“For last year's words belong
to last year's language
And new year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning."
- T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
The editors of Long Story Short are proud to announce that "UNANSWERED QUESTION" by Joseph Wade has been selected the LSS Poem Of The Year. Congratulations, Joseph!
POEM OF THE YEAR
They asked why,
as if I knew why I turned left instead of right,
went to the hill instead of the sandy shore
where waves beat drums
and wind sung into bottles people emptied at a party.
On the hill, dead woods stood
wrapped in vines of fog
that circled it like an old man’s white hair,
leaving the top bald,
wet trunks exposed,
glistening in magic-hour sun,
everything ethereal,
ready to wisp with wind
cracking rotted trees,
blowing dried leaves to be carried,
crushed far from home.
From the top, I saw an ocean-soul wave,
one curl across the green roll of its lips
to share happiness, send the world spinning on its axis,
never expecting the crash, the splash, the water cracking,
droplets held together in such a powerful sheet
that each time it is expected—o
this time, I’ll not break upon the rocks—
and so the souls march into destruction eternally,
never an answer, just the curl of a smile—a crash, boom, shhh.
In the dead wood,
lead by magic hour’s gentle hand to nothing land
just to miss the party and watch the forest crash,
groan like a dog dying as the fog rose in wisps like spirits
silvered as edges of clouds under moonshine,
ring of mercurial air mixing with sunlight wine in my chalice eyes
pressed to the lips of my soul—drank deep—hangover
morning come—I lay stretched naked, twisted with time-
turned branches and trunks crisscrossed among the damned of the hill
when the question came with sunny fingers and windy breath, “Why?”
And, still, I have no answer, nor the waves that keep crashing.
JOSEPH WADE is an eight year veteran of the military. He currently attends Brooklyn College for Creative Writing where he hosts a literature radio show which can be heard live on Friday at 8:00pm at www.mywbcr.com. He has been published in multiple places including Grey Sparrow Press, Gloom Cupboard and Blue Lake Review. Poems are forthcoming in Wilderness House Review. He has also been awarded the Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing, the Rosen Fellowship and 2011 POEM OF THE YEAR at Long Story Short. To contact Joseph about his poetry or radio show, go to www.josephwade.com. Contact
____________________________________________
locked away
in her own mind
sitting silently
the barstool like a prop
perched
trying not to be analytical
watching encounters
comings and goings
couples around her
conjoined by tequila
in pre sunrise moments
shooting jello
like whisky that sours
swapping old stories
and old cars
with a grain of salt
shaken not stirred
in the misty waters
of a tearstained page
silently she notes
the lyric of a poem
the memory
of a slow dance
on saw dusted floors
with two step promenades
clandestine embraces
in the dimly lit corners
hung like a ballad
on a slow long note
that echoes in the night
humming to the tune
of a long forgotten song
that silenced years ago
in the wake of a muse
the death of a sonnet
perched on the barstool
trying not to be analytical
watching each move
placed with precision
like the words of a haiku
by a forgotten poet
drinking a glass of regret
in the closing hours
of a smoke filled room
jotting down
each pass
each line
each flirt
trying not to be analytical
in the lyric of a poem
bj smith has been writing since the age of ten. She does her writing under the pen name bj smith aka shallimarRose. She was born in the Bronx but was raised in the deserts of Southern California. She is a married mother of five and grandmother of thirteen. Contact
_____________________________
In utter stillness misty gray,
the infant day
waits as dew drips
and new sun slips
into the sky above Earth’s rim,
a rosy gem
with warmth and light
that chases Night
till its lonely moment has passed.
Joy comes at last,
heals aching hearts
as Night departs.
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
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
After the break of day,
After stormy gales,
Among fallow leas
White with winter’s breath,
Hidden in cold dells,
Between brown hills,
The last snow flowers
Blowing in icy winds,
Wafted their lovely scent:
Ripples in swift
Flowing brooks,
Searching, gurgling,
Dashing over
Granite rocks,
Gaily laugh at the
Season’s yearning breath,
Becoming a liquid
Procession of the
Water of life.
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
UNANSWERED QUESTION
by Joseph Wade
They asked why,
as if I knew why I turned left instead of right,
went to the hill instead of the sandy shore
where waves beat drums
and wind sung into bottles people emptied at a party.
On the hill, dead woods stood
wrapped in vines of fog
that circled it like an old man’s white hair,
leaving the top bald,
wet trunks exposed,
glistening in magic-hour sun,
everything ethereal,
ready to wisp with wind
cracking rotted trees,
blowing dried leaves to be carried,
crushed far from home.
From the top, I saw an ocean-soul wave,
one curl across the green roll of its lips
to share happiness, send the world spinning on its axis,
never expecting the crash, the splash, the water cracking,
droplets held together in such a powerful sheet
that each time it is expected—o
this time, I’ll not break upon the rocks—
and so the souls march into destruction eternally,
never an answer, just the curl of a smile—a crash, boom, shhh.
In the dead wood,
lead by magic hour’s gentle hand to nothing land
just to miss the party and watch the forest crash,
groan like a dog dying as the fog rose in wisps like spirits
silvered as edges of clouds under moonshine,
ring of mercurial air mixing with sunlight wine in my chalice eyes
pressed to the lips of my soul—drank deep—hangover
morning come—I lay stretched naked, twisted with time-
turned branches and trunks crisscrossed among the damned of the hill
when the question came with sunny fingers and windy breath, “Why?”
And, still, I have no answer, nor the waves that keep crashing.
JOSEPH WADE is an eight year veteran of the military. He currently attends Brooklyn College for Creative Writing where he hosts a literature radio show which can be heard live on Friday at 8:00pm at www.mywbcr.com. He has been published in multiple places including Grey Sparrow Press, Gloom Cupboard and Blue Lake Review. Poems are forthcoming in Wilderness House Review. He has also been awarded the Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing, the Rosen Fellowship and 2011 POEM OF THE YEAR at Long Story Short. To contact Joseph about his poetry or radio show, go to www.josephwade.com. Contact
Congratulations to Joseph who will receive a $25 prize in honor of former Poetry Editor, Sue Scott, and congratulations to all of the “Poets of the Month” for your fine work. We look forward to reading your poems in the New Year!
POEM OF THE MONTH
LYRIC
by bj smith
locked away
in her own mind
sitting silently
the barstool like a prop
perched
trying not to be analytical
watching encounters
comings and goings
couples around her
conjoined by tequila
in pre sunrise moments
shooting jello
like whisky that sours
swapping old stories
and old cars
with a grain of salt
shaken not stirred
in the misty waters
of a tearstained page
silently she notes
the lyric of a poem
the memory
of a slow dance
on saw dusted floors
with two step promenades
clandestine embraces
in the dimly lit corners
hung like a ballad
on a slow long note
that echoes in the night
humming to the tune
of a long forgotten song
that silenced years ago
in the wake of a muse
the death of a sonnet
perched on the barstool
trying not to be analytical
watching each move
placed with precision
like the words of a haiku
by a forgotten poet
drinking a glass of regret
in the closing hours
of a smoke filled room
jotting down
each pass
each line
each flirt
trying not to be analytical
in the lyric of a poem
SUNRISE
by Sandra H. Bounds
the infant day
waits as dew drips
and new sun slips
into the sky above Earth’s rim,
a rosy gem
with warmth and light
that chases Night
till its lonely moment has passed.
Joy comes at last,
heals aching hearts
as Night departs.
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
~~~~~
FROZEN JANUARY
by Patricia Crandall
Bagpiping
through the forest
winds tear at leaves
clinging to branches
whorling
to crystalized ground
~~~~~
VISAGE BEATHA
by James Piatt
After stormy gales,
Among fallow leas
White with winter’s breath,
Hidden in cold dells,
Between brown hills,
The last snow flowers
Blowing in icy winds,
Wafted their lovely scent:
Ripples in swift
Flowing brooks,
Searching, gurgling,
Dashing over
Granite rocks,
Gaily laugh at the
Season’s yearning breath,
Becoming a liquid
Procession of the
Water of life.
~~~~~
BLESS THIS CHURCH
by Susan Marie Davniero
House of God’s kingdom
All the faithful welcome
Where the flock gathers
To pray and rejoice together
In this place apart
God is in our heart
Body and soul, too
Behold Christ is in you
Clergy’s sermon preaches
As Jesus devout teachers
Spiritual testaments
Divine sacraments
The rites of passages
Through all the holy stages
Of our religious belief
Seeking redemption relief
Blessed Holy Trinity
Await Heaven’s destiny
Thy will is done
God bless everyone
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
~~~~~
GOURMET DELIVERY
over evening’s juniper wood fire
Simmering in stream cooled
crock-butter;
topped with grated white cheese,
chopped pinion nuts
and wild sage—
large orange-fleshed mushrooms,
each, a hand-span across.
Collected in the canyon oak wood,
an afternoon’s hike
over the high rocky pass
they journeyed in a rucksack
—filled with snow collected
from crevices along the way—
with a bottle of California zin’
and a small shard
of that firm, tangy cheese.
It is good, having a friend
with a hearty,
adventurous appetite
and sturdy legs.
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
~~~~~
BABIES MAKE SENSE
by Floriana Hall
Some newborn babies sleep a lot
And are calm and turn into a sweet tot
Some are cranky, fuss and cry
No one can tell the reason why.
Babies whose age is one year
Are daring, walk or just sit there
Some climb all over the place
Smiling, they give parents a race.
Some babies the age of two
Actually perceive the mystery of life
They seem to know when something is wrong
Or a person is filled with strife.
Seeing someone with tubes attached
Or pricking a finger for blood match
Can make them so frightened of others
And they clutch on to their mothers.
A person sitting in a wheelchair
Even if it is someone who cares
Is a worry for an aware child
Who perceives mild or wild.
Some youngsters who turn three
Live a life of fantasy
One day a dancer, one day a mermaid
Whose swimming pool is her sea.
Her baby brother is sometimes a fish
Or Sebastian the crab, make a wish
It’s magic that changes him back to her brother
Transforms her into a little girl, none other.
If we could but understand
The way that this is planned
Growing up would show the difference
Parents would know the reference.
Isn’t it amazing that personalities are apparent
From the moment of birth
Into grownups who are worthwhile,
Who are different or who smile.
~~~~~
WHERE IS THAT FAIRY GODMOTHER?
by Debbie Hilbish
the sash has been drawn,
seems I’ve been waiting since way before
long
to talk to that Fairy Godmother.
I only want a bit of witchery
to help me over all of the glitcheries
that seem to encompass life’s
tiny miseries.
Nothing major
Oh heavens no
I don’t want rain instead of snow
(Mother Nature takes care of that).
All of the classics
boast of her skills,
caring, charisma
and one magic pill making ‘happily ever after.’
I think if that woman doesn’t show soon,
let’s say a week from tomorrow,
no later than noon;
I’ll have to perform
my own witchery
which, I’m thinking
will just have to be
lots of unabashed laughing.
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
YOUNG AND RESISTING
(Pre-Exile-Vietnam War)
(Pre-Exile-Vietnam War)
Eyes of anguish, heart of pain,
my homeland I despair.
My dreams I see before my eyes
a cabin in Northern lands;
snow bounded passages with mounting drifts
where lonely hearts meet, exiled,
sequestered, gathered.
I twist my shapes, confused, alone;
isolation is the mode of life,
no paths to plow but my own.
My eyes see universalities of hidden truths,
here lodge the changeless values.
Fringe, frigid, grief within the breeze
left to reckon with despondencies
of winters gone by;
mysteriously riddle,
drain brain-tease
with patriotism yet
reclusive calm,
I'm stashed away.
This wilderness avant-garde,
here now, alone, breathing-
I'm now a Canadian in this Northern land.
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
THE CONCEPT OF TIME
by Kathie Turner
Is it sixty seconds that make a minute,
or sixty minutes contained in an hour?
Could it be twenty-four hours that craft a day,
or seven days bound in a week?
Why do four weeks construct a month,
while twelve months exist in a year?
How does ten years constitute a decade,
yet ten decades are poised in a century?
Is time a span of numbers dangling in our galaxy,
or can we save Time in a Bottle?
What is the concept of time?
~~~~~
NAMED AND CLAIMED
by Bobbie Shirley
Winter trip cold and frozen.
We found a lonely restaurant tucked away
in the Rocky Mountains behind
a snow bank concealed
from the highway.
The dining room was warm and bright,
flames flickered in an old stone fireplace.
Our table was cozy, next to the burning hearth.
We drifted with the dancing flames
waiting for the waitress.
“Oh! Those poor kittens,” the waitress sighed.
“Little souls alone, hungry and frigid
soaking up the heat from our windows.”
We watched the kittens hug the outside
glass of the large picture pane.
Remorse played tag with my heart.
Because I was allergic, asthma
kept me far away from cats.
I continued with my dinner,
dreading the long drive back.
We paid the bill, gathered our belongings
to start back down the mountain.
When we opened the car door
a pumpkin, colored streak
hopped into our car.
I hadn’t the heart to throw
him back into the cold.
I admired his striking color.
Yellow, pleading eyes,
begged me let him stay.
I thought him unusual and gutsy.
We drove down the mountain.
This kitten curled up in the warmth
not knowing I was allergic.
I’d take him to an animal rescue
so they could find someone to care.
How he got me to name him
I don’t understand.
Leonard. He purred his affection
and cuddled close, until
I forgot I was allergic
it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
I took him home.
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
~~~~~
PENELOPE
by Robert Wooten
whose reasons, lying hidden, are to cause death. Or dead.
Whatever turns the foreign ship round toward these seashores,
that one, requesting much about you, goes off for me.
And how he may come back for you if he ever will but know you,
with my own fingers the marked letter is given up to this man.
We caused to go to the Spartan; the Spartan also is ignorant of truth.
Toward what possessed lands, or where, are you lingering away?
translated from Ovid
(Heroides 1, 57)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Penelope was selected from a book, entitled LATIN UNSEENS by E.C. Kennedy, a collection of little known, untranslated passages, which are selected from the longer works of classical Roman authors.
ROBERT WOOTEN earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University. His most recent collection is a chapbook published by In His Steps Publishing, Famous Last Words, in 2007. His poems have appeared in The Lyric, Poem, and Asheville Poetry Review, respectively, and in many other periodicals. His poetry currently appears in Trajectory, Convergence, Bear Creek Haiku, and others. Contact
~~~~~
VIEW FROM A BASE LODGE
by Patricia Crandall
carved into the mountainside
blanketed by a fresh falling snow.
Boards whiz downhill,
drawing parallel lines
off the rise of the mountain.
On the south slope,
a row of chairs
slung from an overhead cable
travel skyward
upending skiers
who scatter color in all directions.
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
~~~~~
THE DAYS OF INNOCENCE
by Shirley Securro
They are forever etched in time in all ways
They were precious and lasting
The days that were passing
Now all of that is left behind
Lost in time but always in mind
To bring out on days when needed
Thank God that he has them seeded
A place to be nurtured and fed
Deep in my soul and in my head
I bring out the innocence that I once knew
At times when needed, at times out of the blue
Those days of innocence will always be mine
They are safe and sound and where I can find
I can remember the laughter, the smiles, and the love
All of these things sent down from above
The love of family that surrounded all around
I look and pursue and finally have found
That same kind of love somewhere to be
It's bigger and unconditional and all around me
It's the love from my Heavenly Father above
It came down from heaven light as a dove
I can go on for now because His love abounds
It's comforting and nurturing and always surrounds
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
~~~~~
HEART OF THE HOME
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
An Earth Stove set
in the curved brick fireplace,
a ceramic empress from China
in a brick niche above,
TV on a handmade
alder chest with inlaid doors,
an old black Boston rocker
with kilim softening spindles,
two small blue recliners
facing stove and chair,
one with Guatemalan shawl on the back,
the other with a bright woven poncho,
a tribal rug from Turkey
in blue and red on the floor,
old mahogany tea table
between the blue chairs,
under the window a bookcase
filled with nature, poems and crosswords,
a boom box for grandkids’ bands
and Gregorian chant
and in one of the blue chairs,
feet up and feeling at ease,
the woman with a mug of tea
and the latest novel.
~~~~~
PATIENCE
by Floriana Hall
Will something happen if we are impatient?
Passivity doesn't resolve a conflict,
Let's take a look at options, too.
There are things over which we have no control
We cannot make the bus arrive sooner
We cannot stop the rain
But we can stop some of the hyperbole.
We can live each moment to the utmost
We can be completely present
To taste the here and now
To be aware of our loving host.
Patience is a treasure
Sometimes hidden in the ground
We are standing on at a moment
It's up to us to measure.
Will it happen today or tomorrow?
Will it be what we expect?
Hope a friend returns or we find our niche
Will it bring happiness or sorrow?
Ah, yes, practiced patience is a virtue
A criteria for discipline, old or new.
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
~~~~~
APPALACHIAN SPRINGS
by T. Wignesan
We dragged the slopes to our feet.
On the summit, we burnt our clothes
for wood and there shuffled our feet
in the hush of the falling snow.
We had come out of the scuffed grass.
With one look back in unbelief
exhuming the long trek
the silent keen
puffing through blubbery fingers.
We pulled the hoofed trail through
the trapdoor of our unchained links
foisting for new heights.
Beyond the Appalachian Mountains
the hanging fern on pine dripped snow
on moles burrowing in gashed hollows.
We paused. In that doubtful moment
we rued the climb, succumbing to the assault
upon this stilled millennia’s eerie silence.
All that time the swivelling blizzards raged
shifting soil, eroding avalanches.
Below, burgeoning customs
unmaned the silent dignity of bisons.
All bore testimony to a familiar preparation.
And then, suddenly before our eyes
the solemn ground rose with the breeze
the spangled map changing to the quick:
Chicago Pittsburgh Kansas City
wild barnyards dry-coughing, pop-corning garages
horrent timber ribbed the coasting steamboats
the linoleum walls
the mild Indian piqued he was
by the mahogany cubism of our speech.
We wondered if coming so far
only mattered, we would be content
to build a fire, here and now
and unpack our horses.
We saw little need to go on.
One night the summit might open
up and swallow us all or old age
would come upon us like a lonely neighbour
on a pretext to the door.
© T.Wignesan 1964 London, U.K.
[from the collection: tell them i’m gone, 1983; published in Fire Readings (A Collection of Contemporary Writing from the Shakespeare & Company Fire Benefit Readings). Paris-Boston: Frank Books, 1991, pp. 36-37.]
T. WIGNESAN was born in Malaysia where his parents settled as immigrants, and he worked and studied during most of his teens there. Then, he continued working and studying in London, Heidelberg, West Berlin, Madrid and Paris, as a teacher, journalist, labourer, clerk, and research fellow. He is a published writer in all genres. For a complete list of his published works, please visit his website. Contact
~~~~~
CYCLE OF LIFE
by Brian Bigelow
by Brian Bigelow
Locked in its world of white
Branches so naked and empty
Waiting for the warmth to come
Time rotating in coiled spiral
Coming back to bring renewal
Eternal dance of season's passage
With light and life mingling there
While the tree waits in silence
For life to begin once more
Under the vast expanse of sky
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This piece was published previously in Journey Into Renewal (1/19/12) available on Amazon and Into Renewal which is available on Smashwords (8/3/12).
BRIAN BIGELOW is originally from Minnesota and currently lives in Colorado with his wife, a cat and a very protective Chihuahua that risks life and limb to save his "family" from running leaves, fire hydrants and the like. Contact
~~~~~
DREAM-TIME FLAMES
by p.l. wick
by p.l. wick
out beyond the crystal panes
as lace of
patient scrimshaw frost
stretches o’er
each isolated frame.
Spring: her warmth
—a distant wish—
a vague, yet,
once familiar dream,
will be a long and
tiresome time a-coming,
her kingdom to reclaim.
From its cozy cabin corner,
my trusty cast Vermont
sends out that steady
reassuring glow,
taking, ol’ dog Bud’ and me
—to the peaks and far away
o’er
new grass covered hills—
in the vaporous,
dancing dream-time
of alizarin-orange flame.
p.l. wick
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Tale Spinners and Hwy. 395.
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
~~~~~
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
by Susan Marie Davniero
To all near and dear
Oneness of humankind
Champion of unity align
Together in unity
Without bias disparity
Land of prosperity
Peace and tranquility
Destiny in our hand
Join together we stand
United for all, all for one
2013, We have only just begun!
 |
| Susan and Bob Davniero on New York’s Eve - 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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
january celebrity poet
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807 – 1882)
nationality: American
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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