“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought
and the thought has found words."
-Robert Frost
and the thought has found words."
-Robert Frost
POEM OF THE MONTH
ANCIENT RHYTHMS
by James Piatt
The ethereal notes of rusted strings of an ancient
Lyre ripple across the smooth face of the silent pond.
Then the haunting sound of an Indian flute touch the
Hidden longings within the misty caves of my nomadic
Heart, the soft soothing melody reverberates in my brain.
The ancient rhythm calling to me, haunts the
Essence of my past residing in the depths of my being.
The darkness of the night, with only remnants of a
Waning moon, glistening in the haze of the misty
Night, the lingering howling of coyote voices, and
The guttural echoes of bull frogs croaking on the
Sides of the stream, beckon long lost memories,
That echo nostalgically, in my soul. I walk
Noiselessly upon brown pine needles strewn
Upon a deer’s path, and listen to the silence.
Listen . . . listen . . . listen to the silence,
Listen to the absence of the din of humanity,
Allow ancient voices singing inside your heart
To open your mind to lost reminiscences, let serenity
Enter into the caverns of your soul like a dove fluttering
With a gentle softness into the safety of a huge white
Barked Sycamore tree, where it can only be found
By those who love to hear its soft cooing.
Do you hear it? Do you hear it? Notes from an
Indian flute echoing in your mind, an ancient
Melancholy rhythm bubbling up in the membranes
Of your soul. It is that which was before you were, and
Will be after you are no longer here, It reverberates
A cadence that beats like the pulsations of your heart, the
Lovely haunting notes reproduce images of what went before,
Images of a calmer more peaceful time, a time when
You were a young naiveté, and your life was carefree.
Do you remember?
AUTHOR’S
NOTE: ANCIENT RHYTHMS is the first poem in my second poetry book
as well as the name of the poetry book itself.
WELCOME AUTUMN DAWN
by Susan Marie Davniero
Welcome Autumn’s dawn
Crisp sunny morn
Harvest bounty call
Fruitful gifts of fall
By way of park’s trails
Nature’s foliage prevails
Paints colors on trees
Blowing in the breeze
Acorns slip on the ground
Cooling fall abound
Ripe auburn shades
As the warmth fades
Amber spice blend
Flavors of fall again
Autumn days mellow
Comes winter tomorrow
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
~~~~~
TEDHIDY WOODS, RISING EARLY
by Abigail Wyatt
All this, all this to leave behind,
this squawking, raucous morning hymn;
this stately swan, ungainly now,
one rubbery leg astride its own pure back,
long neck half-looped and bead-bright eyes a-glare
that urge me closer if I dare but stare me, hissing, past;
and lounging ducks on verdant banks,
and rooks as big and black as death;
and green, such green, a litany
of shades from tender-pale through bolting
to autumnal blush of pink.
All this, all this, a lifetime’s work
to catalogue such grace.
I cannot think to leave it so;
I cannot, yet I must.
ABIGAIL WYATT lives in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. She writes poetry and short fiction. In June, 2012, 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories' became available via http://www.millionstories.net. Her new blog is at http://abigailelizabethwyatt@wordpress.com. Contact
~~~~~
HALLOWEEN HILL
by Floriana Hall
There's nothing but level ground left
Where a neighborhood school thrived years ago
On top of a hill
Memories still can be pictured
As children dressed up in costumes
Paraded down the hill on Halloween
From the brick building
To entertain citizens and family.
An October day at its best
With falling leaves and the rest
Like spooky skeletons dance
And masks that cause fright
Passing out candy at night
No more.
No lights, few children left on the street
Not like before.
Driving by the top of the hill
My heart remembers, with a sad thrill
When Halloween was vibrant
And school was in session
Do we all learn this lesson
Nothing is permanent on earth
But memories live on
Of the top of the hill.
Happy Halloween!
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
~~~~~
FOOL'S MOON
by Debbie Hilbish
Full moon’s yellow face
shimmers on the lagoon,
whispering unconditional love
to the lonely loon.
None turned ears to listen
when the loon lets out a cry.
My unconditional love
has left me for the sky!
The cliffs, they bled red lichen.
Reeds bent in a sigh.
You’ve let in a fantasy,
a mockingbird replied.
To love you as you are
is what we heard him say
His quintessential love, oh loon,
won’t end your lonely days.
He’ll be back, leaves cackled,
when the tide is rushing in.
Pick fool, moon or fantasy
this cycle will not end
DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. She has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, 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. Contact
~~~~~
SISYPHUS
by Hal Lorin
All in all it isn't bad,
The rock, the hill, the heavy days,
The grand expansive overarch of time.
It has been good for me.
For a metonym, I am in excellent condition Pushing the rock
has hardened me and
The trembling hesitance that ends the day
Has made me philosophical and sage.
Each evening when the rumbling starts I stand above The long view of the
bay, the grove, the temple,
I am within the promise of the rosy-fingered eve.
And out beyond, I see the ancient wine-dark sea.
I am behind the rolling rock, among the playful goats, Along the
path we long have tread together
I have the cooling evening breeze as I descend,
Like all men toward the evening and the end of day.
And in the morning we will start again Climbing after breakfast from the
radiant field Warmed by the Sun whose path is like our own.
We will ascend, the rock and I, once more, together
On the rising path within the buttercup and clover.
It is all, after all, in how you look at it.
Despite my epic reputation, my own life is not special It lacks only an illusion of the
chimera of a dream.
Where the goats do not climb beyond our farthest point The heather blooms, the hill
lies bright beneath the sky. The rock is now my instrument. It is itself the reason
There is nowhere else for us to be
There is no edge over which we can be pushed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Blue House, Volume 3, Issue 3, August 2004.
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 ALABASTER DOLL'S SECRETS
by Shonda Buchanan
“I’m not going to share
my family secrets with you”
My great aunt is a beautiful cobweb spinster.
What she remembers, she keeps.
Waving spider hands of knowing
And not knowing
At us.
I flip through family photo albums
See sharecroppers’ kids, black rivers of hair,
Our bareback laughter
Sun-fingered skin.
It is with this that I kiss feathers and shadow
Craving fearless opaque eyes to look
Back at me.
Our Indianness obscured by smoldering courthouses
By furious erasers and time.
In all the photos, soft fluffy
Good Times afros and hip-hugging polyester pants.
We don tattered jeans and hand-me-down T-shirts.
Unaware of shadows that cross our breasts like signs.
Not a Dreamcatcher on any wall. No one to save us
From ourselves, or secrets we didn’t know we had.
We don’t wear feathers or buckskin anymore.
But we whoop and holler
We scream.
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
~~~~~
BLACK COMEDY
by Wendy Schmidt
His maddening midlife crisis,
was utterly cliche;
sporty red convertibles,
justified gym trips,
hyper cyber sex,
hair-raising transformations.
Dismayed and disillusioned,
I watched as the man,
plummeted off his pedestal.
If only the unfaithful fool,
had instead attempted;
deep sea diving,
clown college courses,
scaling the Chrysler building,
championship bowling.
The cheating chump’s,
lack of originality,
one more hopeless humiliation.
How to explain his stale style,
humdrum antics,
without losing face?
A thread of thriller,
hinting at horror,
he's a split personality,
Jekyll and Hydish,
dutiful husband by day,
dark and dangerous by night.
It won’t put a permanent halt,
to litigating lawyers,
or one stop no fault,
but may be more intriguing.
A shady plot twist,
akin to film noir,
edgy black comedy,
anything is preferable,
to a stereotypical sitcom.
WENDY SCHMIDT is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. Pieces have been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, and Haunted Object Anthology. Contact
FACES
Faces and places
I have seen
Faceless and placeless
I must seem
Fiendishly trying to get grounded
As words from my mouth sound all mousy
Capitulating from an unyielding mind set
Erratic envoys are
Sarcastic savages
Faces and bodies
I do trace
Faceless and nameless
I give shape
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
RESPIRATION
I now breathe for you,
As you are unable...last
Breaths taken and released.
Legacy left behind -
Hope. Happiness. Care for
The Everyman.
Time will certainly chill the pain...
Receding in foggy fingers in advance of the mind's
compassionate fires. Remembrances will remain warm to the
touch...
Inviting. Reassuring. Calming.
I now breathe for you, as you are unable...
Lengthening shadows create tender moments from a loving
hand.
It is from these embers
That future fires will burn.
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
~~~~~
WHERE THE MUSHROOM GREW
by Bobbie Shirley
Grandmother and I took the Greyhound bus
to a city in Tennessee.
A town being built, overnight.
People said strange things about this city.
Secret things, whispers,
indicating mysteries were about.
Grandmother and I got off the bus.
Military Police were everywhere, with MP
on their sleeves. German Shepherds strained
against their leather harness.
Dogs brave and noble watched for something
we couldn’t see. While entering electric fences,
we were told to show our passes.
“Hold-up there, mister,” one of the guards said.
A man was pushed against a wall, “Open your suitcase.”
The man fumbled with the latch as sweat appeared
on his face. His suitcase was full of whiskey
and the guards were upset. Grandmother said
“Oh! Lord, hope my jelly jars don’t click together.
They’ll think I’ve got liquor.”
We waited until we had escorts to take us
into the city. My aunt and uncle came to collect us,
we were family. My cousin Don and I were like
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, only I was a girl.
Exciting adventures we had in this city.
Grandmother sent Don and I out to pick blackberries
for pies, jam, preserves and jelly. The picking
competition was on each thinking they were best.
My uncle worked for Union Carbide a large building
That sat high on a hill glaring down
at the pre-fab town. At night, its ghostly stare
scared the children. We didn’t want to go there
cause we thought the Halloween monsters
slept in Carbide’s dungeon.
Each year, we attempted to carve the best slingshot.
Might need this weapon to slay the monster
all the murmurs were about.
We’d walk a mile to swim in the new town’s pool.
Walk back home starving for peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches with iced sweet-tea.
Don and I grew up and the truth about the community
came out. This mystic town was Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
Its mysterious purpose was to make the Atomic Bomb.
I had played in the fields that enabled the mushroom
to grow, which formed the cloud that hung over
Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
BOBBIE SHIRLEY started writing poems in grammar school but was advised by her father that becoming a secretary was more realistic. Instead she became an accountant where she learned to speak the language of numbers to answer, solve and total. She missed poetry’s beauty. Bobbie now writes poems again. She reads in a local coffeehouse. Contact
Again I open a door
to see my father fling a bowling ball—
table lamp smashed to shards,
Our last game together
my last roll a split,
his a strike:
his raised fist trophy enough.
The night fishermen
cast line and sardine
into the black air
Silver scales shimmer
in bright clusters
separate to
small, spiraling stars-
fall
in soft arches-
blinking, flickering
fading-
until a gentle
glunk! in the
distance pierces
heaving tide
and a slow draw
from a cigarette
between calloused
cut fingers
sparks the
ash
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 sit quiet, but we must profess.
The children rap the drums and blow trombone:
The business of the time is busyness.
No wonder when I leave an ugly mess
And sigh, then clean it up without a groan:
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
Pure projects must be found, for more is less
When visioned in the past, an eerie zone:
The business of the time is busyness.
Who is this? Please go on and make a guess.
I rap for hours on the telephone:
They say sit quiet, but I must profess.
Old Hericlitus, you both curse and bless
The rushing river that is you, and own
The business of the time is busyness.
Standing Nowhere, we clasp hands, chat, and face
The home of the sunlight—which is unknown.
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
The business of the time is busyness.
When I pass by the house on Bay Street at twilight it's always a treat
The beautiful candles in the windows are always lit and at times I just stop and sit
The candles are luminous, colorful, and bright as they light up the neighborhood
and what a sight!
Every window has one in place almost looking like someone’s face.
The house on Bay Street has a warm beckoning vibe.
That house almost seems to be alive; where there is always laughter filling the air
and people milling around everywhere;
cars, RV'S, vans, cycles and bikes to race
just adding to the personality of that place.
If the house could speak what would it say?
Would it beckon me to go on my way
or would it welcome me with greetings of the day?
Would it tell me of the love that flows inside and out
and the hopes and dreams spilling about?
It would tell me that it was very much loved, cherished, and respected.
The House on Bay Street!
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
Warm by dancing fire,
gray cat contemplates my lap.
Flames leap with bright feet.
~~~~~
BOWLING LESSONS
by John T. Hitchner
to see my father fling a bowling ball—
table lamp smashed to shards,
living room wall a gouged gaping mouth--
late night revenge after strings of splits.
late night revenge after strings of splits.
The first time my father and I bowled together
he pressed his fingers
on the tips of my rented shoes
“Do you have enough room?”--
his touch reassurance.
He stressed alley courtesy:
“Wait your turn.
he pressed his fingers
on the tips of my rented shoes
“Do you have enough room?”--
his touch reassurance.
He stressed alley courtesy:
“Wait your turn.
“Let the person in the lane next to you go first.”
My father was a small man,
arm and leg tendons intense
as the smash and tumble of pins,
his follow-through graceful ballet.
Flashes of temper passed with age.
He repaired the wall,
arm and leg tendons intense
as the smash and tumble of pins,
his follow-through graceful ballet.
Flashes of temper passed with age.
He repaired the wall,
his eyes and fingers precise
as numbers on a score sheet.
Monday night poker replaced
Thursday night bowling—
Monday night poker replaced
Thursday night bowling—
nickels and dimes in the kitty
small change from singles and fivers on the bar.
In late years
grandchildren held his hands.
grandchildren held his hands.
“My 300 games!” he bragged.
Our last game together
my last roll a split,
his a strike:
his raised fist trophy enough.
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
I am thinking a thousand miles and a day
Around a bend and back to tomorrow
Lost among dreams - clouds
And the shrouds of yesterdays’ ghosts
I cling to the hand of Chronas,
He is running;
I run with him
Down a dark corridor of time
He carries enigmas of truths
I interpret them
Toss them over my shoulder
We brush against walls
Echoing far-off bells
Inside the broken darkness
We head towards a light
that whispers my name
It calls me home
Always home
SUSAN DALE’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. Contact
If you hang over the abyss
and look death in the eye
then manage not to fall in
you learn one thing:
Enjoy every day.
True, some days aren’t fun,
others are full of hard work
and some you think haven’t got
a bright spot anywhere.
Well, look for it.
You’ve got life.
That’s a celebration in itself.
p.l. wick is a versifier, never a “poet.” p.l. wick has been contributing to periodicals for over forty years: youth publications to literary journals, even outlaw biker magazines. One trade book of illustrated verse is credited, and an eleventh chapbook is being completed. Born in the first half of the last Century—two pennies are always kept ready for the boatman. Contact
Dancer of the shoe poem,
I trip over your shoe string
dress or gown
and keep walking with a beat
but, you're missing a step,
let me take you there,
or did the ghost of the night
take your slippers away-
move right, slightly left,
back one half step.
Dancer of the shoe poem.
It's my duty
to take you away
in a love feast.
Thank you for this dance.
~~~~~
HOME, ALWAYS HOME
by Susan Dale
by Susan Dale
I am thinking a thousand miles and a day
Around a bend and back to tomorrow
Lost among dreams - clouds
And the shrouds of yesterdays’ ghosts
I cling to the hand of Chronas,
He is running;
I run with him
Down a dark corridor of time
He carries enigmas of truths
I interpret them
Toss them over my shoulder
We brush against walls
Echoing far-off bells
Inside the broken darkness
We head towards a light
that whispers my name
It calls me home
Always home
~~~~~
deep enough and without borders
by Steve Croisant
if i could design words
that would disappear and leave
your image on the page
i would have drained
the wells of ink by now
if i could mill the page
deep enough and without borders
to hold what meanings you evoke
i would have grown
and felled a forest by now
if i lived every second
as sweep hand on a clock
i would envy hands
of the minutes and the hours
that caress your timeless face
yet everything
is as should be
for if the words
the page
and time
could contain
and define you
i would be without pursuit
© Steve Croisant 2003
August 14, 2003
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 two or three open mics in the Denver metro area. Contact
~~~~~
NOTHING LIKE CANCER TO CHANGE YOUR PERSPECTIVE
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
and look death in the eye
then manage not to fall in
you learn one thing:
Enjoy every day.
True, some days aren’t fun,
others are full of hard work
and some you think haven’t got
a bright spot anywhere.
Well, look for it.
You’ve got life.
That’s a celebration in itself.
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
~~~~~
WHERE WE TOUCH
by Karen Douglass
The soul breathes
just under the skin
and grows--
baby skin to mother/father skin,
one lover to another skin--
firm, pliable membrane
that lotions muscle, bone, and cell.
A perfect touch
can haunt the soul
too wild to confine
in the dark, smooth
cells of the heart.
just under the skin
and grows--
baby skin to mother/father skin,
one lover to another skin--
firm, pliable membrane
that lotions muscle, bone, and cell.
A perfect touch
can haunt the soul
too wild to confine
in the dark, smooth
cells of the heart.
KAREN DOUGLASS’s books include Red Goddess Poems; Bones in the Chimney (fiction); Green Rider, Thinking Horse (nonfiction); Sostenuto, (poems), The Great Hunger (poems) and Two-Gun Lil (poems). Contact
~~~~~
for "BANJO"
Spent and gone the shimmering day, gone to
violet
dusk,
The kookaburra laughing his echoing Morpheus
haunt;
When, there in the shadows ’neath an, epitaph,
bloodwood tree
swirled wretched mists of the bush—
hopelessly thirsty ’n’
spent.
And the vapors gathered themselves into forms—
beckoning me to
see:
There, was Gilbert, shot dead at Stockman’s
Ford;
Ol’ M’Ginnis who sleeps in the depths of the
Murray;
Salt Brush Bill and his mob from the Overland
—starvin’ muttons that could barely creep
or hurry—
or hurry—
and Macpherson,
young Macpherson, still gripping the reins of
the legend, Rio Grande.
I needn’t see the name carved in that
sorrowful bark,
He, who’s memory rested, would ask none for a
gilded call.
Hale for the swagman, the drover and brumby
and Geebung boys—a bushman’s bard, over all.
Long had he gone,
gone home to his outback—
gone, a-waltzing
Matilda with me.
A.B.
“Banjo” Paterson, 1864—1941: Australia’s “National Poet.”
p.l. wick
AUTHOR’S NOTE: for “BANJO” is an honorarium of the colorful writer, A.B. Banjo Paterson,
Australia’s“National Poet”—author
of Man from Snowy River and
other stellar works including Waltzing
Matilda. Recreated:
an overview of the legend and characters who surround this noted word-stylist
from the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, utilizing style and formatting that he
would have used.
~~~~~
DANCER OF THE SHOE POEM
by Michael Lee Johnson
I trip over your shoe string
dress or gown
and keep walking with a beat
but, you're missing a step,
let me take you there,
or did the ghost of the night
take your slippers away-
move right, slightly left,
back one half step.
Dancer of the shoe poem.
It's my duty
to take you away
in a love feast.
Thank you for this dance.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel: 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. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. His new chapbook Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems is now available. Michael has been published in over 25 countries. He is also 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 and Barnes & Noble. Now on You-Tube: You-Tube You-Tube You-Tube You-Tube Contact
I am a captive between words,
held within the air of voices, pulled by
stars without names as they slip behind clouds,
shadowed tightly in the gray of life.
I am without wings from your fire.
A sheet torn, twisted out of nights where faces
look familiar until I awake.
Black magic stirs the pages, releasing
stories of rain as skies fall with song,
covering me in the undertow of sleep.
~~~~~
BLACK MAGIC
by Roger Singer
held within the air of voices, pulled by
stars without names as they slip behind clouds,
shadowed tightly in the gray of life.
I am without wings from your fire.
A sheet torn, twisted out of nights where faces
look familiar until I awake.
Black magic stirs the pages, releasing
stories of rain as skies fall with song,
covering me in the undertow of sleep.
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
~~~~~
THE NIGHT FISHERMEN
by Nick Lewis
cast line and sardine
into the black air
Silver scales shimmer
in bright clusters
separate to
small, spiraling stars-
fall
in soft arches-
blinking, flickering
fading-
until a gentle
glunk! in the
distance pierces
heaving tide
and a slow draw
from a cigarette
between calloused
cut fingers
sparks the
ash
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
~~~~~
MEDITATION
by Lawrence Syldan
The children rap the drums and blow trombone:
The business of the time is busyness.
No wonder when I leave an ugly mess
And sigh, then clean it up without a groan:
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
Pure projects must be found, for more is less
When visioned in the past, an eerie zone:
The business of the time is busyness.
Who is this? Please go on and make a guess.
I rap for hours on the telephone:
They say sit quiet, but I must profess.
Old Hericlitus, you both curse and bless
The rushing river that is you, and own
The business of the time is busyness.
Standing Nowhere, we clasp hands, chat, and face
The home of the sunlight—which is unknown.
They say sit quiet, but we must profess.
The business of the time is busyness.
LAWRENCE SYLDAN is a retired teacher and counselor. He has been published in numerous literary magazines and in an anthology, “Sparks Of Fire,” addressing in poems and prose the works of William Blake. Nowadays however, he has melded his avocation (writing poetry) with his vacation (writing poetry). In the last two years he has been writing prose poems and free verse, so called. Earlier in his life he wrote formalist poems; and he has taken up the enterprise of having a book published. Contact
~~~~~
THE HOUSE ON BAY STREET
by Shirley Securro
When I pass by the house on Bay Street at twilight it's always a treat
The beautiful candles in the windows are always lit and at times I just stop and sit
The candles are luminous, colorful, and bright as they light up the neighborhood
and what a sight!
Every window has one in place almost looking like someone’s face.
The house on Bay Street has a warm beckoning vibe.
That house almost seems to be alive; where there is always laughter filling the air
and people milling around everywhere;
cars, RV'S, vans, cycles and bikes to race
just adding to the personality of that place.
If the house could speak what would it say?
Would it beckon me to go on my way
or would it welcome me with greetings of the day?
Would it tell me of the love that flows inside and out
and the hopes and dreams spilling about?
It would tell me that it was very much loved, cherished, and respected.
The House on Bay Street!
~~~~~
A WORLD OF IFS
by Floriana Hall
If I could change the world, I would
If I would change the world, I could
Make so many improvements
For everyone’s good.
There would be no poor without food
There would be no warlike moods
There could be peace in every nation
If I could convince them love is the foundation
Like a wall of formation.
Although I could not change nature’s calamity
I would have faith and help others to cope
With misfortune not of our own making
Love is always here for the taking.
We cannot control the forces of chance
But we can live life with the dance
No matter what problems we face
We would believe in the human race
Being a gift from above
Bestowed on us like wings of love
No dark clouds in the sky
Could make people cry
If I could change that, I would.
Oh, if only I could!
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
~~~~~
EVENING IN REPOSE
by Sarah Terzo
Warm by dancing fire,
gray cat contemplates my lap.
Flames leap with bright feet.
SARAH TERZO is a poet and writer whose science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in publications such as Anotherealm and Cemetery Moon and whose poetry has appeared in several anthologies. She lives in New Jersey and enjoys reading from her collection of over 3,000 books, raising and breeding tropical fish, and volunteering for The Turn a Frown Around Foundation, a charity that visits nursing homes and hospitals. Contact
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
_______________________________________
~~~~~
FIRST FULL MOON OF AUTUMN
by Patricia Crandall
The moon is serene,
halved in darkness.
As it balloons,
stars sprinkle the heavens,
winking
at its full, round face.
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
october celebrity poet
Robert Frost
(1874 – 1963)
nationality: American
Robert Frost – Credit: Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain)
GHOST HOUSE
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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