“Words are always getting conventionalized
to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody
and bring them back to their right senses."
- William Butler Yeats
POEM OF THE MONTH
THE TOKEN
by Abigail Wyatt
A caterpillar inched
across the path
as we three sat
to gossip in the sun.
On such a day as this it was;
and here, on this plush lawn;
the path shone white
and there he lay,
as bright as any jewel;
and soft he was as any fur,
and plumper than a pod.
‘It is a sign,’ you whispered;
‘he comes here
to point the way;
and ponderous
and slow he is,
yet he comes
straight from God.’
‘From where?’
I said, and curled
my lip to think
that God might care,
my life in disarray
and only sadness
in my heart.
‘From God,’
you said, ‘or from
that place where
all your beauty is.
He tells you trust
in time’s slow work
to grant you
wings to fly.
On such a day as this it was
and here, on this plush lawn;
and, though the sun
sank down to sleep,
still all we three
sat safe and close,
just as the evening
air was warm;
and not a passing thought
we had for how
the dark closed in
nor did I think
this day to weep
to think how true
you spoke.
and here, on this plush lawn;
the path shone white
and there he lay,
as bright as any jewel;
and soft he was as any fur,
and plumper than a pod.
‘It is a sign,’ you whispered;
‘he comes here
to point the way;
and ponderous
and slow he is,
yet he comes
straight from God.’
‘From where?’
I said, and curled
my lip to think
that God might care,
my life in disarray
and only sadness
in my heart.
‘From God,’
you said, ‘or from
that place where
all your beauty is.
He tells you trust
in time’s slow work
to grant you
wings to fly.
On such a day as this it was
and here, on this plush lawn;
and, though the sun
sank down to sleep,
still all we three
sat safe and close,
just as the evening
air was warm;
and not a passing thought
we had for how
the dark closed in
nor did I think
this day to weep
to think how true
you spoke.
ABIGAIL WYATT lives in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. She writes poetry and short fiction. In June, 2012, 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories' became available via http://www.millionstories.net. Her new blog is at http://abigailelizabethwyatt@wordpress.com. Contact
MARCH MEANDERINGS
by Floriana Hall
Slowly but surely
One day at a time
While the east coast suffered
With high drifts of snow
And power outages
How cold it must have been
N'oreaster repeated
My heart went out to the unfortunate
While I more or less basked in the sun
Of just a tad of snow and warm rays
Twists and turns of winter.
March will bring a variety of new treks
With bloom of cactus struggling to peek through
Migrating from hardened cold soil;
Persistence of the daffodil will emerge
Triumphant in its surge
Like the true warrior it is
Except it brings color and pleasure
To the earth and its inhabitants.
Rays of sun will increase in time
While March marches back and forth
Between refreshing warm and cold breezes
FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website
Sparkling snow all around
It glistens and glitters in the sunlight
Like diamonds
Falling to the ground
Covering the hillside in a blanket
Draping the branches of the trees
Like cotton candy
The beauty is everywhere
Painting the landscape in white
Suddenly changes begin to take place
A down pour of snow like rain
Piling up on the streets, in driveways,
On sidewalks
Schools closed, meetings cancelled
Traffic accidents, lives lost
Danger
A loss of beauty
White snow turns to gray snow
then black snow
Stone cold snow turns to ice
Snow melts, floods
More lives lost
More danger
The sparkling snow is no more
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
One day at a time
While the east coast suffered
With high drifts of snow
And power outages
How cold it must have been
N'oreaster repeated
My heart went out to the unfortunate
While I more or less basked in the sun
Of just a tad of snow and warm rays
Twists and turns of winter.
March will bring a variety of new treks
With bloom of cactus struggling to peek through
Migrating from hardened cold soil;
Persistence of the daffodil will emerge
Triumphant in its surge
Like the true warrior it is
Except it brings color and pleasure
To the earth and its inhabitants.
Rays of sun will increase in time
While March marches back and forth
Between refreshing warm and cold breezes
FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
SPARKLING SNOW
by Shirley Securro
by Shirley Securro
Sparkling snow all around
It glistens and glitters in the sunlight
Like diamonds
Falling to the ground
Covering the hillside in a blanket
Draping the branches of the trees
Like cotton candy
The beauty is everywhere
Painting the landscape in white
Suddenly changes begin to take place
A down pour of snow like rain
Piling up on the streets, in driveways,
On sidewalks
Schools closed, meetings cancelled
Traffic accidents, lives lost
Danger
A loss of beauty
White snow turns to gray snow
then black snow
Stone cold snow turns to ice
Snow melts, floods
More lives lost
More danger
The sparkling snow is no more
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
~~~~~
THE HOLY SPIRIT IN ME
by Susan Marie Davniero
Welcome to God’s Kingdom
The glorious light to see
Thy will be done
I got the Holy Spirit in me
Thankful for all my gifts
Which were given from He
My soul the Lord lifts
I got the Holy Spirit in me
The glorious light to see
Thy will be done
I got the Holy Spirit in me
Thankful for all my gifts
Which were given from He
My soul the Lord lifts
I got the Holy Spirit in me
SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She
writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various
publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long
Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art,
Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has
also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines
including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal,
and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog “Susan Marie” is
her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they
might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a
writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write
more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact
~~~~~
A SMOOTH PATH
by Roger Singer
A high rigid forest,
crowned thick with boughs
of brilliant green,
lay broad their hands to heaven
like wheat fields where breezes melt
from blue skies.
A small path below, its surface smooth,
relinquishes its space to those who pass;
their voices and names remain bound in the safety
of mossy blankets.
Long shadows signal day’s end.
Seasons are marked by growth and death,
but the path remains constant.
crowned thick with boughs
of brilliant green,
lay broad their hands to heaven
like wheat fields where breezes melt
from blue skies.
A small path below, its surface smooth,
relinquishes its space to those who pass;
their voices and names remain bound in the safety
of mossy blankets.
Long shadows signal day’s end.
Seasons are marked by growth and death,
but the path remains constant.
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
~~~~~
LAO PAN’S DOG
Be there none to kneel beside my rest
for: the faithful, nameless, dog of
Lao Pan: Panjiatun Village, China
and clutch fond memory to their breast—
save one, salvation’s grace shall be
along this trail of final Test—
my faithful dog, who waits for me.
O'er lush meadow and distant ridge save one, salvation’s grace shall be
along this trail of final Test—
my faithful dog, who waits for me.
to stand at the gate of the sapphire sea,
our reward, to spend eternity,
I, and this dog who waits for me—
the flaxen-hair friend who waits for me.
p.l. wick
~~~~~
BOOK EXCHANGE
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
In front of a house she helped build
more decades ago than she can believe
stands a red-roofed blue box
on a pole. In black paint on each of its sides
Take 1, Leave 1. Its door snagged by a hook
opens on two shelves loaded with books.
She doesn’t know who lives in the house now,
knows they’re her kind of people. She smiles
at the sign in the yard that says
Community Library, plans as she drives away
which book will be her first donation.
more decades ago than she can believe
stands a red-roofed blue box
on a pole. In black paint on each of its sides
Take 1, Leave 1. Its door snagged by a hook
opens on two shelves loaded with books.
She doesn’t know who lives in the house now,
knows they’re her kind of people. She smiles
at the sign in the yard that says
Community Library, plans as she drives away
which book will be her first donation.
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has
an interest in healing writing and leads the writing program at a
Cancer Center. She is widely published in poetry and nonfiction, writes
for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact
~~~~~
CLOUDS
by Debbie Hilbish
I was lying on the grass,
just the grass and I.
Staring at the clouds.
White clouds against blue sky.
Moving swirling shifting so
as gentle whispers from the wind
told the clouds just how to flow.
I see a turtle that can fly
high above a blackbird pie.
Mermaids swimming on a wave
and elephants doing a ballet.
Rearranging, always changing
and suddenly before me
a proud warrior astride a buffalo
charging through a field of snow.
An eagle flying by his side
as if he were that Indian’s guide.
Suddenly they disappear
and other scenes unfold.
Images that have no end,
their stories left untold.
Now I’m sure a castle’s there
with fairies all around.
A dragon rears his fearsome head,
his step vibrates the ground.
Amazing...all the things I’ve seen
lying on the grass so green,
staring as the clouds go by.
Orange clouds against gray sky.
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 hosted the annual eight week Author’s Fair at The Reader’s Oasis Bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona for five years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact
FINE WITH THAT
by Rebecca Rose Taylor
by Rebecca Rose Taylor
Or perhaps like mine, they’re brown
But I’m fine with that
We may speak with different accents
Or pronounce our words differently
But I’m fine with that
You may stand with your hands poised when you talk
And I tend to gesture from time to time
But I’m fine with that
There are some questions I may not find the answers to today
Maybe the replies will come tomorrow or it may take a lifetime
But I’m fine with that
You might never be a mathematician
And maybe I will never spell some words correctly
But I’m fine with that
Thunderstorms might always scare you
And I’ll probably never like heights
But I’m fine with that
The important thing is that we are people
All different but in some complex way all the same
All flesh and blood and bone
As a world, we need to all be fine with that.
REBECCA ROSE TAYLOR likes being able to use her poem to evoke emotions and try to make sense of the world. Some of her previous publications have been included in Long Story Short, All Rights Reserved, Perspectives Magazine and Bread n' Molasses. Rebecca lives on a farm in the province of Quebec and works in the administration department at a senior's home. Contact
GOD BLESS THE NORTHEAST WEATHER
by Patricia Crandall
at its best
is delightful.
At its worst,
frightful.
And when the elixir is all wrong;
a dabble strong,
a dollop weak
the prognosis
is often bleak.
60 degrees in January
February thaw
March showers
April mud
heat wave in May
cold June, July
colder August
glorious September
snowy October
icy November
green December.
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
~~~~~
YOUR WHISPER
by David Fraser
Let’s tell tales of deep cool wells,
not dry water holes
where small parched
animals tend to lurk.
Let’s stay silent, as stars
move through the night,
not jabber in the rain, beside
a window, where a party’s going on.
Let’s fall asleep in snow,
not huddle in the night, where
desert winds have blown
the sand around our feet.
Let’s listen for the whisper
that calls us home,
not the silent bell
monks forgot to ring.
Let’s light a fire, share stories
of undiscovered wells, stars
that moved before our eyes,
the softness of the snow
that melted on our cheeks,
your whisper in our ears
that brought us back
DAVID FRASER lives in Nanoose Bay, on Vancouver Island. He is the founder and editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine, since 1997. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry. He has published four collections of poetry; Going to the Well, 2004, Running Down the Wind, 2007, No Way Easy, 2010, Caught in My Throat, 2011 and, Paper Boats, 2012 and a collection of short fiction, Dark Side of the Billboard, 2006. In addition David has co-authored with Naomi Beth Wakan, On Poetry an inspirational book on poetics and poetry. To keep out of trouble he helps develop Nanaimo's spoken-word series, WordStorm. In October 2009 and 2010 he participated in Random Acts of Poetry, a national poetry program that brings poetry to the streets of Canada. David is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets and is available for performances and readings via funding with LCP. Contact
~~~~~
THE DIFFERENCE OF TOUCH: IN D MINOR KV 466 AND VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF PAGANINI
by T. Wignesan
the robin hops from
the tips of the rose bush
sprinkling skeins of early dew
then it trips up the clothesline
stops and grips it in its claws
sways and balances with its tail fanning out
chirps clucks tweets
and repeats itself
all the way down again
and up the scale
comes back once more to skip a note or two
and tumbles
spilling snow dust
dusting with its uppity tail fan
a caterpillar
softly dousing concertina
then it trips up the clothesline
stops and grips it in its claws
sways and balances with its tail fanning out
chirps clucks tweets
and repeats itself
all the way down again
and up the scale
comes back once more to skip a note or two
and tumbles
sweeps past the old toy bicycle leaning against
the wire fence
the claw marks hardly visible on the spray of frost-like snow on the balustrade
light ephemeral peripateticthe dulcet flexions rising and falling on the tympana without breath of motion
or vibration
the claw marks hardly visible on the spray of frost-like snow on the balustrade
light ephemeral peripateticthe dulcet flexions rising and falling on the tympana without breath of motion
or vibration
crisp colliding notes rising and falling
as the first tentative drops of drizzle before the rain
the robin gone to sing full throttle on wing
© T. Wignesan, Paris - 1997;
from the collection: “Poems Omega-Plus," Paris, 2005.
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
~~~~~
SEA GLASS
by Mary M. Perry
by Mary M. Perry
Sea Glass is a Reflection of my Past
Full of Color Tumbled and Smooth
Cast to Shore
To be Loved By You
MARY M. PERRY retired in 2012 and is a Vietnam Era Veteran. She has a Second Degree Black Belt in Taekwondo, and enjoys cooking, reading, and hiking. Contact
~~~~~
WALT WHITMAN AT 12,600 FT.
Late afternoon:
white whiskers and muzzle
with ruffled fur coat,
a grizzled marmot
—reflection of Walt Whitman—
visits our climbers’ camp.
He stoically enjoys
offerings of
string-cheese and granola.
But a dropped Cheeto,
really, excites him.
He dines until dusk.
And with cadmium-dusted
chin and paws,
graciously departs…
white whiskers and muzzle
with ruffled fur coat,
a grizzled marmot
—reflection of Walt Whitman—
visits our climbers’ camp.
He stoically enjoys
offerings of
string-cheese and granola.
But a dropped Cheeto,
really, excites him.
He dines until dusk.
And with cadmium-dusted
chin and paws,
graciously departs…
…He reads us no poetry.
bear creek haiku #101, and
Hwy. 395
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
SOUNDS OF THE WHISTLE
by Floriana Hall
The whistle blows
The train slows
As it crosses an intersection.
The red light is on
The gates are down
Traffic stops in succession.
Observers count the freight
Clickety-clack and wait
For the tracks to clear their procession.
Close by, the blare sounds hollow
As early risers sit and swallow
Hot coffee or tea, their concession.
They think of the passengers on the train
And wonder which direction or terrain
Transportation takes them to their profession.
Or they think about plans for the day
Will the whistle blow for them or stay
As they ponder each direction.
No one knows in this economy
Even following the astronomy
Depends on who wins the election.
Days off the whistle still blows
What will happen, no one knows
Just enjoy your precious possessions.
Such as good health, friends and family
Listen to faith's homily
Give up some concessions.
The whistle blows for all,
Old or young, tall or small
Spirit or no aggression.
FLORIANA HALL was
born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished
Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended
Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books,
nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She
has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She
is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls
Library. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
SOUNDS OF THE WHISTLE
by Floriana Hall
The whistle blows
The train slows
As it crosses an intersection.
The red light is on
The gates are down
Traffic stops in succession.
Observers count the freight
Clickety-clack and wait
For the tracks to clear their procession.
Close by, the blare sounds hollow
As early risers sit and swallow
Hot coffee or tea, their concession.
They think of the passengers on the train
And wonder which direction or terrain
Transportation takes them to their profession.
Or they think about plans for the day
Will the whistle blow for them or stay
As they ponder each direction.
No one knows in this economy
Even following the astronomy
Depends on who wins the election.
Days off the whistle still blows
What will happen, no one knows
Just enjoy your precious possessions.
Such as good health, friends and family
Listen to faith's homily
Give up some concessions.
The whistle blows for all,
Old or young, tall or small
Spirit or no aggression.
~~~~~
NIGHT SKY OVER MASON TWP.
by Charlie Cole
In our passionate clan, it’s oft repeated
How Great Aunt Beryl, the apoplectic,
Furious at Great Uncle Hazen, the gentleman farmer,
For tracking the outdoors through her otherwise tidy home,
Did, like her favorite Major League pitcher,
Hurl her beloved bone-white china
At the ample space above his broad shoulders,
When Himself intervened in mortal affairs,
Compelled by knowing the true worth of all things,
Gently securing her heirloom to a higher shelf,
Unreachable, where none could break it,
But all still admire, the fine old-world workmanship.
In our passionate clan, it’s oft repeated
How Great Aunt Beryl, the apoplectic,
Furious at Great Uncle Hazen, the gentleman farmer,
For tracking the outdoors through her otherwise tidy home,
Did, like her favorite Major League pitcher,
Hurl her beloved bone-white china
At the ample space above his broad shoulders,
When Himself intervened in mortal affairs,
Compelled by knowing the true worth of all things,
Gently securing her heirloom to a higher shelf,
Unreachable, where none could break it,
But all still admire, the fine old-world workmanship.
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
~~~~~
A SPRING DAY
by Susan Marie Davniero
Raindrops kiss
Of morning mist
After the showers
Morning flowers
Blossoms to come
Make their home
Season suggest
Nature’s rest
The curtains open
Sunshine pours in
Shine on sun ray
Welcome a spring day
Of morning mist
After the showers
Morning flowers
Blossoms to come
Make their home
Season suggest
Nature’s rest
The curtains open
Sunshine pours in
Shine on sun ray
Welcome a spring day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
march celebrity poet
William Butler Yeats
(1865 – 1939)
nationality: Irish
William Butler Yeats – Credit: Public Domain
I AM OF IRELAND
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
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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