Friday, May 4, 2012

May 2012 Poetry Page

"A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than simply to reveal to them
the infinite possibility of their own souls."

- Walt Whitman



by Charlotte Hamrick

I was never the girl who knew what she
wanted and expected nothing less. The
one who walked with a confident air, flipping 
her long silken hair over her shoulder, flashing 
a smile the brightness of a dentist’s fantasy.

I was never the girl who could speak with
ease about Nietzsche or China’s economy
or debate the social relevance of some
obscure ‘80’s Punk band. The one who only
wore white after Memorial Day, had the perfect
manicure and never a stray brow out of place.

I was the girl who loved the sparkle
of the stars in an inky night sky, beaconing
Morse code from the heart of the universe,
but I could never remember their names or
the constellations they lived in.

I was the girl who loved The Blues, the
earnest, heart-aching want that reached out
of the radio grabbing me by the throat
where the beat of my pulse thumped like a
wild thing in harmony with those who wrote
such tormented words with the blood of their loss.

I was the girl who loved the written word that
took me to places I could only imagine, 
exotic cultures and lush landscapes 
were the companions of my daydreamy world.

I was the girl who walked barefoot through the
woods with the red dust of Mississippi between
her toes and long silent days to contemplate How
Things Are and How Things Might Be.

I am the woman who changed How Things Were
and became who I wanted to be.

CHARLOTTE HAMRICK lives in New Orleans where she takes advantage of a fertile environment for writing. Her poetry has been published in various ezines including The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Dew on the Kudzu, Mad Swirl and Poets for Living Waters. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry in 2010. Contact Website 


by Jennifer Christiansen

she fluffs her pillow, 
chides the cat 
curled inconveniently 
between her legs, 
and wills herself to return to the dream. 

she carries her cardigan 
past sleeping children. 
The aroma of Brazilian brew 
lures her to read fiction from the public library 
while last night’s laundry rattles to completion.

JENNIFER CHRISTIANSEN is a High School Special Education teacher of 26 years who resides in Lake Champlain Valley. Her memoir "WORDS BEFORE DYING" was published in a previous issue of Long Story Short. "LABOR DAY" is a poem featured in the River Poets Journal. Contact 


by Patricia Crandall

Melodic soft voices 
drifting in harmony 
as dark suited boys 
and white organdy girls 
wear gentle expressions 
of spring

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


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

My boy and I— 
yes, he’s over forty— 
relish our morning emails. 
We discuss a wild range 
of unrelated issues, 
start our days with warmth and a smile. 

No, it wasn’t always like this 
but age and time and distance 
have given us plenty to talk about, 
let us skirt the damage 
I doubtless did, 
the hurt he caused. 

In our morning conversations 
we often find, with a distinct jolt, 
places we agree, people who make 
us groan or laugh, 
our shared blood. 

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has a longtime interest in 'healing writing' and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Her poems, stories and articles are widely published. Her chapbooks include “Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer,” “Voices on the Land,” and “End Cycle: Poems about Caregiving.” Contact 


by Rhea B. Riddle

A time of restlessness at the end of her day, slowly she breathes… 

A lazy spring breeze barely moves the leaf-laden tree, 
As it begs so hauntingly, "Come and play in me." 
How old must one's ghost child be to ignore the plea, 
To hide in re-breathed, man-made cool air, 
Just an old woman in her dim, sad lair. 

Dancing the unseen current fades as a pastel dream, 
Screaming laughter in the zephyr's sweet stream, 
The awakened girl abides "within," longing to be free, 
Escaping the prison of her window-chair, 
Re-born again with wind blown hair. 

So comely is her spirit, so beautifully gentle the day, 
She welcomes memories, "Come back I pray!" 
A ruffling aura faintly disturbs her rest and reverie, 
Peace ascends with blessings and care, 
Beauty re-found in the One so fair. 

"Sweet Jesus," she sings in the warm gusty twilight, 
Softly he answers, "I am the strength for your night." 
I am your yesterday, today, and the day that shall be, 
In your dreams, wait for me there, 
Breezes of heaven together we'll share. 

A time of rest at the end of her day, slowly she breaths…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previous published on June 14, 2011 at Christian Women Online 

RHEA B. RIDDLE is a wife, mother and grandmother and a lifelong storyteller, who recently began writing the poetry, stories and incidents that have occurred in her life experiences. She was born in Kentucky seventy-three years ago in a small city on the Ohio River during the epic flood of that mighty water way. With a rich heritage in memories from which to draw, she hopes to entertain and intrigue you, the reader, and draw you into another realm of "time re-wound" living. Contact Website


by Floriana Hall

Mother was born in the month of May
When Mother Earth sends fairies out to play
To touch hardened earth and soften it
A magic wand that sprinkles sweetness
Over land and sea 
While stars at night twinkle
A new beginning of many good things
A new flavor to life it brings
Everything straightens up
In the warmth of lasting sunshine
Marching to a drum of their own
Dancing to the music of spring
Resting on the laurels of hard work
Or just resting
Testing resilience
A magic time of the year
When beauty and time merge
And meet in thoughts of others
Somewhere in the atmosphere
What an imaginary scene
Everyone can agree
To disagree or not
A peaceful joy of hope for all
Mother, Mother
Hear the voice, recall the call
Memories ring out simple and clear
Thinking of you this time of year.

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 and 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 Floriana teaches poetry at under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website


by John Tzikas

Early morning crossfire warnings 
Burning down her covenants 
Buried in the dandelions 
Pollen in our eyes 

Steadying my binoculars, still I have more to give 
To win the horse race within the rat race 
But everything’s coming up roses 

Are these lovers’ games we play 
She tells me don’t go there, 
there’s more of you to give 
It’s easy to take the first shot 

Smells of shrapnel fill our noses 
Solve the riddle in this maze 
Everything’s coming up roses 
Everything’s coming up roses 

Steadying my hands 
Lighting the grenades 
Salvaging the edible weeds 
Dangling with her sympathies 

As her ministry window closes 
I’ve got to swim the crest to ride the wave 
But everything’s coming up roses 

Are these lovers’ games we play 
Don’t go there she says, 
you have more of yourself to give 
It’s hard to shoulder the first shot, 
give more of yourself 

Necessity feeds it to us in small humiliating doses 
It’s the coma within the amnesia 
But everything’s coming up roses 
Everything’s coming up roses

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


by Abigail Wyatt

My grandmother smoked, 
through the bright afternoons 
and far into the stillness after midnight. 
Her ashtray filled with half-crushed butts 
and the fine white dust of her years. 
She seldom cried but when she did 
her bright, blue eyes would grow misty. 
It frightened me to fall into their depths 
and to see how she wrestled with her fear. 

Those tears were my terror: I could scarcely bear 
how the loneliness and sadness leaked out of her. 
Beneath my feet my rock gave way 
and the sweet, green earth cracked and bled. 
I saw less her courage than her weakness then; 
but, older now, my vision grows clearer. 
I have learned from her life’s suffering 
but, also, how to survive. 

Still, my grandmother smoked, 
more than two packs a day. 
(These days, they wouldn’t let it happen.) 
I was her sun, her moon and her stars 
and she kept me under her roof. 

So close we were I could hear her heart beat 
while her cigarette dwindled in the ashtray. 
Now, in the sudden, hot stink of tobacco, 
I find the fierce, fatal flame of her love.

ABIGAIL WYATT lives in Redruth in the Duchy of Cornwall where she writes and performs her poetry and short fiction and tries to stay out of trouble. Over the past four years, her work has been published in more than fifty magazines and ezines. Her poetry collection, 'Moths in a Jar,' is available from Palores Press and 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories,' an anthology of her short fiction, is due to be published by One Million Stories in the spring of 2012. Contact


by Kirby Light

If you look right, 
you can find the beauty.

If you look right. 

If you turn your head 
at the right moment 
and catch the sun 
coming through clouds. 
If you stare at a fire 
during a camping trip 
and are the only one awake to see it, 
where stars shine 
like untouched eyes, 
if you can see that sisters are different, 
where one is calmer 
and quieter than the other, 
yet you see that they laugh the same, 
then you got something there, 
in you, 
that most others don’t have. 

And that’s where the beauty really lays, the magic, the resonance. 

Now that’s beauty. 
That thing in you that causes you to see, 
really see. 
It’s something special. 
It’s easy to do, 
all you need 
is a bit of mind 
and a bit of soul 
and enough luck to turn 
and look at the right moment.

KIRBY LIGHT has been telling stories his whole life, but has only been writing for the last decade. He has had short stories published in the 2007, 2008, and 2010 issues of the art and literary magazine Phoenix. He has also had poems published in Down in the Dirt Magazine and two recently accepted by the poetry magazine Advocate. He also worked for a short time on a newspaper called the Mid-county Memo. He lives just outside Portland, Oregon. Contact


by David Fraser

This year a brave chickadee 
has stolen into the swallow’s hut 
beneath the eaves.

The former tenants swoop and dive. 
They are in shock 
But still the chickadee is not deterred. 
She holds on and makes her nest.

DAVID FRASER lives on Vancouver Island. He is editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry and Walk Myself Home. He has published four collections of poetry, Going to the Well (2004), Running Down the Wind (2007), No Way Easy (2010), and Caught in My Throat (2011). He is the artistic director for Nanaimo’s spoken-word series, WordStorm. Contact Website


by Bill Roberts

          I give thanks,
know how lucky I am --
          we are -- to have
them for the finding,
          borrowing, reading
then returning for others
          equally as lucky.

I haven't succumbed to an i-
         Pad yet but have been
introduced to its miracles.
         Can my fingers work
so deftly, my touch be so light?

         I'm not ready to find
out just yet: my library card
         expires when I do.

BILL ROBERTS writes at least one poem a day in fifteen minutes, coaches others on how to do it too, then prepare poems to go to market. He has been nominated both for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and currently does readings with friends on "Strong Voices, Strong Women: A Celebration of Women Poets." He, a wife of 53 years and two restless dogs live quietly in Broomfield, Colorado. Contact Website


you stole may from me
by Linda Crate

birds titter their excitement that
may is here, but I am not thrilled —
spring cleaning is to be done and 
your memories haunt me to the 
bone; in may your memories cling 
to me in thick sheets of paper-mache 
I cannot wash the pomegranate stain 
of your bitter words off my mind; 
this damned spot is forever marring 
my palm with your memory, I lift 
my head to the somber grey clouds 
pouring rain upon my head, they 
remind me of your charcoal heart; 
I hope one day may can be good 
to me again, that one day all 
thoughts of you will be erased from 
me like a file on a computer hard drive — 
I hope one day I can stand to taste the 
rain again, that one day I’ll dance in 
mud puddles like I used to, and one 
day I’ll love magnolias pink again.

LINDA CRATE is a twenty-five year old Pennsylvanian native. To date her poetry has been published in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, and Bigger Stones. When not writing she is likely reading, spending time with friends or family, working, swimming, or spending time in nature. Contact 


by Charlie Cole

Moonlight in the pantry
brighter than your china,

House widow, rocking solemnly, 
where are your children now? 

How do we define you, mother, 
when all of your little ones are gone? 

We have a name for a husband who loses a wife 
and a name for a wife who loses a husband. 

But what do we call a mother who loses her child? 
Lost, simply lost.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Eighteen years ago (spring 1993) I published this in our college magazine, The Blue Crow, at the University of Maine, Farmington.

CHARLIE COLE loved his undergraduate years at a small, rural Maine college. He has been previously published in Long Story Short, The Blue Crow, The Sandy River Review and The Café Review. He lives with his family in Maine on land once owned by his great-great grandfather. Contact 


by Pat St. Pierre

Looking in the mirror 

I see my mother beside me.
Her countenance is clear, 
But her blue green eyes hold secrets. 
Has a fortuneteller brought her here? 
Or is it her troubled spirit? 
She’s trying to tell me - 
Doors should stay open, 
Rainbows give hope, 
Depression leads to misery. 
She wants me to see goodness 
In the world, see happiness around me, 
Feel contentment in love. 
Her lips say listen, you must. 
If you don’t, then you’ll be 
With me in the mirror. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published at A Day's Encounter on March 21, 2012

PAT ST. PIERRE has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction found in a variety of places. Some of her poems have been published by Boston Literary Magazine, The Shine, The Camel Saloon, Flutter Poetry, Three Line Poetry, and Pond Ripples. Her second poetry book "THEATER OF LIFE" was published by Finishing Line Press and is available on Her book was nominated for the 2010 New England Pen/LL Winship award. Contact 


by Amelia Abdullah

Sometimes we give up
Always worry and never keep our chin up
Pessimistic in their thoughts and forever living in fear 
Scared to dream, anxious about what might appear 
Imaginations run wild and free

People run to be wild and free 
What happens when you land in a dream? 
Will you smile or will you scream? 
Would you regret the past? 
Or would you wish the future moved fast? 
Reality kicks in and the world stops 
Minds spinning trying to analyze…will you pop? 
Burst into flames and let fear and anger take over? 
Be stubborn and refuse to understand reason or calmly think things over? 
Would you pray for relief or peace? 
Ask for help or beg to be released? 
What is holding you back? 
Is it you or something that you lack? 
If you had the world, what would make you hesitate? 
Do you think without you that Heaven and Hell are at stake? 
Questions randomly sprint and attack your mind 
Every action you ever have taken whether rough or kind 
Mingles and refuses to let go 
Time passes but how would you know? 
Stuck in a zone of lifeless nothings 
No reaction or simple gestures of something 
Love and hate have left to find their home
As you sit and remain alone 
Critically think about your actions 
For they cause you to cut off of interactions 
Life is short and full of life 
Live till the ends make you soar like a kite 
Be free and do what is necessary to be yourself 
Don’t judge or refuse to experience yourself 
The world is a huge playground 
Live it up. Smile and never frown 

No tears or reason to doubt 
Be you. Otherwise, don’t come out.

AMELIA ABDULLAH is a current college student studying biology and Spanish. She enjoys writing about how she feels. It helps release stress, fear, anxiety, joy, anger, etc. that she may be feeling. Contact


by Ghada Chehade

Dark and glistening from the olive oil my mama used to bathe… me… in… at…night: I AM A 

Orientalized through colonial eyes: I AM A THIRD WORLD WOMAN

Understood out of context, like a tale from an ignorant miiiind: I AM A THIRD WORLD WOMAN

You invade my land in the name of my liberation, when I know that all you want to bring… are my children’s…enslavement and in-dig-nation 

You may think me oppressed, but take a look at your precious west. 
My sisters’ worth and all their work are dismissed every hour. And for the record, tell me white man, how many women do you have in power? 

I have been mysticized and exoticized…criticized…and even demonized…See, you can’t decide… … Am I part of your harem dreammmm…or is my movement too extreeeme…. 

For 500 years of incursion and oppression has taught me some brand new moves, and my movements speak like words that need no translation… 

I roll them from my lips down to my wide breading hips: LIBERATION, LIBERATION, FOR THE EMERGING THIRD WORLD NATION 

So colonizer, while you may want to save me, so that you may OWN ME, I tell you instead you should FEAR ME, because inside of me… 
there is an A-R-M-Y 

And we are dark and glistening, and PROUD to be born 
And we chant: 


WE are THIRD WORLD women!

GHADA CHEHADE is a poet, independent political and social analyst, activist and PhD candidate living in Montreal. She has long had a passion for writing and expresses her views on the state of the world analytically—through articles and commentaries—and artistically—through poetry. Contact Website


by James Piatt

He sat with his arms around his love and said:

“Oh to be with you longer on this day
Listening to singing Pine trees that softly
Echo songs in my wandering mind, and
Hear the tender songs of small gaudy birds:
To be with you forever in this special
Place where soft sunlight rays caresses
Your face, the spring’s gentle breeze
Combs your gleaming auburn hair,
To hold you tightly and longer during
This special day’s soft yellow glow,
Listening to your dreams and plans and
Grasping your pale trembling hand, while
Kissing the lines of worry on your brow:
To be alone with only you, and sit
Quietly in a calm verdant groove, and
Watch silent yellow butterflies flit
Under giant Sycamore trees, and
Not hear the din of bullets, and bombs:
To hold you forever as the sea holds
The green current in its briny hands,
To be with you for just one more precious
Hour before I have to pack my
Duffle bag, and with my rifle slung
Over my shoulder, get on that lonely
Transport plane, and depart again back
To the horrors of the bloody war.”

JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. He is a retired professor. Two of his relatives, John James Piatt and Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote their poetry in the mid eighteen hundreds. Their poetry has inspired his poems. James was the featured poet in Word Catalyst Magazine in 2009, and Contemporary American Voices in 2010. Long Story Short selected one of his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011; Phati’tude Literary Magazine in their spring 2011 issue featured an interview with him. He has had over 200+ poems, and twenty-four short stories published in over five dozen magazines during the past two years. His début book of poetry is forthcoming this year. Contact 


by Edward Hujsak
                          It's excusable, isn't it
                          to feel diminished
                          on learning somewhere

                                                    out there

                          three hundred million
                          light years distant,
                          a galaxy exists like ours. 

                                                    I wonder

                          if the inhabitants
                          of an Earth like ours
                          have solved their problems,

                                                    if people

                          do love one another,

                                                    live peacefully.
                               Dedicated to my dear friend, Jayne Ferrer,
                               in memory of a pleasant visit at my home 
                               in La Jolla, California, June 12, 2011.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Edward Hujsak had the pleasure of being interviewed by Russell Bittner in this month's POET'S CORNER.

EDWARD HUJSAK is a career rocket scientist, writer, poet, sculptor, artist, and builder of fine furniture and musical instruments. Educated as a chemical engineer, his professional career was involved mainly in the development of the Atlas ICBM and the Atlas and Centaur space launch rockets. He was propulsion engineer on John Glenn’s famous orbital flight. He is author of seven books, holds more than a dozen patents and frequently writes articles and commentary for various publications. He lives in La Jolla, California. Contact


by Lillian Melendez

The child scattered the stones she found, 

Her rain jacket drenched with water, 

Mother catches with the camera so fast, 

One click of the button before the 

       Little girl fell on the grass, 

Laughter of how one grows and changed since the 


She rolls the stones in two hands, 

Which one is dark blue? 

Which one is dark gray? 

Which one is 


She feels the stones in two hands, 

Which one is broken? 

Which one is small? 

Which one is big? 

Which one is 


For everything around this little child will grow 

and grow,

She will grow, 

But one stone will never be like the other, 

One stone will stay unchangeable, 

Her friend’s birthday party was cancelled, 

But that will come again, 

The invitation card is damp, 

One day, 

The young woman found her stones in her 

daughter’s jacket,

That used to be hers.

LILLIAN MELENDEZ graduated from Trinity University, Washington, D.C., and obtained a B.A. degree in English with a minor in Psychology. Writing poetry and fiction stories have been her passion since she was very young. Although Lillian has been writing poetry since she was a teenager, she gained further knowledge of learning the different techniques of poetry by taking an elective course called "The Art of Poetry." Contact 


by Mary Ellen Shaughan

Mid-morning Saturday, I'd already 
chosen my zucchini, fondled the melons 
and was making my way from deli to seafood 
when they proceeded down the aisle to my left. 

A young woman, auburn hair piled high, 
her slim body ensconced in shimmering satin, 
glided between shelves stacked with tuna on one side, 
and packaged pasta entrées on the other. 

Her right hand held the crook'd arm 
of a young man, equally grand in military green 
who marched beside her, directed no doubt 
by the motions of her floral-wreathed wrist. 

As they passed by, frazzled mothers halted mid-stride, 
grocery lists fluttered to the floor, 
carriages rattled to a stop, 
and words ran off into silence. 

Workers back in deli remained oblivious 
of the events taking place down near dairy 
and continued their usual banter: 
"Number 27, number 27? 28?" 

But in Aisle 4, the princess in her open-toed sandals 
conducted a courtly review of this week's sales, 
leaving in her wake ordinary shoppers, 
all waiting for the music to begin.

MARY ELLEN SHAUGHAN calls herself an “accidental poet,” since her goal was to write exquisite short stories. Her poetry has been published in Mid-America Poetry Review, Timber Creek Review, Words of Wisdom Magazine, Peregrine: The Journal of Amherst Writers & Artists, Foliate Oak, Daily Palette/Iowa Writes, and Silkworm. She is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. Contact 


by Jennifer Christiansen

Ida shuffles to the rhubarb patch 
where leaves 
wide as elephant ears 
ride the breeze 
with a lightness of peridot. 
She snaps pink stalks 
from poison leaves 
to harvest a bundle for pie, 
then pitches them 
one by one 
over the pastel-petuniaed hill, 
that garter belt clasps 
dimple her thighs 
as crinkly as cotton sheets. 
Blue-eyed Ida, 
hair white as flour, sees 
how each splice of leaf from stem 
yields a curl of ribbon 
reminiscent of May Day baskets 
left by little ones at her door.

JENNIFER CHRISTIANSEN is a High School Special Education teacher of 26 years who resides in Lake Champlain Valley. Her memoir "WORDS BEFORE DYING" was published in a previous issue of Long Story Short. "LABOR DAY" is a poem featured in the River Poets Journal. Contact 


by Joseph Hart

The doldrums lift. The tears unshed
Dry. I feel complete instead
Anytime - day or night -
Rather darkness than in light -
I'm in Denny's - and relaxed,
Peaceful, happy and untaxed.
I know the people, they know me -
At least to greet them pleasantly -
A few are special and we talk
A couple minutes. And the chalk
In the garden of my fate
Is fructified. And death must wait.

JOSEPH HART became aware of poetry when he read "The Highwayman." His favorite poets are John Keats, Rupert Brooke Philip Larkin (when he can understand him), and Sappho (what little there is). His poems have been published in Light, Obsessed With Pipework, The Eclectic Muse, Audience Magazine, The Road Not Taken and others. Contact 


by Abigail Wyatt

Not to skimp on health checks and always go to smear tests and screenings: 
to be alive is a precious gift and worth a little pain along the way; 
not to let go of the innocent things but to hear how the birds sing in the garden; 
not to spread gossip, no matter how sweet, nor to care over much what gossips say; 
not to give up on the people you love because life is stuffed full of surprises; 
how to knit and stitch and sew because mending is also a skill; 
that making things can bring you peace and that peace, like life, is most precious; 
that a child will wrench and break your heart in a way that a lover never will. 
how to make a casserole that slow cooks from scratch while you’re working; 
how to keep your temper when you’re being pushed too far; 
the terrible power that resides in words and how to wield it gently and with wisdom; 
how to clean and dress a wound, how to honour a scar; 
that there is nothing you can do that will make a person love you: 
bite your lip and lift your chin and learn to walk away; 
that bitterness and anger pass unless you choose to keep them; 
that everything changes, nothing lasts, and plans will go astray. 
But, most of all, to live your life with honesty and purpose: 
to know the promptings of your heart and do what you must do. 
It may be there are nobler goals and worthier achievements, 
but the lack of them will pain you less than will the loss of you.

ABIGAIL WYATT lives in Redruth in the Duchy of Cornwall where she writes and performs her poetry and short fiction and tries to stay out of trouble. Over the past four years, her work has been published in more than fifty magazines and ezines. Her poetry collection, 'Moths in a Jar,' is available from Palores Press and 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories,' an anthology of her short fiction, is due to be published by One Million Stories in the spring of 2012. Contact


by Debbie Hilbish

Oh you flowering beauty
oh seductive thing 
kissed by a morning glory 
in the early spring 
til your white skin 
held a blush of pink 
that gave you just 
that image 
of sweet innocence and beauty 
that your actions soon diminish. 
First tainting just the edges 
as you sweetly tease and cling; 
with your death’s grip vine 
you smother everything. 
Those now noticing 
that delicate bloom 
hold no admiration 
just poison for a noxious vine 
their gardening 

DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. Her poems “Sea of Emotions” have appeared in Poetry In Motion (1994) and “Decay” in Sound of Poetry (2004). Her poems have appeared in the poetry book FADING SHADOWS (“Cynical Side” and “Tiny Stitches,” 2009), and in two chapbooks, MAGNOLIA MOON (“Through My Eyes,” 2006) and COUNTING SPARROWS (“Bent,” 2006). Debbie also has two of her own works published BITS AND PIECES (2006) and LIFEDREAM COLLISIONS (2010), both of which include her artwork and photography. 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 


by Tamara Enyart

Dawn’s first rays light upon the Hemlock illuminating her in rays of soft gold like the kiss of a lover. She stretches to meet him, his warmth unabated. She is adorned in stature and silent grace. The breeze embraces her and they sway, sway in a waltz, she oblivious of her many suitors, the robin, tree frog and owl. She drinks softly, earth’s fragrance, dew on her branches, glistening, iridescent pearls. A sentinel and sanctuary, handsome and proud.

TAMARA ENYART can recall her love for writing taking form as soon as she was able to pen words to paper. Marathon letters and lengthy journal entries kept her need to write satiated until her grandmother lovingly encouraged her to take her writing to the next level. Writing, as does reading, opens a world in which she can immerse herself and flee from the trials or disappointments of life. She loves learning and would relish the opportunity to earn a degree as a means to better her craft, a small gift to herself. Tamara lives in Washington by herself. She has three beautiful children and four fun, loving, spirited grandchildren who hung the moon. Contact 


(In memory of My Mother, Helen Fischetti)
by Susan Marie Davniero 

Dreams of a Mother’s past
A life that did not last 
Your death took you away 
I had something to say 

Revisit another time 
When Mother’s love was mine 
Only to be found 
Homeward bound 

Yet in the nights’ air 
In my dreams you are there 
The love I thought burned 
Tonight has returned 

Feelings gone from sight 
Seen in darkness of the night 
A guiding light beams 
Mother into my dreams 

And I can have my say 
To wish you a Happy Mother’s Day!

MOTHER AND CHILD, Hand Drawing by 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 


may celebrity poet

Walt Whitman

(1819 – 1892)

nationality: american

Walt Whitman – Credit: Public Domain


These I singing in spring collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there,
pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and
partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I
think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a
great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,
Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in
Florida as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again
never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this
calamus-root shall,
Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,
And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable
of loving.

Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.