“And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!"
- John Greenleaf Whittier
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!"
- John Greenleaf Whittier
POEM OF THE MONTH
JIMMY AND ME IN THOSE DAYS
by John T. Hitchner
“You’re tearing me apart!”
Jimmy was cool in “Rebel.”
Jeans, white T-shirt, red windbreaker,
very cool in those days
to dress, walk, mumble,
even laugh like Jimmy—
“Where’s Buzz?”
very cool in those days
to dress, walk, mumble,
even laugh like Jimmy—
“Where’s Buzz?”
“Stand up straight, stop that mumbling,”
my father demanded.
“What’s the matter with you?”
I thought the matter in those days
was the big kids,
the ones who drove low-slung Fords and Mercs,
350 horsepower engines idling, threatening,
I thought the matter in those days
was the big kids,
the ones who drove low-slung Fords and Mercs,
350 horsepower engines idling, threatening,
on streets after school.
I thought the big kids had it in for me,
I thought the big kids had it in for me,
new kid in town, lowly high school freshman
who wore a sport jacket just like Jimmy.
No toreador,
No toreador,
I tried to blend in, went to class,
and watched big kids prowl streets,
and watched big kids prowl streets,
low-slung ‘wheels’ chopped and channeled.
Manifolds and mufflers growled.
I daydreamed I’d be a driver,
one hand on the wheel,
I daydreamed I’d be a driver,
one hand on the wheel,
my arm around my girl:
“You can trust me, Judy.”
The Porsche at the crossroads
didn’t really change all that.
Jimmy’s music didn’t really die,
only played in reruns, festivals,
and posters in college dorms.
“You can trust me, Judy.”
The Porsche at the crossroads
didn’t really change all that.
Jimmy’s music didn’t really die,
only played in reruns, festivals,
and posters in college dorms.
The big kids shrugged,
knocked back beers at sandpits and campfires,
then chugged home,
mufflers and manifolds subdued
until the next drag race.
knocked back beers at sandpits and campfires,
then chugged home,
mufflers and manifolds subdued
until the next drag race.
I outgrew my sport jacket,
squared my shoulders,
and introduced Judy to my parents:
“She’s my friend.”
Stars burn, dissolve into black holes.
Rebels rise and fall.
Highways, like Past and Present,
still converge outside Salinas.
and introduced Judy to my parents:
“She’s my friend.”
Stars burn, dissolve into black holes.
Rebels rise and fall.
Highways, like Past and Present,
still converge outside Salinas.
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
NOVEMBER CHILL
by Floriana Hall
Make sure it stays outside
Indoors there's warmth of many kinds
Love and kindness and some pride.
The fierce wind bites the tip of nose
Furnaces blow heat through the house
Fresh baked aromas drift from ovens
Of cakes and pies, casseroles and mousse.
Like a gentle zephyr slowly changes
To a whirlwind of northeasterly blasts
Make sure the temperature inside stays stable
With calm, caring composure that lasts.
The days are shorter, the darkness lingers
Keep the lights brighter than ever
Be grateful on Thanksgiving day
For necessities of life, peaceful endeavors.
Celebrate new births, and old age, too
Cuddle up, tell stories and laugh
It makes November seem very cozy
It doesn't matter if there are gaffes.
What matters is knowing we are all loved
In the most beautiful way
Our Creator and angels watch over us
To make sure we are safe every day.
Come on, November, and show us your face
Be gentle in daily barometric changes
Be generous with some sunshine
Keep any chilling blasts within range.
Gentleness is a virtue worth noting
Let mankind remember it, too
What we dare to ask of November
Is what the world should review.
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
~~~~~
SQUIRREL AT MY WINDOW
by Susan Marie Davniero
Welcome sweet morning
Squirrel waits adorning
Scattered at will
Nuts on windowsill
Pounced from railing
Upon paths trailing
Burying the nuts
For winter huts
Breath of autumn blow
Squirrel at my window
~~~~~
TINY SOLDIERS
by Debbie Hilbish
wafting on the wind,
hearts and drums are beating
Gabriel’s trumpet
leading in.
Onward
march the sacred
scared
confused and noble men.
It used to be a game
played beneath
the jungle gym.
All sides chosen randomly;
coin toss,
short stick,
count ten.
Odd’s fort the metal swing set,
evens take the slide of tin.
It lasted just ‘til lunchtime
or when twilight called an end.
Grass stains and tomorrow’s baseball
did not demand a win.
Now;
coffins
in a foreign land,
tears soaked up in gin.
Spilt milk and tomorrow’s
emptiness
curse the game created
by war’s laughing gods
called men.
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. Any and all authors are welcome to join us FREE for this event... If interested in this event, please contact Debbie via email. She will send you more info. Contact
~~~~~
RENDEZVOUS
by Hal Lorin
Long ago by a fountain in a forest far away I said to a woman I wished would stay,
“I will wait for you in Alquemar.”
Hearing this, of course the woman cried.
But she left anyway. And later,
From news I had of her, I understood that She had made alternative arrangements.
Now I am old with a woman who will stay Until the boat departs, and in the fog,
At the river, holding our coins
We will plan our reunion on the other side.
She, sensible, practical, efficient.
Knows the world is always as it is,
As the boat nears the other shore will say
“Why naturally, as always, and 59th and Park.”
I spin my web in the eaves
outside the big window.
When wind or pigeon tears it down,
I rebuild. Thus it has been
for my lifetime and more.
Inside, human males
sit around a table and talk.
Busy with my weaving, I watch.
Hands fly, fists pound wood,
eyes glare, an occasional smile.
Now and then papers are passed around
and signed, leading to handshakes.
They merged a company,
ended a war, or started one.
Thus it has been
for time out of mind.
I continue weaving.
Grey seas rolling, waves tossed high
Raging rain falling, from the sky
Showers of debris cover the sand
Dark moody clouds fill the land
Rippling white horses tossed around
Wind joining in adding to the sound
Thunder roars noise filling the air
Pebbles and paper blowing everywhere
The glory of the wild seashore
Delights my heart forevermore.
Not I, because I formerly, I make mention of, was wont to hope,
now I beg, just as you seem willing to be my husband;
moreover, as I still might be yours, I was perceived worthy,
insofar as a goddess, because I was Light’s daughter.
What is the reason for you fleeing? not this: Troy reappears new;
someone turned back does not call by name the allies to arms;
this here is love and peace, on which--O wretch, I am one wounded,
and all the region is to be under your sovereignty.
translated from Ovid
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Circe was selected from a book, entitled LATIN UNSEENS by E.C. Kennedy, a collection of little known, untranslated passages, which are selected from the longer works of classical Roman authors.
ROBERT WOOTEN earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University. His most recent collection is a chapbook published by In His Steps Publishing, Famous Last Words, in 2007. His poems have appeared in The Lyric, Poem, and Asheville Poetry Review, respectively, and in many other periodicals. His poetry currently appears in Trajectory, Convergence, Bear Creek Haiku, and others. Contact
~~~~~
by Richard Schnap
Even though I may never stand before
The priceless masterpieces of the greatest artists
I feel I catch glimpses here and there
Of their immortal beauty all around
When the cashier at the local supermarket
Becomes Mona Lisa with her mysterious smile
And the homeless beggar crouching on the corner
Turns into Rodin’s Thinker pondering his fate
And the evening sky with its canopy of lights
Is the same as Van Gogh’s Starry Night
As I realize that all of these undying wonders
Are as common and timeless as the world itself
RICHARD SCHNAP is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online journals. Contact
with gusto and delight
I beat eight eggs
and a wineglass of brandy
into a pound cake
from my grandmother’s cookbook
brown with gold lettering
with spidered signature
on the fly-leaf
stains on every page
imagine the prayerful nature
of Fish pie à la Ste. Teresa
with its ‘pint of good thick cream’
or measuring with care
‘a suspicion of garlic
on the point of a knife’
in making Calf’s Tails soup
while stirring
tasting, adding
I might prepare D’Uxelles sauce
(mushrooms, truffles, ham
parsley, shallots chopped fine
with an ounce of scraped fat bacon
stirred over the fire for six minutes …)
for a gourmet dinner
of calorific heaven
We will plan our reunion on the other side.
She, sensible, practical, efficient.
Knows the world is always as it is,
As the boat nears the other shore will say
“Why naturally, as always, and 59th and Park.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Blue House, Volume 4, Issue 2, June 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 SPIDER'S VIEW
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
I spin my web in the eaves
outside the big window.
When wind or pigeon tears it down,
I rebuild. Thus it has been
for my lifetime and more.
Inside, human males
sit around a table and talk.
Busy with my weaving, I watch.
Hands fly, fists pound wood,
eyes glare, an occasional smile.
Now and then papers are passed around
and signed, leading to handshakes.
They merged a company,
ended a war, or started one.
Thus it has been
for time out of mind.
I continue weaving.
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has an interest in healing writing and leads the writing program at a Cancer Center. She is widely published in poetry and nonfiction, writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact
~~~~~
ANGRY SEAS
by Doreen James
Raging rain falling, from the sky
Showers of debris cover the sand
Dark moody clouds fill the land
Rippling white horses tossed around
Wind joining in adding to the sound
Thunder roars noise filling the air
Pebbles and paper blowing everywhere
The glory of the wild seashore
Delights my heart forevermore.
DOREEN JAMES is retired and has two grown up daughters and four grandchildren. She has been writing most of her life but until now has never tried to publish. She is a member of a small writing group and it was with their encouragement that she submitted her poem to Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
CIRCE
by Robert Wooten
now I beg, just as you seem willing to be my husband;
moreover, as I still might be yours, I was perceived worthy,
insofar as a goddess, because I was Light’s daughter.
What is the reason for you fleeing? not this: Troy reappears new;
someone turned back does not call by name the allies to arms;
this here is love and peace, on which--O wretch, I am one wounded,
and all the region is to be under your sovereignty.
translated from Ovid
(Rem. Am.)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Circe was selected from a book, entitled LATIN UNSEENS by E.C. Kennedy, a collection of little known, untranslated passages, which are selected from the longer works of classical Roman authors.
ROBERT WOOTEN earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University. His most recent collection is a chapbook published by In His Steps Publishing, Famous Last Words, in 2007. His poems have appeared in The Lyric, Poem, and Asheville Poetry Review, respectively, and in many other periodicals. His poetry currently appears in Trajectory, Convergence, Bear Creek Haiku, and others. Contact
REVELATION
Even though I may never stand before
The priceless masterpieces of the greatest artists
I feel I catch glimpses here and there
Of their immortal beauty all around
When the cashier at the local supermarket
Becomes Mona Lisa with her mysterious smile
And the homeless beggar crouching on the corner
Turns into Rodin’s Thinker pondering his fate
And the evening sky with its canopy of lights
Is the same as Van Gogh’s Starry Night
As I realize that all of these undying wonders
Are as common and timeless as the world itself
RICHARD SCHNAP is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online journals. Contact
~~~~~
FRANCATELLI'S COOK'S GUIDE
by Joanna M. Weston
with gusto and delight
I beat eight eggs
and a wineglass of brandy
into a pound cake
from my grandmother’s cookbook
brown with gold lettering
with spidered signature
on the fly-leaf
stains on every page
imagine the prayerful nature
of Fish pie à la Ste. Teresa
with its ‘pint of good thick cream’
or measuring with care
‘a suspicion of garlic
on the point of a knife’
in making Calf’s Tails soup
while stirring
tasting, adding
I might prepare D’Uxelles sauce
(mushrooms, truffles, ham
parsley, shallots chopped fine
with an ounce of scraped fat bacon
stirred over the fire for six minutes …)
for a gourmet dinner
of calorific heaven
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. Contact
doesn't exist anymore,
its relic a run-down curiosity
in an older part of town.
It used to be at the end
of the streetcar line,
but the line vanished long ago.
You'd glimpse the old guys,
many with canes, as many
in wheelchairs, coursing the grounds.
Most wore the uniform of the day:
pajamas and, in cooler weather,
a heavy bathrobe as well.
They were the lonely leftovers
of a long-distant World War I,
all long gone now, their memories, too.
I don't hear of old soldiers' homes
anymore, guess they don't exist,
probably too expensive to keep up.
But newer old soldiers exist --
oh, we'll never run out of them --
given now the freedom of our streets.
Too bad we can't offer long-term care,
not because we don't care --
there are just too many of them.
BILL ROBERTS has had more than a thousand poems published online and in the small press, some nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes. He sponsors an annual reading to honor female poets ("Strong Voices, Strong Women"), this year to benefit battered women with the Safehouse Alliance of Colorado. Contact Website
A 1950's HOUSEWIFE
by Wayne Scheer
My wife is a 1950's housewife
Until about nine o'clock
In the morning.
She enjoys making the first pot
Of coffee
And serving her man.
I think it's a hangover
From a past life
As Harriet Nelson
Where she wore high heels,
An apron
And bent one leg when she kissed.
The problem for me
Is if I get up early
I can't make the coffee.
Not allowed.
She needs to make it her way
And serve her man.
So I have to prowl about
Coffeeless and clueless
Until she opens her eyes.
I wonder if this
Is how a 1950's husband felt?
Helpless.
WAYNE SCHEER, a frequent contributor to Long Story Short, has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published short stories, essays and poems, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories available at http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife. Contact
S. KUMAR is a teacher living in Kolkata, India. His passion is writing and teaching communicative English. His publications include a published technical school textbook on computer Java programming, a short story and poem published in national daily and international magazines.
With many mirrors on the wall,
we are many times reminded
of ourselves and enter at our peril.
Life is a small and private place
when next to us we stand,
seeing what we think we are,
becoming what we see.
Keepers and guardians of time,
we measure and cut and give it
purpose and fearful aspect.
As the vine ensnares the purring tree,
turning gently around the trunk
and reaching up in exultation,
crushing and caressing,
we watch hourly the tentacles
of time climb sinuous over us
and strive to be unchanging.
But is not change a better truth
than sameness always to the end?
HUGO DESARRO is a former adjunct college instructor in English at the University of Hartford. He has been published in a variety of literary journals here and abroad, including Oklahoma Review, Colorado Review, Pulsar, Current Accounts, Poesy, Splizz, others, and formerly in Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
WATERSWEEPERS
day’s abandoned confetti
honey-aspen leaves
strewn
across the mirrored lake
Cezanne dreams—
swept away
to where unknown
perchance
by Lolita naiads
moon-diamonds
woven in their hair
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
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
This is what true love is,
He turned my face then we kissed.
I knew he was my soul mate,
This was our first date.
We held hands and talked,
About everything as we walked.
I have craved these feelings for so long,
It was innocent and sweet like a love song.
He was a true gentleman from the start,
I fell in love from the bottom of my heart.
I hope and pray as we grow old together,
We will have these feelings forever and ever.
through all seasons.
Change was inevitable
I have come to reason.
Where once a violet,
clusters.
Where once a house,
stone and foundation.
Where once a stream,
a creek bed.
Where once a robin,
a red bird.
Where once a hare,
the hound.
Where once strawberry fields,
golden rod. Where once you….
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
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
I am the time.
The ticking runs my veins,
clogging with unused
minutes in corners
and mystical closets within
my brain
and places hidden behind
my heart and under
my liver.
The older I get
the more rapid time clicks off,
always fearful of the hour
being the last, the curtain call,
the big goodbye.
The arteries expand with warming
juices,
flooding my eyes with vision
and my tongue with flavor
of words I thought
I forgot.
My fingers tap out
the seconds matching the
beating of my heart,
tick-tock, tick-tock,
echoing between my ears;
I keep going for the sake
the ticking may stop.
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
Teach me to pray: I know not how;
and, if that skill was ever taught,
the clouds went rolling by that day
so teaching came to naught.
To know a prayer and speak it
seems a likely place to start;
but some there are who tell their prayers
by rote and not by heart;
and such as they proclaim them
till all sense and grace is gone;
or else they lisp them haltingly,
their passion spent and gone.
How then to pray? If you will tell,
then I will make true haste to learn:
light thickens and the air blows chill
as autumn days to winter turn.
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
_______________________________________
~~~~~
THE OLD SOLDIERS' HOME
by Bill Roberts
its relic a run-down curiosity
in an older part of town.
It used to be at the end
of the streetcar line,
but the line vanished long ago.
You'd glimpse the old guys,
many with canes, as many
in wheelchairs, coursing the grounds.
Most wore the uniform of the day:
pajamas and, in cooler weather,
a heavy bathrobe as well.
They were the lonely leftovers
of a long-distant World War I,
all long gone now, their memories, too.
I don't hear of old soldiers' homes
anymore, guess they don't exist,
probably too expensive to keep up.
But newer old soldiers exist --
oh, we'll never run out of them --
given now the freedom of our streets.
Too bad we can't offer long-term care,
not because we don't care --
there are just too many of them.
BILL ROBERTS has had more than a thousand poems published online and in the small press, some nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes. He sponsors an annual reading to honor female poets ("Strong Voices, Strong Women"), this year to benefit battered women with the Safehouse Alliance of Colorado. Contact Website
~~~~~
A 1950's HOUSEWIFE
by Wayne Scheer
My wife is a 1950's housewife
Until about nine o'clock
In the morning.
She enjoys making the first pot
Of coffee
And serving her man.
I think it's a hangover
From a past life
As Harriet Nelson
Where she wore high heels,
An apron
And bent one leg when she kissed.
The problem for me
Is if I get up early
I can't make the coffee.
Not allowed.
She needs to make it her way
And serve her man.
So I have to prowl about
Coffeeless and clueless
Until she opens her eyes.
I wonder if this
Is how a 1950's husband felt?
Helpless.
~~~~~
WHO IS THE RICHEST?
by S. Kumar
Oh Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, and the wondrous crystal ball,
Upon you we the millions call, say who's the richest of us all?
The one who only toiled for gold, even at forty he looked so old,
A pretty rose he never did hold; before he lived, he went down cold.
Or the one who mints illegal silvers, dreams of police giving him jitters,
Even a fresh breath he ne'er delivers, for he only knows the trade of pilfers.
Or the busy man ever running away - even to a baby he met on the way,
He hadn't a smile or a word to say; he's born to work and never to play.
From his neighbours he took a loan, never did repay till he rust his bone,
Amassed wealth but always did moan, couldn't say his pal a hello on phone.
These wretched were so much pained; poorer they got the more they gained,
By merciless destiny were they slained, as they were by their fate ordained.
The richest one was one who knew: money makes happy moments very few;
So they took the wisest view, enjoyed the flowers and the drops of dew.
They became richest by just one creed: fewer their wants, fewer their need,
They were blissfully happy indeed, for they just threw away their greed!
Visit a website on personality development at
~~~~~
A BETTER TRUTH
by Hugo DeSarro
we are many times reminded
of ourselves and enter at our peril.
Life is a small and private place
when next to us we stand,
seeing what we think we are,
becoming what we see.
Keepers and guardians of time,
we measure and cut and give it
purpose and fearful aspect.
As the vine ensnares the purring tree,
turning gently around the trunk
and reaching up in exultation,
crushing and caressing,
we watch hourly the tentacles
of time climb sinuous over us
and strive to be unchanging.
But is not change a better truth
than sameness always to the end?
HUGO DESARRO is a former adjunct college instructor in English at the University of Hartford. He has been published in a variety of literary journals here and abroad, including Oklahoma Review, Colorado Review, Pulsar, Current Accounts, Poesy, Splizz, others, and formerly in Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
THE BEE
by Nick Lewis
A bee
struggled dying
On the skin of water
I lifted it into
My palm
The body
Mustard black
Sat still
And wet
On the smooth skin
Of the ocean
I
sat cradling
Under the rays
November sun
I breathed on the wings
Watching small droplets
fall
Like dew
From a sunflower
The bee crawled slow
To the edge of my hand
Heaving body up down
The current sent us
castaways
Down the shoreline
Past lifeguard towers
Blue and closed
The bee flew and
It did not sting
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
~~~~~
WATERSWEEPERS
day’s abandoned confetti
honey-aspen leaves
strewn
across the mirrored lake
Cezanne dreams—
swept away
to where unknown
perchance
by Lolita naiads
moon-diamonds
woven in their hair
p.l. wick
~~~~~
MOON MONSTER
by Bobby Shirley
the moon peeks from the clouds
is there a face it stares at me what does
it want was a man captured by the moon
hope it doesn’t catch me I can run faster
than it can float why would the moon
want to seize a man it could be
to steal his dream can the moon imagine
or have a vision it can’t snatch mine
cause it’s locked in my heart
it’s the pulse of my being so drift
on your way carry along your
moon monster to another part of town
you can’t have my moment in time nor
my gift it glows like the sun its brightness
extinguishes your night
is there a face it stares at me what does
it want was a man captured by the moon
hope it doesn’t catch me I can run faster
than it can float why would the moon
want to seize a man it could be
to steal his dream can the moon imagine
or have a vision it can’t snatch mine
cause it’s locked in my heart
it’s the pulse of my being so drift
on your way carry along your
moon monster to another part of town
you can’t have my moment in time nor
my gift it glows like the sun its brightness
extinguishes your night
~~~~~
FOREVER AND EVER
by Linda Hunter
He turned my face then we kissed.
I knew he was my soul mate,
This was our first date.
We held hands and talked,
About everything as we walked.
I have craved these feelings for so long,
It was innocent and sweet like a love song.
He was a true gentleman from the start,
I fell in love from the bottom of my heart.
I hope and pray as we grow old together,
We will have these feelings forever and ever.
LINDA HUNTER has written and published several poems and hopes to have a book published soon. She enjoys writing poems, children’s stories, karaoke, long walks, and re-finishing furniture in her spare time. Contact
Rain upon the windowpane
Perspiration on a body's frame
Dew on a morning's grass
Economy in a business class.
Money is supposed to flow
To the community we love and know
But we can't count on fortune proper
When those in charge are interlopers.
We listen, we vote, we hope for the best
But every facet is put to the test
Not always benefiting all in need
But always looking to succeed.
Is success for all not in the cards -
We are dealt by different bards
At the mercy of the people who might care
For themselves more than the rest
Of needy people who struggle at best.
Trickle down, trickle down
Or trickle up may be the answer
Who knows which is the best candidate
Give us a definite course to mandate.
We, the people, will ultimately decide
Who will stay and who will slide
Our country will go on much as before
If to everyone we open the door.
~~~~~
TRICKLE DOWN
by Floriana Hall
Perspiration on a body's frame
Dew on a morning's grass
Economy in a business class.
Money is supposed to flow
To the community we love and know
But we can't count on fortune proper
When those in charge are interlopers.
We listen, we vote, we hope for the best
But every facet is put to the test
Not always benefiting all in need
But always looking to succeed.
Is success for all not in the cards -
We are dealt by different bards
At the mercy of the people who might care
For themselves more than the rest
Of needy people who struggle at best.
Trickle down, trickle down
Or trickle up may be the answer
Who knows which is the best candidate
Give us a definite course to mandate.
We, the people, will ultimately decide
Who will stay and who will slide
Our country will go on much as before
If to everyone we open the door.
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
~~~~~
I PASSED THIS WAY
by Patricia Crandall
Change was inevitable
I have come to reason.
Where once a violet,
clusters.
Where once a house,
stone and foundation.
Where once a stream,
a creek bed.
Where once a robin,
a red bird.
Where once a hare,
the hound.
Where once strawberry fields,
golden rod. Where once you….
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
~~~~~
this is the place they mean
by Steve Croisant
a lullaby moon
and bedtime story stars
draw overhead
a cloud down comforter
mothers and fathers
buss the cheeks of cherubs
slumbering and satin quiet
soft and sometimes earthbound
curtain wind escorts
ballet on their scrapes
usher away their closet goblins
and lay pillow dreams at their lashes
these are the nights
where the soul hearths
and these hearths are
where love embers
safe and comfort clean
and when the innocent...ask
where to bed
this is the place they mean
© Steve Croisant 2003
July 30, 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 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
~~~~~
GOODBYE
by Roger Singer
I am the time.
The ticking runs my veins,
clogging with unused
minutes in corners
and mystical closets within
my brain
and places hidden behind
my heart and under
my liver.
The older I get
the more rapid time clicks off,
always fearful of the hour
being the last, the curtain call,
the big goodbye.
The arteries expand with warming
juices,
flooding my eyes with vision
and my tongue with flavor
of words I thought
I forgot.
My fingers tap out
the seconds matching the
beating of my heart,
tick-tock, tick-tock,
echoing between my ears;
I keep going for the sake
the ticking may stop.
~~~~~
FOR THE MEN OF WAR
by Susan Marie Davniero
March on proud, heads high
Loved ones behind, goodbye
Shared patriotism is the lure
For the men of war
To foreign lands they elope
Armed with bravery and hope
Commanding orders roar
For the men of war
Witness to a bloody bath
The horrors of war’s wrath
To recall what they saw
For the men of war
Battle warfare wound
They are doomed
Whatever for
The men of war
Phantom casualties speak
Military widows weep
And plea, “No more”
For the men of war
Military honors bequeath graves
Bugle taps and flags wave
Eternal peace forever more
For the men of war
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
~~~~~
A PRAYER IN NOVEMBER
by Abigail Wyatt
Teach me to pray: I know not how;
and, if that skill was ever taught,
the clouds went rolling by that day
so teaching came to naught.
To know a prayer and speak it
seems a likely place to start;
but some there are who tell their prayers
by rote and not by heart;
and such as they proclaim them
till all sense and grace is gone;
or else they lisp them haltingly,
their passion spent and gone.
How then to pray? If you will tell,
then I will make true haste to learn:
light thickens and the air blows chill
as autumn days to winter turn.
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
november celebrity poet
John Greenleaf Whittier
(1807 – 1892)
nationality: American
John Greenleaf Whittier – Credit: Public Domain
THE PUMPKIN
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
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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