“Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love Divine;
Love was born at Christmas;
Stars and angels gave the sign."
- Christina G. Rossetti
Love all lovely, Love Divine;
Love was born at Christmas;
Stars and angels gave the sign."
- Christina G. Rossetti
POEM OF THE MONTH
LIVING RAINBOWS
by Floriana Hall
I saw a rainbow the other day
Above the trees across the way
It warmed me with its rosy hue
Shades of pink mixed with yellow and blue.
The temperature was only thirties low
Surprised to see this unusual rainbow
It's December, after all is said and done
But most of our days are filled with sun.
The climate change across our land
Is a spectacle to see - does anyone understand?
It's colder in Texas today than in Ohio
Warmer here than in Louisiana's bayou.
This morning, blinding sun is in my face
To drive east is a test of grace
God and nature in cooperation
Spreading unusual highs and lows across our nation.
This is the time to shop and prepare
For winter snares that come to dare
Slippery deep snow and sleet and ice
Can you leave forever, our sacrifice?
Whatever befalls in the next year
Including black ice that we could fear
Let our hearts still be merry and sprite
As we shovel away with our delight.
We can still sing and we can dance
Indoors or outdoors we can prance
Marking our way to greater heights
Believing in ourselves and overcoming frights.
So let it snow, let it rain
And let the sun come out again
We cannot change certain things
But we can be thankful for many springs.
Keep love and rainbows in our hearts
In our step - no time to fall apart
There will be more rainbows along the way
Interspersed with ups and downs each day.
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
THE LEAVES
by Shirley Securro
The trees are bare they have no care
The leaves have gone, but where?
Did they feel any pain from all that rain
that made them fall to the ground?
Their final phase blowing all around
Bare trees have a personality
twisted branches a finality
Their beauty stolen from them
with time it's restored again
The bud on a branch unlike a newborn
looks to be ever so forlorn
It's tiny and sturdy to be
I wait and I watch till I see
The bud is first then comes the leaf
at last I can sigh with relief
For then I know it won't be long
Till the days are lighter,
the birds sing their song
All of our lives resemble a leaf
We're here and then our life all too brief!
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
~~~~~
DO YOU WATCH THE SEASONS CHANGE?
by John T. Hitchner
Why your voice.
I do not hear the words,
only the melody’s long-ago past.
How did we trespass?
What our transgressions?
Beyond an old New England house
one season ends,
another begins.
Radio carols another Christmas,
jingles chant presents to buy.
Do you watch seasons change?
I wait earth to soften,
study weather maps,
track storms,
watch trees sway.
Do you see the same sky?
Do you hear the same song?
Do you, like me, wait for seasons
to change?
~~~~~
CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK
by Susan Marie Davniero
New York’s cheer
Visitors see the sights
By New York’s lights
Christmas serenade
Santa Claus parade
Coming out to see
Rockefeller Center’s tree
Park Avenue by way
Store windows display
Tiffany’s glitzy gifts
Merry spirits lifts
Broadway shows
New York’s aglow
Museum of Art
The city at heart
Christmas foretells
Sidewalk Santa’s bells
St. Patrick’s cast
The Midnight Mass
Crowds at Times Square
New Year’s Eve be there
Take a holiday walk
Christmas in New York
 |
Susan and Bob Davniero in New York City
- Credit: Susan Marie Davniero
|
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
~~~~~
BUCKETS OF BLUEBERRIES
by Patricia Crandall
Flannel-jacketed campers
huddle against rough winds
buffeting the lake's edge
filling tin pails
with last of the blueberries
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
~~~~~
JEREMY AT THE BALLET
by Bill Roberts
Jeremy must be thirteen
since he's in seventh grade
at the local middle school,
just blocks from my house.
He reaches across his mother
and we shake hands cordially,
seated in the Ellie Opera House
in Denver, waiting for the dance
to begin, a special program for season
subscribers to the Colorado Ballet.
He tells me he dances with Ballet
Nouveau in our town, will perform
in The Nutcracker this Christmas.
What a handsome, assured boy,
black hair worn rakishly, confidence
exuding from his broad smile.
Lights dim, music swells, the dance begins.
My mind wanders, recalls another
boy of thirteen who entered a church
in Northwest D.C. to dress for one
of the major sports sponsored by
the Metro Police Boys Club, housed in
the enormous basement of the church.
That boy, I remember, chose the easier road,
though ballet caught his interest, with
classes taught after school, on the upper floor
of the same church -- but that road
was scary, too physical, requiring more
courage than I had, Jeremy a tougher guy.
~~~~~
SIGHT
Inspired by Cassy Rivera
Inspired by Cassy Rivera
what it’s like to be blind,
not able to see smiles,
register happiness,
heaven, God or Jesus,
something as mysterious as undertows
I’ve been told about while standing on the beach
and watching waves curl into fists and beat earth,
booming so loud I can’t believe
anything about an undertow matters,
but stepping toes into wet sand
where water foams
and takes earth from under my feet,
sweeps it to some center
where all the booms come from—
this feeling, the rush around my feet,
the undertow is real.
heaven, God and Jesus are too,
maybe they all boom from the same place—
Closing my eyes,
feeling immersion of my feet,
I can see anything.
~~~~~
NEWTOWN SQUARE
by Bobbie Shirley
I saw green pastures
with equestrian white fences.
The porch held a dollhouse
big enough for me
to crawl inside.
It was fun to shuffle furniture
from room to room.
Fluffy, my white cat helped
me re-decorate.
A red steel-runner sled hung
from a hook on
the wall, ready for winter snow.
A rocking chair was near
in case we tired.
Horses eyed me from, the pasture
checked my safety. I loved
their colors. Chestnut,
silver and black.
I rubbed their fur
soft as velvet. Hearing
their whinny made me
chuckle and laugh.
I watched their school day.
They learned to jump over
ditches, fences and hedges,
a course necessary to
win a championship.
As the years went by
I grew up in a city
Memories of this paradise
never disappeared.
Calendar paintings,
green pastures with an
equestrian paddock
framed in quiet, the
toll of a church bell
and a whinny.
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
THE CONVENIENCE STORE
round the block
and down the road
I meet the man
from the Canary Isles
searching for bird seed
and a girl from Botswana
buying canned clam chowder
for her boyfriend
when he arrives from Amsterdam
she says he plays
hard rock on the street
I talk to a Russian lady
who clutches a bag of onions
she intends to pickle
while the Canadian guy
from the house next door
pays for donut and coffee
with his credit card
it’s the best place
to meet people
when I buy chocolate
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
ORPHEUS
by Hal Lorin
He came out of the ground with his sorrow And whispered the name ‘Eurydice.’
It was enough for us.
He was, after all, the Mystery.
We had no idea that her descent Could be other than part of His story.
We had not followed upward toward the light.
Nor sensed the coming warmth, nor smelled the grass.
Nor seen him silhouetted in his sun.
Nor felt the sudden twisting turn
Into the shadow beyond caring.
In the morning we hear him play.
The sun comes up. It is enough for us.
We do not miss her dance beneath the wide shy moon Above the sea beyond the hills around us.
Nor sensed the coming warmth, nor smelled the grass.
Nor seen him silhouetted in his sun.
Nor felt the sudden twisting turn
Into the shadow beyond caring.
In the morning we hear him play.
The sun comes up. It is enough for us.
We do not miss her dance beneath the wide shy moon Above the sea beyond the hills around us.
We do not wonder what she might say Of the signs at the center of creation.
Of what was hoped for us.
Of what had been intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Blue House, Volume 3, Issue 3, August 2004.
Of what had been intended.
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
~~~~~
TANNIN BREEZE
Pausing, on a rock outcrop
to overlook
the narrow valley
wall-to-wall with aspens
leaves now thin and brittle,
gnarled and brown.
They scrape together
in acrid tannin breeze
applauding
the caesura curtain call,
spring’s promise faded,
summer’s
bravado obeisance.
chin resting
heavy on my hands,
wrapped high around
old friend
hiking staff
of knotted alder,
my skin burnt dry,
sienna,
thin and brittle
in the tannin breeze
p.l. wick
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
~~~~~
CHOIR
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
buzzard feather black in the band,
the old hippie clangs his bell
in front of the bank.
Arm pumping up and down
he beams through gaps in his teeth,
points at the red kettle.
He wishes customers a happy holiday.
Over the brass tones of the bell
his rich baritone voice rises,
sings the first lines
of “Joy to the World.”
Exiting the bank a young man
trim in sweater and slacks,
supplies the words in bass
when the Salvation Army man
sputters la la la.
Spattered with sawdust
a construction worker
squeals his pickup to a stop,
jumps out, adds
his wavering tenor to the mix.
Inside three tellers roll eyes
and smile, slide their sopranos
with Christmas dollars
across the counter.
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
The mad curling of steam lifted
at the surface of her; twisting her hair
and skirt.
The train and its metal connections
rebelliously slowed and then stopped;
doors opened and shoes hustled
to the flavor of travel.
She waits. Stars paint her. Pearls hide
in jealous circles. Her hands
stream with thinness. She is the aroma
of angels.
A voice calls. Smiles are created from warmth.
Arms, useless from separation,
breathe life.
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
to touch my mouth. Pink pads rest on
my lips, like an infant’s soft hand in
tight-fisted hold on a finger. She curls
and twists on my shoulder, mewling
in kitten tones. A child, reverting to
baby-cute in hopes of extra hugs;
reassurance that she will be, no matter
what, loved and loved and loved.
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
When winter blows
my world blue I like
to spend a day
with you, my dearest friend,
without lies meant to cover
the cold winds of truth
by a blanket sewn with
too many big loops.
We’ll sip orange
pekoe that‘s been stirred
with cinnamon sticks
to sweeten unfeigned
words none other would bare to truth.
I’ll wrap my favorite
fuzzy wuz ‘round
my legs in case
the honesty chills a bit.
Then, clinging to the heat
of heart-whole
friendship
running deep, we’ll read
old childhood nursery rhymes
or maybe Dylan or Keats
to keep the winter
winds of truth-divulging at bay.
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
FIG TREE
by Michael Lee Johnson
Fig tree, fruit to all those
come and gone,
stare down your branches
with your human eyes:
God give us this day;
our distressed fathers,
deceased mothers-
children chatter on sidewalks,
play hopscotch.
In the forest, construction men
cut the wood, make naked landscapes:
strong men, strong lives.
We all stop to contemplate
this theorem.
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-TubeYou-Tube You-Tube You-Tube. Contact
I've been waking up to the sound of the
ocean crashing against my bedroom door, threatening
to splinter the thin pine frame into matchsticks,
toothpicks, and I can't figure out how
the waves could have gotten so close to
my house when I built it a thousand miles
from any seashore. Waves fade to
still silhouettes of snow dunes seen through the
window overlooking the backyard
an army of frozen giants poised to
threaten my livelihood in a different way
than the onslaught of
phantom sea storms. I wrap myself in blankets, sip cups of hot tea, pray for the days when the sun is so hot that I dream
only nostalgic thoughts of these
endless nights of winter cold.
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
~~~~~
REUNITE
by Roger Singer
at the surface of her; twisting her hair
and skirt.
The train and its metal connections
rebelliously slowed and then stopped;
doors opened and shoes hustled
to the flavor of travel.
She waits. Stars paint her. Pearls hide
in jealous circles. Her hands
stream with thinness. She is the aroma
of angels.
A voice calls. Smiles are created from warmth.
Arms, useless from separation,
breathe life.
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
~~~~~
NO MATTER WHAT
by Joy Kettren
My cat’s white-furred paw reaches out
My cat’s white-furred paw reaches out
my lips, like an infant’s soft hand in
tight-fisted hold on a finger. She curls
and twists on my shoulder, mewling
in kitten tones. A child, reverting to
baby-cute in hopes of extra hugs;
reassurance that she will be, no matter
what, loved and loved and loved.
JOY KETTREN lives in Cleveland, Ohio and works as a research coordinator in clinical trials. She has been writing poetry seriously for about 10 years, and has been published in the online journal, Diagram, as well as in Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue. She enjoys reading and writing, poetry, gardening, cooking and hiking. Contact
~~~~~
have you
by Steve Croisant
by Steve Croisant
i have tried to hold
your distinctions
but i am not gravity
have tried to follow
your spirit and allure
but i am not the wind
i have tried to count
your gifts and worth
but i am not infinity
i have had to love
the dream and wish of you
but have you done the same
© Steve Croisant 2004
August 31, 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
~~~~~
COLD WIND'S TRUTH
by Debbie Hilbish
my world blue I like
to spend a day
with you, my dearest friend,
without lies meant to cover
the cold winds of truth
by a blanket sewn with
too many big loops.
We’ll sip orange
pekoe that‘s been stirred
with cinnamon sticks
to sweeten unfeigned
words none other would bare to truth.
I’ll wrap my favorite
fuzzy wuz ‘round
my legs in case
the honesty chills a bit.
Then, clinging to the heat
of heart-whole
friendship
running deep, we’ll read
old childhood nursery rhymes
or maybe Dylan or Keats
to keep the winter
winds of truth-divulging at bay.
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
~~~~~
by Michael Lee Johnson
Fig tree, fruit to all those
come and gone,
stare down your branches
with your human eyes:
God give us this day;
our distressed fathers,
deceased mothers-
children chatter on sidewalks,
play hopscotch.
In the forest, construction men
cut the wood, make naked landscapes:
strong men, strong lives.
We all stop to contemplate
this theorem.
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-TubeYou-Tube You-Tube You-Tube. Contact
~~~~~
I COULD SCREAM
by Holly Day
ocean crashing against my bedroom door, threatening
to splinter the thin pine frame into matchsticks,
toothpicks, and I can't figure out how
the waves could have gotten so close to
my house when I built it a thousand miles
from any seashore. Waves fade to
still silhouettes of snow dunes seen through the
window overlooking the backyard
an army of frozen giants poised to
threaten my livelihood in a different way
than the onslaught of
phantom sea storms. I wrap myself in blankets, sip cups of hot tea, pray for the days when the sun is so hot that I dream
only nostalgic thoughts of these
endless nights of winter cold.
HOLLY DAY is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream. Her book publications include The Book Of, A Bright Patch of Sunlight, Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese. Contact
~~~~~
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT
by Shirley Securro
by Shirley Securro
The angels sang and also did say
"Do not be afraid for we bring great joy"
Christ the King came down as a boy
To change the WHOLE world for the better
For each man and woman DOWN to the letter
He brought with him love, joy, and peace
Nothing compares and will never cease
With what he did for us forevermore
Everything he had he did outpour
He died on a cross for you and for me
His suffering the people of old did see
His bravery slaughtered as a lamb
He was sent down by the great "I AM"
We feel SO small and shallow inside
Not measuring up because he died
For us great and small everywhere
He gave it all because of His care
We can only thank God for His love
For sending us this gift from above
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
~~~~~
ONE LOVELY, PLEASANT NIGHT
by James Piatt
Blessed and calm as a church’s hallowed cell,
The candle’s soft rays cast their holy spell, and
Warm my heart from the winter’s frosty chill:
Downy birds sing gaily nearby in a hidden rill,
My heart rejoices, and my fears they quell, as
Their singing voices in my soul softly dwell, and
In my mind, melodious echoes gently trill.
Her soft hand in mine I tenderly grasp, and
Holding my breath, I kiss her yielding lips, and
With pulse beating wildly, I hold her near, and
Give her a velvet box with a carved golden hasp,
Solemnly promising her mansions and grand trips,
Swearing her life will never be dull or austere.
JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. 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 poems inspired his style of poetry. His book of poetry, 'The Silent Pond' is forthcoming in October 2012 by Broken Publications. They will be publishing a second book, ‘Ancient Rhythms,’ in the winter of 2012. Unbound Content will publish a third, yet unnamed, poetry book, in 2013. He was the featured poet in Word Catalyst Magazine in 2009, and Contemporary American Voices in 2010. Long Story Short selected two of his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011 and 2012; Phati’tude Literary Magazine in their spring 2011 issue featured an interview with him. He has had over 235 poems published in over three-dozen magazines, journals, and anthologies during the past three years. Contact
~~~~~
THE COVER
by Roxanne David
The cold night breeze passes by.
You keep me warm as I wrap myself around you.
Shielding from the chilly hours of darkness
I long for you every night.
Never in my life, had I found something so magical.
So mysterious on how you work your ways.
No matter where I am, or where I go,
I still need you.
I love coming home and
Smelling a wide field of roses on my bed.
Your plaid stripes make everything even better.
Those vibrant colors take me to a magical rainbow world.
Nothing else ever made me feel this way.
You are the best thing that I ever encountered in my life.
I can’t explain how much I love the heat you have provided me.
You had been there for all those times.
Protected me from monsters, I feared.
Your softness lulls me to sleep after a long day.
Even the sound of my alarm cannot separate us apart.
You’re all I will ever need. My lovely blanket.
~~~~~
A WINTER'S EVE
by Patricia Crandall
Stars
band together
in a spangled parade
The mountain
stands isolated
Whispers
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
~~~~~
TODAY IS CHRISTMAS DAY
by Susan Marie Davniero
Winter white all aglow
Amidst morning snow
Rise up! Awake! Awake!
Open Heaven’s gate
A new day this morn
Blessed Jesus was born
The Savior will call
Glory shone for us all
Praising Jesus we pray
Today is Christmas Day
~~~~~
CHRISTMAS LOVE 2012
by Floriana Hall
Though ice and cold may come to play.
The Christ Child was born in a stable dank
Celebrated each year all over the world
In different ways.
There's so much joy on Christmas Day
To know that our Savior is here to stay.
Angels sang of His great glory
Shepherds were seen at the scene
Three kings from afar brought gifts.
A bright star in the sky shone down
To announce His arrival in Bethlehem town.
Mary and Joseph were happy, and thought to say
Hearken, awake, baby Jesus, Happy Birthday!
Now children sneak down the stairs very early
To see treats stuffed in their stockings
And are surprised or pretend to be.
There's so much to do on Christmas Day
Meditate, say thanks, attend church and pray.
Grown-ups prepare their holy day feast
With filling or meager meals
Depending on circumstances.
There's so many oohs and aahs Christmas Day
A decorated tree, a manger and holly bouquets.
Family and friends gather at the table
Thankful for those who are present
And those who are far away.
There's so much to say on Christmas Day
I love you, Merry Christmas, please stay!
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
december celebrity poet
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(1850 – 1919)
nationality: American
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Credit: Public Domain
|
CHRISTMAS FANCIES
We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago.
And etched on vacant places,
Are half forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know –
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near,
We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear,
That continent Elysian
Long vanished from our vision,
Youth’s lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear,
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth,
The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth,
And draws from youth’s recesses
Some memory it possesses,
And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth,
When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis
Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss.
Not all the seers and sages
With wisdom of the ages
Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays,
As passing years are proving for all of Time’s sad ways.
There lies a sting in pleasure,
And fame gives shallow measure,
And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days,
For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes,
And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes,
Let Love, the worlds beginning,
End fear and hate and sinning;
Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshipped in all climes
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
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