want to talk to you about Johnny’s deportment.”
BILL LYNAM is a reading and writing enthusiast. He writes short stories, memoir, poetry and is struggling with a novel that is taking too long to complete. Contact
~~~~~
LIFE
(That)
by Arthur C. Ford, Sr.
Pining love and lust-
And more of THAT thereafter.
With smell, and feel and sight-
Touch, and taste and equilibrium
Stuffed in a box of ce-re-brum.
Let Life and Love be spelled the same
The former is the latter-when there is no blame.
The Present is some thyme,
That seasons Future wishes.
The Past is a patient rope
Life's anglers saw brought fishes.
Life complains-THAT it's too hot-
Life complains-That it's too cold-
Creating a mental mania,
Expecting the weather of Arizona
While living in Pennsylvania.
Brought to us by a baby's birth
Mamma, Daddy, full of mirth,
Yes, we know THAT begs and bend
Just promise us, THAT it won't end!
ARTHUR C. FORD, SR. is a poet and lyricist who was born and bred in New Orleans, Louisiana. He earned a Bachelor of Science Degree from Southern University in New Orleans, studied creative writing and was a member of the Drama Society. He has visited 45 states in America and resided for two years in Brussels, Belgium (Europe). Recently he spent 30 days doing missionary work and travelling throughout the country of India. Mr. Ford currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where he continues to write, edit and publish poetry and prose. Contact Website
~~~~~
IT'S POSSIBLE
by Helen Fischetti
The doctor said, “It’s possible”
He even said, “It’s probable”
That we would have a set of twins
I said, “It’s just impossible”
“No, no, it can’t be possible”
That we would have a set of twins
I said that it just couldn’t happen
Couldn’t happen to me
There are no twins
On our family tree
So never say, “Impossible”
And never say, “Improbable”
‘cause look what happened on that morn:
The twenty-sixth day of September
Is the day I will remember
When Laura and Susan were born
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was written by Helen Fischetti and is submitted by her twin daughters, Susan Marie Davniero (Fischetti) and Laura Marie Bowman (Fischetti) of Lindenhurst and Babylon, New York in memory of their mother.
 |
Susan & Laura Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero |
 |
| Susan & Laura Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero |
 |
| Susan & Laura Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero |
 |
| Helen Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero |
IN MEMORY OF HELEN FISCHETTI
by Susan Marie Davniero
I hear my Mother playing the piano. Motherhood was an art to my Mother, Helen Fischetti. My mother, Helen Fischetti, was very talented in writing music, plays and poetry. My mother worked full time as a Bank Branch Manager. Her hobbies also included designing and sewing clothes, reading novels and playing the piano. A woman of many words?; she wrote the songs. All the sounds of talent danced around her. To leave comments for Susan Marie, please contact Susan Marie Davniero
~~~~~
AVALON
by Hal Lorin
We were amazed it was accessible by rented car.
Surprised it was specific on the map.
Confused to be together there,
We were not brave, nor good, and had been Only for a short time, fair.
It is a town promised to others.
The Elfin tribes, Arthur at his end,
After disaster had emerged from mythic mist.
Unsensed by us, may they be present still?
Or, once again.
We parked the Citroen atop the hill. And for three days we were with them. And were each other’s once again. Closer to a land from which we came.
Remembering the pledges we had made. Despite the desperate turbulence of years. Like the caring Elfin pairs who do not age.
Like the sage lost King, awaiting our next stage.
Heroin needles rolled in the hotel dresser drawer—
not that kind of junkie, just heading home;
liquor in coke bottles,
meandering like the French Broad River
down Philadelphia night streets,
four month poem of hiking and hitching in my voice
that coyotes had howled to
and a hundred river ghosts made a chorus for
when moonbeams struck harpsichord notes
and rain played percussions on leaves;
a poem whispered low
in Philly bars, where I’d drank my way into friends,
two guys looking for sex,
me searching for the end of loneliness
slipping out of the 2:00am bar
under steel titans scraping heaven—
A red light parted the car light-stream of the street
Where a muse stood on a sidewalk in broken, strobing city light,
her winking legs lit like phosphorus, maraschino lips sparked
—silent words—electric buzz of
Southern-soft Georgia mountains
recognized in each other’s flashing eyes—
she asked for a poem like she knew,
and I delivered a small shock
While the boys gaped hornilly
as she drifted like silver-moon clouds
that split and lit my lips—
one thank-you kiss that curled
into the corner of a boy-dream smile
about a poem of a Philly-girl.
An entire house like a skyline filled with stars
in which you must surely float,
shadow among flame,
for a year or more of memory -
so much more shadow than light,
so which can be you
the view from here can’t capture
a sense of being, let alone a being -
and from the stars,
a coat hangs, a blouse,
some shoes are parked beneath Ursa Major -
the visible, as I expected,
is what is worn
not who you are.
So here I am,
in one room after another,
feet feeding the floor,
head hammered by walls,
heart straining to be eyes -
the lights only pretend to take up your cause -
the glitter is real enough
but I’ve no clue what really shines.
usually she’s writing
essays, doing homework
on her laptop
at the kitchen table
or cell phone
close to her ear
eyes focused distantly
she murmurs
not the normal
everyone-listen-to-me call
but private secretive
then she texts
head bent
hair fallen forward
I wish I knew who
has the other phone
i am not immune to emotion
i am not afraid to express my feelings
i am not dull, tired, or repetitive
but what i am is cautious
i bide my time
careful not to invest too much
in any relationship
because when i put all my eggs in one basket
the basket never lives up to my dreams
i am rational
because irrationality frightens me
i am spontaneous
because monotony frightens me
i am many different things
a many-sided person
a polygon, of sorts
who does not know yet
the ways of the world
and so i may appear immune to emotion
i may appear afraid to express my feelings
i may appear dull, tired, and repetitive
but all will reveal itself in due time
i will pull the sheet off of the masterpiece
and watch as the audience
gasps with delight
only my audience is you
and you only
and you will know me
many sides and all
and it will be worth the effort, the pain,
and the time spent questioning
it will absolutely not be perfect
Sometimes you just have to grab the menu
Thrust into your hand as you stand on the sidewalk
a bit overwhelmed by the throngs
Pressing about you, the very foreign smells assaulting
Your senses, and the language whose nuances and
Lyrical quality totally escape you
It’s all so confusing
All so unintelligible
And makes you a bit weak and afraid
Take a risk
Explore that which lies just outside
Where your mind can focus
Clutch your bag just a bit tighter
The cultural chasm is being threatened now
The pictures (oh the pictures) give you a visual
That helps put things into a more understandable
Perspective
This you can understand
How the sounds and smells now combine into
A more logical array of points and pixels
Come in
Try
You like many others before you will survive the experience
Or you can walk on
Stay within the safe zone
Knowing there will always be a chasm between you and them
Because I write of trees,
And the autumn breeze,
And the dancing of the leaves,
They say I’m not a realist.
Because I write of trees
They tell me I’m dreamy,
And have my head in the clouds.
But I was always taught that trees
Are rooted in the ground!
I watched them grow
from baby buds into
mature vibrant oxygenating
green leaves, now golden
red and deepening colors.
We know that means
they’re all doomed,
the entire family tree.
I wonder if they know it’s time
for them to decompose?
not a television show or an ambulance siren
no blood spurting from a wound
it becomes different things in
different light
often the work of two worlds
the division between the guardian
and the guarded self
two words meeting like swollen lips
on a page
something hard, unbreakable, upright and its ink or lead
pressed into the page’s face
it is the work of scratching meaning from thin
air but not a trick
how many of us wake with this:
women writers sleepwalking
through a semblance of a life
rummaging for words in sleep
blanket about shoulder
ink stained elbows, ruth’s biblical mouth
rolling around in the world’s
three a.m. marble breath
wrapped in scarves, throat warmed with tea
staring out of kitchen window
as autumn leaves give over
to the persistence of giving
we recognize it immediately
desire folding
unfolding its life in our hands like a trick
only it is not
it is morning.
military chimes in background
in distance, truck screeches to halt
a clock holds out moments
like water. it is here i know i should
be grading papers but instead
i am saving my life.
A blue carbon sky.
The appearance of cold metal
pressed between heaven
and the dust of nameless souls.
Ocean winds press the corners of
waters, exciting foamy waves
while washing glass thin over rocks
and fallen branches.
Long thin gray clouds,
fingers without hands,
stretch like spilled arrows
pointing to no place;
they fade without resistance
to a rising sun.
Windows open. Curtains lick at fresh air.
Doors unlock and screen doors
slap with motion.
A favorable breeze suggests a fair day.
_______________________________________
We were not brave, nor good, and had been Only for a short time, fair.
It is a town promised to others.
The Elfin tribes, Arthur at his end,
After disaster had emerged from mythic mist.
Unsensed by us, may they be present still?
Or, once again.
We parked the Citroen atop the hill. And for three days we were with them. And were each other’s once again. Closer to a land from which we came.
Remembering the pledges we had made. Despite the desperate turbulence of years. Like the caring Elfin pairs who do not age.
Like the sage lost King, awaiting our next stage.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Underground Window Volume 2, No. 1, January 2005.
HAL LORIN has published in edited e-zines and printed anthologies. He has written four novels and two books of poetry. He has published books and articles in aspects of Computer Science and Technology. He has been a Consulting Faculty Member at IBM Systems Research Institute and has held graduate level professorships at New York and Hofstra Universities. He has spoken at universities and international symposia in Europe, Africa, and Asia. He is Principal Consultant of The Manticore Consultancy. He is a resident of New York City. Contact
~~~~~
THE PATRON SAINT OF POETS AND PHILLY
by Joseph Wade
not that kind of junkie, just heading home;
liquor in coke bottles,
meandering like the French Broad River
down Philadelphia night streets,
four month poem of hiking and hitching in my voice
that coyotes had howled to
and a hundred river ghosts made a chorus for
when moonbeams struck harpsichord notes
and rain played percussions on leaves;
a poem whispered low
in Philly bars, where I’d drank my way into friends,
two guys looking for sex,
me searching for the end of loneliness
slipping out of the 2:00am bar
under steel titans scraping heaven—
A red light parted the car light-stream of the street
Where a muse stood on a sidewalk in broken, strobing city light,
her winking legs lit like phosphorus, maraschino lips sparked
—silent words—electric buzz of
Southern-soft Georgia mountains
recognized in each other’s flashing eyes—
she asked for a poem like she knew,
and I delivered a small shock
While the boys gaped hornilly
as she drifted like silver-moon clouds
that split and lit my lips—
one thank-you kiss that curled
into the corner of a boy-dream smile
about a poem of a Philly-girl.
JOSEPH WADE is an eight year veteran of the military. He currently attends Brooklyn College for Creative Writing where he will be hosting a literature radio show on Fridays at 7pm at www.mywbcr.com starting September 7th. He has been published in multiple places including Grey Sparrow Press, Gloom Cupboard and Blue Lake Review. Poems are forthcoming in Wilderness House Review. He has also been awarded the Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing, the Rosen Fellowship and 2011 POEM OF THE YEAR at Long Story Short. To contact Joseph about his poetry or radio show, go to www.josephwade.com. Contact
~~~~~
SPOTLIGHT ON MEMORY
by John Grey
in which you must surely float,
shadow among flame,
for a year or more of memory -
so much more shadow than light,
so which can be you
the view from here can’t capture
a sense of being, let alone a being -
and from the stars,
a coat hangs, a blouse,
some shoes are parked beneath Ursa Major -
the visible, as I expected,
is what is worn
not who you are.
So here I am,
in one room after another,
feet feeding the floor,
head hammered by walls,
heart straining to be eyes -
the lights only pretend to take up your cause -
the glitter is real enough
but I’ve no clue what really shines.
You said you left a message.
But no, you left a feckless messenger.
~~~~~
by James Piatt
Iron wheels spinning on a railroad track
With a thundering din, clickety clack,
Iron on iron a haunting sound
Fading away to find new ground,
No more pauses on coral dreams
Wooden horses or brass rings,
Lost memories are traveling away
Only sad thoughts have come to stay,
Beautiful roses cease their blooming
Sunny, warm days no longer looming,
The days now are shorter still
And in the air a colder chill,
Leaving now to the vast unknown
No more time for me to atone,
Iron wheels spinning on a railroad track
I’m going now and never coming back.
~~~~~
by Anne Elizabeth Connors
For his birthday they bought him a puppy today,
to be his companion and keep him amazed.
“They’ll grow up together, besides, it was free,”
says the man to his wife. “He’ll love it, you’ll see.”
To the child, just turned three, the pup’s only a toy;
yelps heard from the kitchen are merely ignored.
A fight soon ensues as to who is to blame
and the argument’s heated as the parents complain…
that the pup’s started nipping and chewing…not trained!
Six months soon have passed and things aren’t much better
as the dog’s twice the size of an Irish Setter.
“Who’s going to feed it? We don’t have the time!
Just put it outside, it’s your fault not mine.
It howls and it barks and it keeps us awake
and the neighbors complain, bring it in for God’s sake!
Where once it was cute, it now has big feet,
bounds over the fence and digs out to the street.
“I’m sure that dog’s pregnant, it’s all its own fault,
and there’s hair on the sofa, did you know these things molt?”
We’ll take it tomorrow and put it to sleep,
that will end all our troubles and give us some peace.”
Lessons unlearned, the mistake is repeated.
Forgotten are problems the parents created.
“Now what can we get for our four year old boy?
It’s his birthday tomorrow, it should be such joy.
We’ll buy him a dog, not a pup like before,
so it won’t chew the rug or soil the floor. It will lay by our feet and do just as we tell it
I promise, you’ll see, this time… will be different!”
But no, you left a feckless messenger.
JOHN GREY has been published recently in the Echolocation, Santa Fe Poetry Review and Caveat Lector with work upcoming in Clark Street Review, Poem and the Evansville Review. Contact
RAILROAD TRACKS
With a thundering din, clickety clack,
Iron on iron a haunting sound
Fading away to find new ground,
No more pauses on coral dreams
Wooden horses or brass rings,
Lost memories are traveling away
Only sad thoughts have come to stay,
Beautiful roses cease their blooming
Sunny, warm days no longer looming,
The days now are shorter still
And in the air a colder chill,
Leaving now to the vast unknown
No more time for me to atone,
Iron wheels spinning on a railroad track
I’m going now and never coming back.
JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. He is a retired professor. Two of his relatives, John James Piatt and Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote their poetry in the mid eighteen hundreds. Their poetry has inspired his poems. James was the featured poet in Word Catalyst Magazine in 2009, and Contemporary American Voices in 2010. Long Story Short selected one of his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011; Phati’tude Literary Magazine in their spring 2011 issue featured an interview with him. He has had over 200+ poems, and twenty-four short stories published in over five dozen magazines during the past two years. His début book of poetry is forthcoming this year. Contact
IT'S A DOG'S LIFE
to be his companion and keep him amazed.
“They’ll grow up together, besides, it was free,”
says the man to his wife. “He’ll love it, you’ll see.”
To the child, just turned three, the pup’s only a toy;
yelps heard from the kitchen are merely ignored.
A fight soon ensues as to who is to blame
and the argument’s heated as the parents complain…
that the pup’s started nipping and chewing…not trained!
Six months soon have passed and things aren’t much better
as the dog’s twice the size of an Irish Setter.
“Who’s going to feed it? We don’t have the time!
Just put it outside, it’s your fault not mine.
It howls and it barks and it keeps us awake
and the neighbors complain, bring it in for God’s sake!
Where once it was cute, it now has big feet,
bounds over the fence and digs out to the street.
“I’m sure that dog’s pregnant, it’s all its own fault,
and there’s hair on the sofa, did you know these things molt?”
We’ll take it tomorrow and put it to sleep,
that will end all our troubles and give us some peace.”
Lessons unlearned, the mistake is repeated.
Forgotten are problems the parents created.
“Now what can we get for our four year old boy?
It’s his birthday tomorrow, it should be such joy.
We’ll buy him a dog, not a pup like before,
so it won’t chew the rug or soil the floor. It will lay by our feet and do just as we tell it
I promise, you’ll see, this time… will be different!”
ANNE ELIZABETH CONNORS was raised and educated in Leicester, England, and resides in Colorado and Arizona. Her first novel, ANZAC is a story about Australia and England. Set during WWI it is a war story, love story and family saga. Listed by A.E. Connors it sells on Amazon and Kindle. Anne has published in Pen Pushers, Long Story Short, Offerings from the Oasis, etc. A second novel, 'Eyes of the Rabbit' will be completed this year as will a book of prose poetry. Contact
~~~~~
SHE'S FOURTEEN
by Joanna M. Weston
essays, doing homework
on her laptop
at the kitchen table
or cell phone
close to her ear
eyes focused distantly
she murmurs
not the normal
everyone-listen-to-me call
but private secretive
then she texts
head bent
hair fallen forward
I wish I knew who
has the other phone
JOANNA M. WESTON has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes,' is published by Clarity House Press, and poetry, ‘A Summer Father,’ is published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her new ebook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’ is available at her blog or Smashwords.com. Contact
~~~~~
in due time
by Keegan Campbell
i am not afraid to express my feelings
i am not dull, tired, or repetitive
but what i am is cautious
i bide my time
careful not to invest too much
in any relationship
because when i put all my eggs in one basket
the basket never lives up to my dreams
i am rational
because irrationality frightens me
i am spontaneous
because monotony frightens me
i am many different things
a many-sided person
a polygon, of sorts
who does not know yet
the ways of the world
and so i may appear immune to emotion
i may appear afraid to express my feelings
i may appear dull, tired, and repetitive
but all will reveal itself in due time
i will pull the sheet off of the masterpiece
and watch as the audience
gasps with delight
only my audience is you
and you only
and you will know me
many sides and all
and it will be worth the effort, the pain,
and the time spent questioning
it will absolutely not be perfect
but it will be perfect enough
for you and for me
in due time
for you and for me
in due time
KEEGAN CAMPBELL is a seventeen year old high school student currently living in Spokane, Washington. He enjoys writing fiction and poetry recreationally and is an avid reader. His favorite poet is Robert Frost. Contact
~~~~~
THE SCHOOLYARD BULLY FROM CALGARY
by John Tzikas
Truculent Trudy taught timid tots to tackle teeter-totter turbulence
efficient educators espoused extra-curricular engagements
affluent Albertan athletes attracted and accentuated ample amelioration
cub-scout cavalries crammed considerable cashboxes canvassing candy-canes
hillside hedges harbored health-conscious holistic healers
energetic Edmontonians expressed extreme elation
reinvigorating recreational regimentation revamped renegade rug-rats
JOHN TZIKAS is a poet/lyricist residing in Hamilton, Ontario. He writes about work, relationships, sports and everyday trials and tribulations. In his spare time John teaches writing composition and performs readings in small cafes. Contact
~~~~~
don't be that rock
by Steve Croisant
it's so september of you
to fall into my mind
the tryst of autumn's breeze
and your sterile wisps of memory
harmonize with my walking
on cellophane leaves
a stronger signal might
take my mind where we and
our feelings stayed in touch
but that recent past is such
an easy force to be reckless with
it's so evening of you
to awaken my mind
so that my nights look forward
to mourning after the fact
of being reduced to
the shape of a man
but at least we ceased
finding flaws to say goodbye
the veneer of hope as choice
of something to hang onto
could be easily broken by a stone
© Steve Croisant 2004
February 24, 2004
STEVE CROISANT has no formal writing training or education, but has been writing semi-regularly since the early 2000's. He has been a member of Columbine Poets for five or six years, and reads semi-regularly at a couple of open mics in the Denver metro area. His poems have been published in Brenda Stumpf's art book, Seshat, Columbine poet's anthology, Backstreet Poetry Review, and Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
A CLOSE CALL...
by Peter Franklin
Thrust into your hand as you stand on the sidewalk
a bit overwhelmed by the throngs
Pressing about you, the very foreign smells assaulting
Your senses, and the language whose nuances and
Lyrical quality totally escape you
It’s all so confusing
All so unintelligible
And makes you a bit weak and afraid
Take a risk
Explore that which lies just outside
Where your mind can focus
Clutch your bag just a bit tighter
The cultural chasm is being threatened now
The pictures (oh the pictures) give you a visual
That helps put things into a more understandable
Perspective
This you can understand
How the sounds and smells now combine into
A more logical array of points and pixels
Come in
Try
You like many others before you will survive the experience
Or you can walk on
Stay within the safe zone
Knowing there will always be a chasm between you and them
Will there be no regrets at
Having come so close to something so wonderful
She seldom did late nights,
that cut down on her chance
to do wild ones. Those that happened
were more from happenstance
that advance planning—
the night she spent in the Jakarta airport
herded by small men in brown
with big guns, flying through stars
in a sky like ink to land in Beijing
frisked by soldiers, the ride
through that sprawling city
full of murky shadow, slithering feet
with hardly a light bulb or lantern to be seen.
Some party nights when she was young
got rowdier than others, she does remember
leaving her petticoat
puddled on the dance floor.
The luscious nights filled with soft strokes
and murmurs turned into sighs, those memories are too precious
to be shared on a page.
Having come so close to something so wonderful
PETER FRANKLIN teaches English and Creative Writing at Swampscott High School (Swampscott, MA). Peter received a BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of California, Davis, and has a Juris Doctor degree from Concord Law School. Peter has been previously published in A Long Story Short, and is working on a forthcoming anthology of poetry, Quiet River. Peter resides in Marblehead, Massachusetts with his wife and two children...and a Portuguese Water Dog who fancies himself a poet as well. Contact
~~~~~
WILD NIGHTS
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
She seldom did late nights,
to do wild ones. Those that happened
were more from happenstance
that advance planning—
the night she spent in the Jakarta airport
herded by small men in brown
with big guns, flying through stars
in a sky like ink to land in Beijing
frisked by soldiers, the ride
through that sprawling city
full of murky shadow, slithering feet
with hardly a light bulb or lantern to be seen.
Some party nights when she was young
got rowdier than others, she does remember
leaving her petticoat
puddled on the dance floor.
The luscious nights filled with soft strokes
and murmurs turned into sighs, those memories are too precious
to be shared on a page.
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with an interest in healing writing and the benefits of writing and reading work together. Widely published in poetry and nonfiction, she writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact
~~~~~
MIDNIGHT IN OXFORD, MS
by Nick Lewis
When the locusts
shake the leaves
and rattle
like dried rice
Through slim pines
and wild oak
The echoes are drum
fife chains
horse cannon
NICK LEWIS is a Los Angeles-based writer whose work has been published in Carol Muske Dukes’ book Married to the Icepick Killer: A Poet in Hollywood and the Loyola Marymount University literary journal, LA Miscellany. Contact
~~~~~
THEY SAY I'M NOT A REALIST
by Homa Ghoreishi
And the autumn breeze,
And the dancing of the leaves,
They say I’m not a realist.
Because I write of trees
They tell me I’m dreamy,
And have my head in the clouds.
But I was always taught that trees
Are rooted in the ground!
HOMA GHOREISHI is an MA student in English literature from Iran. Homa is a mythical bird from ancient Iran which stands for prosperity and good fortune. She enjoys reading and writing as well as playing tennis. Contact
~~~~~
AUTUMN
by Joe DiBuduo
from baby buds into
mature vibrant oxygenating
green leaves, now golden
red and deepening colors.
We know that means
they’re all doomed,
the entire family tree.
I wonder if they know it’s time
for them to decompose?
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
~~~~~
saving lives
(for Alice Walker and Virginia Woolf)
(for Alice Walker and Virginia Woolf)
by Shonda Buchanan
no blood spurting from a wound
it becomes different things in
different light
often the work of two worlds
the division between the guardian
and the guarded self
two words meeting like swollen lips
on a page
something hard, unbreakable, upright and its ink or lead
pressed into the page’s face
it is the work of scratching meaning from thin
air but not a trick
how many of us wake with this:
women writers sleepwalking
through a semblance of a life
rummaging for words in sleep
blanket about shoulder
ink stained elbows, ruth’s biblical mouth
rolling around in the world’s
three a.m. marble breath
wrapped in scarves, throat warmed with tea
staring out of kitchen window
as autumn leaves give over
to the persistence of giving
we recognize it immediately
desire folding
unfolding its life in our hands like a trick
only it is not
it is morning.
military chimes in background
in distance, truck screeches to halt
a clock holds out moments
like water. it is here i know i should
be grading papers but instead
i am saving my life.
SHONDA BUCHANAN, poet, creative nonfiction/fiction writer and an essayist, is the editor of "Voices From Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology." Working on a second collection of poetry, memoir and novel, she is an assistant professor in the Department of English at Hampton University. Shonda’s poem, "AT BUCKROE BEACH" was nominated by Long Story Short as the 2010 POEM OF THE YEAR. For more info, please visit www.shondabuchanan.com. Contact
~~~~~
A FAIR DAY
by Roger Singer
The appearance of cold metal
pressed between heaven
and the dust of nameless souls.
Ocean winds press the corners of
waters, exciting foamy waves
while washing glass thin over rocks
and fallen branches.
Long thin gray clouds,
fingers without hands,
stretch like spilled arrows
pointing to no place;
they fade without resistance
to a rising sun.
Windows open. Curtains lick at fresh air.
Doors unlock and screen doors
slap with motion.
A favorable breeze suggests a fair day.
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
~~~~~
~~~~~
AMERICA
by Patricia Crandall
Jetstreams pass over
a cherished heritage
America.
Eagles soar beneath,
symbols of righteous freedom.
I retain
one part of the main,
New York
industrious and powerful.
Vacationing south, I
traveled wide
of New England’s crowning vistas
and meshed through warm, flat straights,
wending into Florida,
poignant with crowded sunshine
and Mickey Mouse.
I am
desirous yet to see
Colorado Rockies
California style
Arizona
Indiana,
all territories united.
America
you have aged well, being
worthy of infinite beauty and greatness.
And through all the dark
you give us light.
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 PRICE OF FREEDOM
by Shirley Smothers
A ghostly image of a soldier stood in the
background, as a mother with a babe in her arms stood by a grave site. She lowly whispered, “Father this is your son. Son this is your father. He gave his life so that others might live.”
Now she is alone, but she will survive. She will raise this child without the aid of others. This child will grow to be a strong man because his mother was strong.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem has been published in "The Poetry Explosion Newsletter" and "The Scarlett Pooh."
SHIRLEY SMOTHERS is an amateur poet but hopes to gain experience and be published in more magazines. Contact
~~~~~
9/11 LOCKED IN OUR MEMORY
by Susan Marie Davniero
The day of the 9/11 attack
There was no turning back
Twin Towers doomed
Devilish flames loomed
Dawning horror surreal
Fallen towers of steel
Ruins down the street
Spills smoke and heat
Clouds barreling down
All over New York town
Suffocating ash wrath
Lies in the cloud’s path
The scare has begun
People driven to run
A snapshot to see
Of a city’s tragedy
The sacrifice lend
Of police and firemen
Gruesome reality
Of the mass fatality
As years may have passed
9/ll forever will last
The day will always be
Locked in our memory
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
september celebrity poet
Lucy Maud Montgomery
(1874 – 1942)
nationality: Canadian
Lucy Maud Montgomery – Credit: Public Domain
AN AUTUMN EVENING
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through
With silver from the rising moon afar,
And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue
In the southwest glimmers a great gold star
Above the darkening druid glens of fir
Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still,
And look and listen with a rapt delight,
Pausing again and yet again at will
To drink the elusive beauty of the night,
Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup,
That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.
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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