Saturday, August 4, 2012

August 2012 Poetry Page

“Art is the desire of a man to express himself, 
to record the reactions of his personality 
to the world he lives in." 

-Amy Lowell



by Ghada Chehade

…And I heard them whisper, I’ve lost myself….I am like a dreammmm… I can’t remember….one that lingers throughout the day…. and weighs heavy on the mind, but whose details are blurred and hazy…..

And if I could remember the dream, then I would remember: myself……

But…. perhaps you are not fully awake, I said…Perhaps you are in the world between worlds, where what seems real is actually fake, wherein we live while we are sleeping… and dream while we are awake…

What if life till now… has been but a waking dream-- a game of hide and seek! In which we hid ourselves….. from ourselves….so well….. that we forgot…. who we truly are?

And then history simply unfolded, like a collective amnesia….

Confused and disoriented, we went looking for ourselves: in science and technology; skyscrapers and stock markets; mass production and cable TV... cheeseburgers….shopping malls….and whisky…

It was progress with a capital “P”; but lost in the dreammmm… little did we realize… that we were progress-ing…. towards no-thing. We had sacrificed the human race….. for a…meaningless…endless… rat race….

But you see this rat race has no finish line, no medal, no grand prize… The rat race will never help us remember…it only further… closes…. our eyes

For what if this man-made civilization, is against… the natural….. vibration? What if the PATH isssss the destination…and we have chosen to waste it…on mindless…accumulation?

What if the question is not just WHY am I alive, but HOW do I choose to live?? What if the purpose is not to take, but has always been…to give?

To give yourself…and to share your gifts…with alllll of life… and allll that exists

Can you remember…

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 Shirley Securro

To learn the secret of victorious living
About loving, laughing, and forgiving
Is to trust, obey, and look to the Light
Then weeping many endure only for a night

Tomorrow's sunrise is just a blink away
With hope and joy to start each day
To be able to leap and skip over the hills
Promises that will carry us through life's ills

Today's pain and sorrow will fade away
To the new dawning of a better day
The valleys come and the mountains go
The Light shines through all aglow

No need to be in the valleys for long
He gave us our own very special song
Speak to the mountains so they will leave
If only we would just trust and believe

The Way, the Light, our only source
Steering our lives straight on course

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 


by Floriana Hall

Hydrangeas - summer flowers
Vivid blue or pale hue
Last until the frost is due.

Summer flowers - sweetly scented
Glory of my garden along with the rose
Perky while the four o-clocks doze.

Sweetly scented - attracting butterflies
Monarchs with decorated wings
Bees, wasps, and buggy things.

Attracting butterflies - flitting around
Sometimes flitting with me
Landing on the front porch settee.

Flitting around - summer's glory
Making this season beautiful fun
Sitting in shade or basking in sun.

Summer's glory - what good fortune
Peace and contentment all around
Making life sweet and compound.

What good fortune - pretty petals
Playfully portraying beauty of blue
Hydrangeas which make me think of you.

Pretty petals - But not as comforting as you
Sitting beside me each day -
Miss you, sweetheart, you flew away. 

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 Doreen James

Rolling waves breaking on the golden sand
White ribbons of water washing the shore
Glittering stones clutched in a tiny hand
Water bubbling and receding once more
Sea sounds rising and falling winds that roar
Rocks shining black from the oceans spray
Birds with wide wing spans on the thermals soar
Footprints fading as the sea rolls away
Running children listening to the band
Laughing smiling people so proud of their land

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 


by Sarah Terzo

Touching the smoothness,
Bright colors shout adventures.

SARAH TERZO is a poet and writer whose science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in publications such as Anotherealm and Cemetery Moon and whose poetry has appeared in several anthologies. She lives in New Jersey and enjoys reading from her collection of over 3,000 books, raising and breeding tropical fish, and volunteering for The Turn a Frown Around Foundation, a charity that visits nursing homes and hospitals. Contact


by Debbie Hilbish

Remember when you caught up with me,
thumb out,
on the road of despair?
Promises forgotten
had unkindly dumped me there.
You, just back on wobbly feet
from falling
on shattered schemes.
Broken family, broken life,
full of forgotten dreams.
"Where ya headed?" you asked me,
not turning
to acknowledge the fear
mirrored between two sets of eyes
wearing pain like bandoleers.
"It doesn’t really matter, southeast or west,"
said I.
Seems all destinations
end at the fork of
bad choice and aberrations.

Jumping in, we went uncharted;
into lands
that both stung and soothed,
not realizing all terrain led us
to reveal unkind self truths.
We’ve traveled together since then,
Gluing together
what sorrows had undone.
And reached the place,
scarred hearts healing,
where the mountains kiss the sun.

DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. She has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. Debbie also hosts an author’s fair for eight weeks (every January and February) at The Reader’s Oasis in Quartzsite, Arizona. Contact


by Tami Richards

As I reach the end of Chance Street,
Peer back at the potholes
And speed bumps marring the road,
I wonder what sort of drunken bureaucrat
Laid this: Chance Street

The grayish sun floats behind a clouded venue,
Lifting my hand to
Shield my eyes from its steel-cut rays,
The speed bumps change position.
A second traveler nears Luck Bend.
I motion for her to turn down it, but she comes on.

The potholes close in on themselves,
Smooth becomes the road,
Yellow speed bumps disappear into Chance Street,
Massive thistle-vined barricades behind me
Draw aside, exposing more road.
With a nod, she passes me and continues down
Chance Street.

TAMI RICHARDS lives in the beautiful Willamette Valley of Oregon where she endures many months of rain in order to bask in the splendor of the Valley's well-watered beauty. Contact Website


by Chrys Fey

I am a falling feather drifting in the wind,
I never know which way to go so I glide undecidedly,
always hoping to land where I am meant to be,
but I am just a falling feather.

I am a falling feather and I am blind.
Does that make me lucky?
For I can’t see the world that can be so devastating.
Death, poverty, hatred, and war have made the world ugly.
I am a falling feather and I am sightless.
Does that make me worthless?
For I can’t see the beauty that devastation is hiding.
Life, happiness, kindness, and love are all a work of art.
But I can’t see the good or bad because I am just a falling feather.

I am a falling feather losing height,
where did I come from? Where will I end up?
I am afraid of leaving the wind,
but I am just a falling feather.

I was a falling feather, but now I’m down.
Does that mean my life is done?
For I was just a feather from a creature that is long gone.
Lost, weightless, still, and lifeless is what I’ve become.
I was a falling feather, but now I’m grounded.
Does that mean I am a part of Earth’s artwork?
Perfect, beautiful, soft, and whimsical is all I wish to be.
But I am neither ugly nor pretty because I am just a fallen feather.

I am a fallen feather lying in a bed of flowers,
I never knew a little girl would come along and pick me up,
but in her hands is where I am meant to be,

because she doesn’t just see a fallen feather when she looks at me.

CHRYS FEY became inspired to write this poem one day when a Falling Feather swooped over the roof of her home and danced happily into her path. When she saw it drifting in the wind, she wondered "what if feathers were real?" thus, creating this poem. Chrys Fey lives in Florida and has a weekly blog that she hopes will inspire and aide all individuals to write a novel. She has completed four books and is currently working on her fifth. Contact 


by Sharmistha Sahoo

For the first time had I come across such weather,
Though always putting a brave front, I was at the end of my tether.
Winter when at its very best just couldn’t be better,

But alas it was something I couldn’t embrace,
As I had experienced, time and again, the frigid and freezing chills hitting my soul and face.

Yes I should have known from the beginning,
That this storm had to end, in my life’s inning.
But as they say it’s better to be late than never,
So I moved on to a place which could give me warmth forever.

It was bright, sunny and blistering,
Everything I wished for, after the endless shivering.
Now the winds which blew were also estival,
Each passing day was like a celebration or a festival.

All along, I slept listening to the summer chimes,
And woke up to the rays with love entwined.
Some days, I did feel the scorching heat and the sweat,
But it was temporary and gave me no reason to fret.

I acclimatized, as the days passed
The summer had all the moods encompassed,
Be it winter, rainy, autumn or spring unlike my past.
Now I feel complete in the varying nature so vast,
And truly want this spell forever to last.

SHARMISTHA SAHOO is an ex-associate consultant by profession, who completed her post graduation and is an amateur blogger. Contact 


by Michael Ceraolo

An act of violence followed
swiftly inevitably
by sparring from both parties;
each hoped to score enough points
at the opponent's expense
to win the bout's decision
First came the lame haymaker,
that one side's rhetoric led
directly to mass murder,
a punch easily parried
no matter who is throwing,
and then the counterpunches
just as easily fought off
in their irrelevancy
Actions already taken
that not taken could well have
prevented this tragedy,
actions as yet unrepealed,
actions as yet unrepented,
remain unremarked upon
No knockout here; decision:
both parties have lost this bout

MICHAEL CERAOLO is a fifty-one year old civil servant/poet who is interested in, and writes about the past, present, and future. Contact


by Arthur C. Ford, Sr.

People, People the headlines say:
“Before society put you away
Cast your votes, place your bets
Make sure you get your dose of sucsex.”
It’s two in one if you get all
One will only get you balled
The other keeps you on the screen
And smitten your life in magazines.
With beauty, brawn, oh yes!
You challenge neighboring
And third world nations.
You sing, you dance, and act to script
You “break a leg” and “break a hip”,
You pierce a lip, you sink a ship
Not really caring
What happens next
Sucsex! Sucsex!
You build a mansion, but forget a deck
You wear a clock around your neck,
Sculpting wood and your anatomy
You win a statue at the Academy.
Spondee, spandex, trochee you’re next
The stress, the strain
You change your name,
A spoon’s too small, rehab.’s your call
You smoke, you drink
Your agent thinks
What song’s the best?
Sucsex! Sucsex! Sucsex!
why do we call them”Stars”?
For they’re not out of reach!
And they can’t warm a beach!
So! why do we call them “Stars”?

ARTHUR C. FORD, SR. is a poet and lyricist who was born and bred in New Orleans, Louisiana. He earned a Bachelor of Science Degree from Southern University in New Orleans, studied creative writing and was a member of the Drama Society. He has visited 45 states in America and resided for two years in Brussels, Belgium (Europe). Recently he spent 30 days doing missionary work and travelling throughout the country of India. Mr. Ford currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where he continues to write, edit and publish poetry and prose. Contact Website


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

I stand in new grass
on a knoll
washed by winds
circling the planet.
I close my ears,
open my pores,
feel the gusts
scour me clean.
Wind carries away my trite tales.
Leaves me empty,
able to hear again.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with an interest in healing writing and the benefits of writing and reading work together. Widely published in poetry and nonfiction, she writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact


by Anna C. Romano

I jump from shock when I feel you touch me.
When your arm comes from behind and curves around my side.
I feel your warmth stronger than anyone's before, when you and I cuddle together.
I see your eyes, as blue as ice and steel, reassuring me of how you feel.
I feel your fingers absentmindedly caress my hand as you hold it gently.
I feel your hands respond to mine, when I feel this connection I swear I'm going to lose my mind.
My heart jumps when I feel yours thump.
You hold me close, your warmth surrounds me, I feel your safety, the softness of your clothes, and your scent fills my nose; this is where I want to be the most.
I feel the weight of your stare and I know why there's that change in the air.

ANNA C. ROMANO lives in Hammond, Indiana where she will be publishing her upcoming poetry book "STORIES FROM MY HEART," a 5,944 word collection of poems about romance, life and personal experiences. These poems have all been inspired by real life events. It is her hope that both current and next generation children and teens will find them to be inspirational. She also believes many adults seeking relaxation will appreciate the reminiscence her work inevitably prompts. These poems are intended to be uplifting. In a world where teenagers feel marginalized and as though they can't measure up to the standards with which they're flooded by our modern media, she believes that her poems will provide a contrasting vantage from which they can appreciate true beauty and see how relationships work in the real world. She has won a citywide essay competition sponsored by the Hammond Reads organization. Her poem "KISS," to which she has retained all copyrights, has been published in a compilation by the World Poetry Movement called "STARS IN OUR HEARTS." Another of her poems, "INK" was selected as a feature poem by the online organization Anna was invited by the In Print group as a guest reader at the author book fair held at Barnes and Nobles in Rockford, Illinois on September 10, 2011. Contact 


by Nick Lewis

On a street corner in August a
man with long fingernails
strums splintered
He sings
olive trees
wheat fields
and of Garcia Lorca’s
Changing Rose
the rose who died from
her own beauty
Each exhausted note
a petal falling

slow and gentle

onto the warm
asphalt and
into storm
out to
the Pacific

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 


by Wayne Scheer

What if I didn't start my day
Writing a poem?

What if I went whale watching instead?
Or ate magic mushrooms,
And danced on the furniture
Like a goofy Fred Astaire,
Tripping over his own feet?

What if instead of sitting in the silence
Of my office
Listening to my thoughts
Rattle around like dried seeds
In a rainstick
I turned on the radio
And sang along
With whatever came on,
Even if it was some babbling
Right-wing nut job?

What if I went outside
And climbed a tree
Or stripped naked
And hosed myself down
Right there in the front yard,
Waving whatever dangled
At neighbors on their way to work?

My wife would chase after me
With a butterfly net
Someone would call the cops
And I'd make the Evening News
Or a kid with a video camera
Would memorialize
The day I didn't start by writing a poem
By making me an Internet sensation
I'd be known as The Crazy Naked Guy
And my son would keep the grandkids
From clicking on YouTube
Which would make them social outcasts
Until they sneak a glance
On a friend's computer
At their grandfather's dangling genitals
And be so grossed out
They'd never again
Tell me knock-knock jokes.

So, I accept my lot in life,
And begin my day,
In my quiet room
Writing a poem
To keep our planet
From spinning out of control.

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 He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife. Contact 


AT 38
by Shonda Buchanan

i’ve decided
i will no longer
tell men who say
they love me that
i’ve kept a journal

since i was nine

like a wire
their curiosity
of what i wrote
who i wrote about before them
grows taunt, sprouts metal limbs
in our bed, and eventually
folds into a two-fisted fence of benevolence and desire

caging me in my own dreams
cutting off the oxygen to their
and yes, even the reason
they fell in love with me
in the first place

they wonder, why i still write
as if, once i have them

that i should be done with
writing things down

and like that, a million silver bees
lighting on that fence of their newfound misery
they fall

shaking their heads, latching the door
this is for her own good.

hasn’t she said all she has
to say
about love

SHONDA BUCHANAN, poet, creative nonfiction / fiction writer and an essayist, is the editor of "Voices From Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology." Working on a second collection of poetry, memoir and novel, she is an assistant professor in the Department of English at Hampton University. Shonda’s poem, "AT BUCKROE BEACH" was nominated by Long Story Short as the 2010 POEM OF THE YEAR. For more info, please visit Contact


by Joan Griffin

The camel, a ship of the desert
Is an ugly, ungainly beast
Uncomfortable to ride,
Foul of breath, prone to bite.
A beast of burden
Yet fleet of foot,
Nature’s joy

JOAN GRIFFIN is a retired health worker and lives in a small Northamptonshire village with her husband. Contact


hot enough for ya?
by Steve Croisant

someone stuck a butterscotch
on a high-noon bleach-blue sky
it sweals mad dogs and englishmen
and makes air conditioners cry

no mercy rays in whip-crack heat
even shadows vanish in retreat

a furnace paints with farm toil sweat
martyrs ice cream cones with no regret
every solid cool makes a sacrifice
and necks worship cubes of ice

at times like this when summer’s heat says high
it’s only cool when the heat waves goodbye

© Steve Croisant 2003 
August 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 two or three open mics in the Denver metro area. Contact 


by Joanna M. Weston

heads turn to each other
their voices soft as they remember
days they held in young hands
nights cradled
weddings danced
memories clean and bright
as their white hair

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 Contact


by Charlie Cole

In her dreams she swims easily with dolphins,
Neptune grooms his favorite son for her,
the moon envies her, and water

flows through her lungs like fresh mountain air.
But in her waking hours, her life is a raging surf,
rushing toward land, curling into itself

tumbling against the hard, impassive shore.
The day of the steep swells and high tides,
a force compels her; she leaps forward,

to conjoin dreams and reality with action,
and dives heavily into the Plum Island breakers.
In death her lungs fill with water like buckets,

And the moon is too busy to notice.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Twenty years ago, I published this poem in our college magazine, 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


gates swinging open
by Dan Flore

the sun is coated in a raindrop
and the perfection here is unsettling
I need to hear an electronic voice on my gps
before I believe I've actually arrived in eden

I can see the green leaves from the trunk
that made this wooden bench
my skin gets more and more like jewelry
the first instinct I have is to scrape it off
and take it to one of those cash for gold places

but then I remember
the only adornment or legal tender
I need now is the honeysuckle
and my mouth slowly begins to get reacquainted
with the sweetness it was meant for

my old life vanishes under the shadow of a flock of geese-
the last thing I will ever have to watch die

DAN FLORE’s poetry has appeared in various online and print
publications such as red lightbulbs magazine, Many Mountains Moving and Quantum poetry magazine. He has read his poetry at different locations in the Philadelphia area. Dan has also volunteered to teach poetry as a recovery tool for those suffering from mental illness. Earlier this year he published his first collection of poems called lapping water. Contact 


by Sandra H. Bounds

Eloquence heard.
After weeks of Summer’s strident heat,
a slow, steady rainfall
taps on tin roof, whispers to grass,
soaks parching crops, splatters on hot sidewalks,
and gurgles from gutters.
Pine trees in the thicket
raise thirsty limbs, a joyous rite,
response to poured out blessedness.

SANDRA H. BOUNDS has a Master of Arts in English and has taught in both high school and community college. An active member of the Mississippi Poetry Society, she was its 2005 Poet of the Year, and MPS published a chapbook of her poetry to honor that selection. She has won many awards in the annual contests sponsored by MPS, and she has been published in such journals as ART GULF COAST, THE LYRIC, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, SHARING, THE WELL-TEMPERED SONNET, and WESTWARD QUARTERLY. Contact 


by Homa Ghoreishi

I have an ocean of dreams
In which I bathe
Every day,

And from which
I catch a fish or two
Now and then;

I have a river of desires
Which runs and runs
Wild and free,
And crosses deserts of serenity
Until it rests in Eternity;

I have a forest of mysteries
In which I walk
From Morning to Night,
And through its trees
I shall see the Sun
When the Day is come;

I have mountains of pain and passion
With summits of joy
And valleys of sorrow
Which I climb and descend
Every day;

I have a garden of thoughts
In which I plant seeds and flowers,
In spring and summer
And in autumn and winter;

And I have a world of hope
Which I furnish,
Every day,

With an ocean deep
And a river wide;
And a forest dense;
And mountains high;
And a garden green.

HOMA GHOREISHI is an MA student in English literature from Iran. Homa is a mythical bird from ancient Iran which stands for prosperity and good fortune. She enjoys reading and writing as well as playing tennis. Contact 


by Roger Singer

Day yielded unwillingly to a shower
of gray sky
where stars faintly blink for attention.

We sat on a rock by the sea, its warmth
reminded us of a cloudless August day.
Receding emerald green waves
wash over sand and shells
releasing whispering sandpaper voices
into the salt air we breathe.

Our words merge with the aroma of
grilled vegetables, glowing charcoal and
fireplaces warming cool hands;
the touching of silverware signals
the call to tables.

We capture this place, friends shaking hands,
never to part, always near, bonded in summer…
that summer; always mine.

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 


by Floriana Hall

Looking for peace within
All our lives
Searching, searching for the ultimate satisfaction
Of standing still in time
Knowing ourselves and all the reasons
We do what we do and act like we act
Wasting some time thinking too much
Instead of enjoying the time we have been given
To be the best we can be -
Isn't it a waste of time worrying about
How we look to others instead of taking action
To be a better person whatever the reasons
Holding us back?
Like a butterfly unfolds, we have a new perspective
That was there all the time
And suddenly appears like a bolt of light
Shining in the darkness.
Frustrated by our own limited perceptions
Of what we could be, we struggle,
Years of wondering 'what if?'
Instead of doing the obvious -
Giving ourselves to a higher breakthrough
Knowing that what we have been seeking
Was there all the time.
A knowledge to understand
We can be a better person just by being calm
Taking each day as it comes and knowing
Peace is there for us when released,
And we love ourselves and others.
Letting go of the past,
Changes, choices, all a part of the process
Of living a good life.

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


august celebrity poet 

Amy Lowell 
(1874 – 1925) 

nationality: American

Amy Lowell – Credit: Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain)


Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

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Quoted for educational purposes only. 
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