“If you commit yourself to the art of poetry, you commit yourself to the task of learning how to see, using words as elements of sight and their sounds as prisms. And to see means to see something worth all the agony of learning how to see."
POEM OF THE MONTH
PATHS IN THE PRIVATE COUNTRY
by T. Wignesan
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe
The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.
The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms
Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence
The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck
Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man
And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet
The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.
And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.
© T. Wignesan, 1957 - First published in
"Diskus," University of Frankfurt-am-Main, 1960 (from the collection:
Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
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
EASTER'S LILY
by Susan Marie Davniero
Burst of green
In garden’s room
White lily blooms
Pure as white
Point of light
To grace the way
This Easter Day
Awakens spring
Hear Angels sing
Each Easter gives
Behold, God lives
 |
| EASTER LILY, 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
~~~~~
has driven forest dwellers
to wood pile
and burrow.
A party of jays
seeks refuge
high in the rafters
of the overhang.
Even under the
shelter of my own roof
I am subject to
downpour and ridicule.
p.l. wick
shelter of my own roof
I am subject to
downpour and ridicule.
p.l. wick
bear creek haiku #98
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
~~~~~
WISDOM
by Floriana Hall
My muse tells me that I am wise
When I write poetry to help others
But what is wisdom, after all?
Is it a special quality only some may possess,
Or is it a power that is within all of us
If we but search for it?
A course of action one person thinks is wise
Is not necessarily prudent for another,
Doing nothing often the best solution.
Is wisdom ‘knowledge’ or ‘understanding,’
Or both?
One hesitates being a wiseacre,
A know-it-all with all the answers --
There are many aspects in life that
Have no answers.
One person’s perception may be the
Opposite of the other,
But both think they are right.
Wishful thinking may be only an illusion
In a realm of fantasy.
Oh, muse, tell me if this viewpoint
Is prompted by wisdom,
Or is it just the ramblings
Of a wise guy who dreams
Of changing the world?
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
~~~~~
THE LORD IS THERE
by Douglas Ellington
I was blind,
But now I see,
Because the Lord has touched me,
I was lost,
But now I’m found,
Because the Lord is always around.
I was deaf,
But now I hear,
Because the Lord whispered in my ear,
I was down,
But now I can stand,
Because the Lord has grabbed my hand.
I was in the wrong,
But now I’m in the right,
Because the Lord has showed me the light,
I was sick,
But now I’m well,
Because the Lord leads me away from hell.
DOUGLAS ELLINGTON is a young, aspiring poet who writes in various categories to include tough love, heart breaking, and falling in love, life experiences, and spirituality. He will continue to write poetry to touch people's hearts and souls. Contact
I bless friends for
the rich gifts they’ve given,
who teach me
to recognize beauty
in the moment.
They ignite
the desire to bounce
on a springboard
explore the unknown, unafraid
until I seize my talent,
deposit it where it can grow
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
~~~~~
~~~~~
DESIREE WOODLAND is a retired teacher who misses teaching, but enjoys having time to play with words. Contact
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
~~~~~
WITHOUT WORDS TO CREATE
by Bobbie Shirley
I’m lost.
Health issues
steal spontaneity.
Words hide.
They desert me.
Packed in a crevice
I can’t dig them out.
Dead, buried.
Where is the wonder
where has it gone. and
the marvels that
transformed childhood?
Kids discover sunshine,
they sing and dance,
play in fascination.
Where are the words that
take me by the hand,
lead me to magic
help me create.
I want to discover
things that color my day,
like the red Sedona sandstone.
the rich gifts they’ve given,
who teach me
to recognize beauty
in the moment.
They ignite
the desire to bounce
on a springboard
explore the unknown, unafraid
until I seize my talent,
deposit it where it can grow
and blossom.
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
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
~~~~~
NATURE'S REVELATION
by Sandra H. Bounds
by Sandra H. Bounds
A Mississippi breeze
whispers
in Spring’s primeval
bower
as graceful petals
sway
among darker trappings
of trees.
In Spring’s primeval
bower,
blossoms, dainty and
elegant,
reveal Nature’s
Infinite beauty
as graceful petals
sway,
the dogwood, simple
image
of legend and story,
among darker trappings
of trees,
silently unveils God’s
sovereign power and
majesty.
~~~~~
LIFE WITHIN THE GRAVE
by Patricia Crandall
Meandering
a maze of worn paths,
in
the old Vermont cemetery,
I stumbled on the legend
ROBERT FROST.
Inscriptions of dates
and brief pronouncements
detailing a giant’s past
were visible on a stone slab
as quaint and picturesque
as his writings.
In
a divine slumber,
this poet-genius
addressed me spiritually,
“You are a Poet,”
He breathed.
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
A POET'S LIST
by Susan Marie Davniero
Literary no apology
For poems anthology
A hidden treasure
Of readings pleasure
Fluid poetry fits
Of such favorites
Factoring begun
All to choose from
Rhythm or free verse
Upon thy search
Poets likely drawn
Resembles their own
Compiled to select
Of voices dialect
Poetic prose enlist
For a poet’s list
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
TIME MUST HAVE STOPPED
by Desiree Woodland
Time must have stopped for
her.
Why had she lived only to
stand at the foot of her son’s dark cross?
The happy years--frozen in
memory. She knew them by heart.
Only in time would she
think of him working side by side with Joseph, brow furrowed, as he struggled
to learn the carpenter’s craft.
She would remember the
inexpressible joy of finding her lost son in a synagogue in Jerusalem, “About
his Father’s business,” he had said.
One day would she remember
the look of God in his eyes as he healed the sick and taught the sick-at-heart.
But now, the horrible
present filled every space, a stench of death hung in the air polluting her
thoughts.
She raged against the
limits of her earthly existence.
The blood rushed through
her temples, each beat of her heart pounding in her chest as she screamed a
prayer, “Why couldn’t it have been me?”
Still, she was keenly
aware of all she believed, deeply believed--that God was working a marvelous
redemption through the son she bore.
The internal struggle
within, she fought to release him from her earthly, clinging and sometimes doubt-filled
heart.
Moans pierced the
darkness. Were they hers?
She forced herself to look
at his marred visage--this Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief, like a Lamb
led to the slaughter, and yet still her son.
The prophet Isaiah said
that many would become righteous because he poured out his soul unto death to
bear their sins.
He bowed his head, his
agony over, and cried, “It is finished.”
She sank helpless to the
ground and wept. “How can I ever comfort myself with these words?”
Only in time.
~~~~~
PASS WITH CARE
by Debbie Hilbish
Pass with Care
posted
precariously
alongside the narrow twisty roadway
Boldly stated
on a yellow - metal - caution -
triangle
bent and scarred like a sentry left
on guard
after one too many battles at
attempting to
Forewarn the unwary traveler.
And us arriving here
so shortly after finding ourselves
without a care.
Pondering the consequences
if one were to pass carefree
~~~~~
ARRIVAL SAN FRANCISCO, 1962
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
The moment the sun
breaks through the fog
we spread out on towels
in the tiny garden.
Ignore the goose-bumpy
skin
surrounding bikinis,
sip champagne poured
with lavish hands.
After our breakfast
of hot breads, strong coffee
amid lilac scent and tulip
blare,
bee buzz and shreds of mist,
my friends bundle me off
to see the Pacific.
South of the city
on a deserted beach
we space our towels
and a red-checked cloth,
take a brisk walk
along the tide line,
stare out to sea
with sun-spangled eyes.
We pillage the basket
for ripe strawberries,
lie on our backs
replete.
~~~~~
PDD/NOS: CHILD
by Shirley Willis
Paper schools
and consultants seek
answers to the nonverbal,
seven
on one
child.
The child speaks.
The consultants squeak
at each other,
unseeing.
Seven
on none and
the child speaks
in the corner.
The consultants tweak
hubcaps of learning,
ignoring the motor,
yearning
in the corner.
And their presentation
shines for
all time
for each other.
And the child
speaks,
alone,
in the corner.
SHIRLEY WILLIS grew up reading everything from tomato soup cans to Tolstoy. She writes short fiction, poetry, humor pieces and essays. After completing 26,153 pages of special education narrative, her major project is a love story, Naked Teaching, because she is compelled to reveal the stories behind the paperwork. It is a work of fiction because that is the only way to speak the truth about classrooms. Shirley lives in Arizona with her husband, Richard, and Max, the Intrepid Motorhome. Contact
AT EASTER
p.l. wick
~~~~~
AT EASTER
by John T. Hitchner
My son calls home
from two thousand miles east
of the Place of Skulls in Old Jerusalem.
He does not speak of scripture
or denials or revelations,
nor does he agonize
over IEDs, RPGs, or bomb-belted avengers.
He reassures me
that where he is food is good,
security tight,
and care packages and well wishes
arrived appreciated.
He allows that he and friends
gathered hours ago
for sunrise service behind the wire.
As we talk, even laugh,
I watch a cloud of memories,
precise as driven nails,
pass across the sun.
I see him cradled in my arms,
I hear the swish of a basketball net,
and I smell oily exhaust
from the bus that carried him to Boot Camp.
“Are you all right?
Is there anything you need?”
I ask before our conversation deadline.
Easter twilight shadows window curtains.
I am thankful for my son’s voice
thousands of miles away from my own,
yet a distance not as great and lasting
as blood and sorrows other crusades
have wrought upon the world.
My son calls home
from two thousand miles east
of the Place of Skulls in Old Jerusalem.
He does not speak of scripture
or denials or revelations,
nor does he agonize
over IEDs, RPGs, or bomb-belted avengers.
He reassures me
that where he is food is good,
security tight,
and care packages and well wishes
arrived appreciated.
He allows that he and friends
gathered hours ago
for sunrise service behind the wire.
As we talk, even laugh,
I watch a cloud of memories,
precise as driven nails,
pass across the sun.
I see him cradled in my arms,
I hear the swish of a basketball net,
and I smell oily exhaust
from the bus that carried him to Boot Camp.
“Are you all right?
Is there anything you need?”
I ask before our conversation deadline.
Easter twilight shadows window curtains.
I am thankful for my son’s voice
thousands of miles away from my own,
yet a distance not as great and lasting
as blood and sorrows other crusades
have wrought upon the world.
JOHN T. HITCHNER’s work has been featured in Long Story Short in the past, including the Featured Poems “Snow Upon Green” and “Jimmy and Me in Those Days.” He teaches Coming of Age in War and Peace at Keene State College in Keene, New Hampshire. Contact
The time has come, the Walrus said,
to speak of poemish things—
of: why the Oysters left so soon?
…spoilt cabbages and kings.
Why, are these stanza lines as taut
as ringing banjo strings… …?
… …A wink, he gave the Carpenter,
that Walrus on the beach;
Too full of Oysters to be coy
and sing of metered feet.
He said: They should’ve stayed their way;
safe in their briny keep—
This single gastronomical
disaster has undone
the logic of iambic met’
for those who haven’t gone—
to depths beyond a tri’ or tet’
and heard a ‘fourteen’ rung.
We must have, then, been canonized?
by triplets long and true;
Doggerel rhyme, yet, sung-in-time
—to bi-valves feeling blue—
verse, broken into pieces,
for those who’ve missed the clue.
~~~~~
revisiting:
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
—or—
More Cocktail Sauce, Anyone… …?
More Cocktail Sauce, Anyone… …?
The time has come, the Walrus said,
to speak of poemish things—
of: why the Oysters left so soon?
…spoilt cabbages and kings.
Why, are these stanza lines as taut
as ringing banjo strings… …?
… …A wink, he gave the Carpenter,
that Walrus on the beach;
Too full of Oysters to be coy
and sing of metered feet.
He said: They should’ve stayed their way;
safe in their briny keep—
This single gastronomical
disaster has undone
the logic of iambic met’
for those who haven’t gone—
to depths beyond a tri’ or tet’
and heard a ‘fourteen’ rung.
We must have, then, been canonized?
by triplets long and true;
Doggerel rhyme, yet, sung-in-time
—to bi-valves feeling blue—
verse, broken into pieces,
for those who’ve missed the clue.
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
~~~~~
ANOTHER SPRING
by Abigail Wyatt
Another spring, another
fall
and all the glory in between:
the trees you loved in startling leaf,
the hedgerow roses bright,
new foals at play in brambled fields
where you and I, out walking,
paused to gaze and lean.
I cannot think now what
we talked about:
as like as not some trifle,
yours or mine;
or if we laughed or cried that day,
or if the sun came out;
only I know the way you were,
so full of life and light;
and now, though you are gone,
how close you seem.
and all the glory in between:
the trees you loved in startling leaf,
the hedgerow roses bright,
new foals at play in brambled fields
where you and I, out walking,
paused to gaze and lean.
I cannot think now what
we talked about:
as like as not some trifle,
yours or mine;
or if we laughed or cried that day,
or if the sun came out;
only I know the way you were,
so full of life and light;
and now, though you are gone,
how close you seem.
~~~~~
IN GOD'S TIME
by Floriana Hall
When the sun sets in the west
It's time to relax, time to rest;
Bring an end to cares of the day,
Count your blessings, come what may.
Calm your heart, hush your soul,
God has everything under control,
If you just put your trust in Him
Worries fade and troubles dim.
Morning brings a bright new chance
To face the world, enjoy the dance;
Decisions made in God's own time
Ease the strain of mountain climb.
Time to let go, let God decide
yet unsatisfied,
Answers only He can bestow
Relief for burdens, trials or woes.
It's time to relax, time to rest;
Bring an end to cares of the day,
Count your blessings, come what may.
Calm your heart, hush your soul,
God has everything under control,
If you just put your trust in Him
Worries fade and troubles dim.
Morning brings a bright new chance
To face the world, enjoy the dance;
Decisions made in God's own time
Ease the strain of mountain climb.
Time to let go, let God decide
yet unsatisfied,
Answers only He can bestow
Relief for burdens, trials or woes.
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
~~~~~
THIS EASTER DATE
by Susan Marie DavnieroHymns of a choir
Voices sing
Church bells ring
Heavenly message sent
Forty days of Lent
Till Palm Sunday seek
Welcome to Holy Week
Symbol of the Cross
Jesus is the source
Behold the Resurrection
Rejoice in celebration
Glory majestic glisten
He has risen
Pray to commemorate
This Easter date
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
april celebrity poet
Archibald MacLeish
(1892 – 1982)
nationality: American
Archibald MacLeish – Credit: Public Domain
ARS POETICA
A poem
should be palpable and mute
As a globed
fruit,
Dumb
As old
medallions to the thumb,
Silent as
the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement
ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem
should be wordless
As the
flight of birds.
*
A poem
should be motionless in time
As the moon
climbs,
Leaving, as
the moon releases
Twig by twig
the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as
the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by
memory the mind—
A poem
should be motionless in time
As the moon
climbs.
*
A poem
should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the
history of grief
An empty
doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning
grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem
should not mean
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, “Ars Poetica” from Collected Poems 1917-1982. Copyright © 1985 by The Estate of
Archibald MacLeish. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.
All rights reserved.
Source: Poetry (June 1926).
Source: Poetry (June 1926).
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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