LONG STORY SHORT: POETRY PAGE: May 2013 Poetry Page

“There are few things so futile, and few so amusing, As a peaceful and purposeless sort of perusing of old random jottings set down in a blank book

you've unearthed from a drawer

as you looked for your bank book."

- Amy Lowell
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

THE ANGEL

by Chrys Fey

Is this what I’m seeing?

An angel with delicate wings spread out as wide as the seas?

She did not speak but I could hear her singing loudly,

she smiled at me and it seemed to touch my soul.

If a smile could be measured in feet, hers would be too long to beat.

She could take away my pain day by day,

she could take me away from this never-ending story, but she didn’t.

She only fluttered her wings in the golden light surrounding us.

I wanted to cry but I was too scared to cry,

I wanted to hide but I wanted to be found,

all she did was wait as if she were waiting for the end of time.

So I waited too, I waited for God’s light to lift me up,

I waited for the angel to hug me tight, but she never moved.

Her beautiful feet never touched the ground,

her young face never turned around,

her graceful arms never lifted a pound.

She was still, as still as anything can get,

but her voice grew louder in the distance as the light grew brighter.

Then she stretched out her perfect arm and opened her hand,

extending her long delicate fingers, she spoke, “Take my hand.”

Her hand felt icy but hot, her voice sounded happy but mad,

her hair was still but blowing in the wind madly,

she was everything all put together.

Her singing stopped but her smile grew louder.

She lifted me up from where I sat and filled my heart with joy,

she took me away to Heaven, but was it really Heaven?

I didn’t feel hurt or tired anymore.

No runny nose made me sniffle, no cough made me gasp,

no sneeze made me wheeze, but my eyes filled with tears.

I didn’t know what was happening until the rain fell from my eyes,

and I could see that the angel holding my hand up in Heaven

was my mother holding my hand in bed.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Chrys Fey wrote "The Angel" many years ago when she was just sixteen years old. She had no idea where the poem would take her until she wrote the very last sentence and realized it was about her mother.

CHRYS FEY has published a poem titled "Falling Feather" with Long Story Short, and an essay titled "Woman of Steel" about her ordeal with spine surgery with The Write Place at the Write Time. She also has a blog dedicate to helping aspiring writers to write a novel: http://www.writewithfey.blogspot.com/. Contact

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MAY DAY AWAKES

by Susan Marie Davniero

Awaken from the night

Welcome May Day

Come morning sunlight

Suddenly you stay

The day begs to start

Season’s promises bring

Nature’s blossoming art

As the bluebirds sing

May Day unfolds

From beckoning dawn

As the day grows old

The curtains are drawn

Be gone far away

Tomorrow is another day

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

~~~~~

AN ODE TO SPRING

by James Piatt

An ode to spring, the gayest of seasons, which
Brings to all a crispness of new being, and
To all who love, thousands of reasons to
Awaken in their souls new ways of seeing:

The trees are fresh and verdant again,
Rivers slow down to a leisurely stream,
Meadow flowers begin their colorful reign,
Young hearts in love begin to dream:

The animals from hibernation arise, and
Scamper to see the beauty in the lea, and
With tiny furry feet scurry to improvise,
While tiny birds sing gaudy songs in jubilee.

JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. He has had over 350 poems, 1 novel, 31 short stories, and seven essays published. Broken Publications published his book of poetry, ‘The Silent Pond’ in 2012. His novel, The Ideal Society was published in 2012 by Write Words Inc. Broken Publications will be publishing his poetry book, ‘Ancient Rhythms’ and his latest novel, The Monk, in early 2013. James was the featured poet in Word Catalyst Magazine in 2009, and Contemporary American Voices in 2010. Long Story Short selected one of his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011 and 2012; Phati’tude Literary Magazine featured an interview with him in 2011. Contact

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THE MOTHER

by Ashok Malli

I bow in reverence, respect, love and gratitude;

For giving me the precious, coveted gift of life,

Even today the dusty and thorny paths I salute;

On which you had tread painfully in the dire strife.

You taught me always to bravely and confidently smile---

And calmly walk through every raging, tearing storm,

And I picked up from you the nuances and guile;

To weather the rough rides without any qualms.

You tossed me up alarmingly in the cold airs,

To dispel all my disturbing phobias and fears;

When I cried you hugged me to your bosom;

With your sacrifice, love and care I fully blossomed.

And from you I have learned to live always happily in love;

And you are perched in my heart and soul like a white dove,

You are the epitome of all the soft, tender loving passions--

Without you my life would be in shambles and without reason.

ASHOK MALLI writes poems and is a High School Teacher in New York. He has written poems since childhood. Contact

~~~~~

THE WAITING GAME

by Floriana Hall

Waiting for night to turn into light
Spending the day in a wholesome way
But waiting
For the phone to ring
For the mail carrier to bring
Good news and reviews.
Patiently waiting
For fun in the sun
For rain on the plain
For a lass to say yes.
Constantly waiting
For dinner to gain weight or be thinner
To grow up or again be a pup
Anxiously waiting
To come home from the fighting
War is hell no matter what we think we are righting
To hear good news from the doctor
Or waiting for death
We spend most of our lives waiting
What else can we do?
We can read while waiting
We can write profoundly
We can meditate and pray
Or just be still and at peace.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Floriana Hall was selected as the Second Prize Winner for her poem "THE WAITING GAME" in the Dream Quest One Poetry Contest – Winter 2012-2013. It has also been previously published at Poetry.com.

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

~~~~~

WHO IS THERE
by Debbie Hilbish

Today,
I’m going to see my grandmother.
She is locked in her hall
Of thoughts
that escape in slapdash patterns;
spilling past dry
cracked lips and
coloring her cheeks
with a flush of life now spent.
Her children cannot visit.
Their pride
carves pain
for a face that does not recognize
life delivered from her flesh
While I marvel at the places she now recalls;
hoping the most precious
envisage she has owned
will give way to the unfolding
of her youth’s coveted and cherished moments.
Today,
the curtain may rise on an improv
new and glorious to me
giving me glimpses
to fill in pages of
a past I can never know,
until my grandmother
opens the door to show me
who is there.

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

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THE OLD BASQUE

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The old Basque swings around our corner every evening.

Stetson grimed and battered

low on his brow,

eyes locked on the road

while knuckles clench the wheel,

his grizzled whiskers ripple

as the toothpick rolls in his mouth.

Each night whatever the weather

he forks up fried meat, potatoes and bread

in the Mill Stream Café on Main Street.

Two dogs patterned black and white

pace the bed of his pickup truck,

edge around tools and ATV

covered in range dust and dry heads of grass.

History on wheels, he’s too weary

from a day working cows, too busy

with the next day’s plans,

to even notice.

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

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TO MOM: LEAVING AND COMING
by Susan Dale

If she left when spring was arriving

What does that say about life?

For while we were committing Mom to eternity

Blue-eyed skies were stretching across the horizons

How do we accept the thrust of blossoms

On barren branches

Or the smiles of daffodils

When Mom was taking her place

On the crest of a hill

Where the winds of heaven

Were meeting the promises

Mom could not break

Nor could we halt the jubilant feet of spring

Dancing into our collective sorrow

SUSAN DALE's poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, Penwood Review, and Pyrokinection. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. Contact

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A CHOICE (AND A BABE)

by Mandy Alyss Brown

Carefree kisses
And now a mount(ain).
Change swells.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Extract(s) on March 23, 2012.

MANDY ALYSS BROWN earned her BA in English at Texas State University. Her poetry and fiction have been published or is forthcoming in Bartleby Snopes, 4'33', The Stray Branch, Extract(s), and more. Mandy is A Room of Her Own Foundation's 2013 Tillie Olsen Fellow and loves being a write-at-home mother. Follow her progress at mandyalyssbrown.weebly.com. Contact

~~~~~

A SYMBOL OF SELF WORTH
AND DETERMINATION

by Barbara Irvin

She stares into the camera, a wide smile on her face.

Her head held high, pride gleams in her eyes.

At this moment, she feels as though she is ten feet tall.

No one can take her dignity away and make her feel small.

Having a disability does not stop her from being just like you and me.

Through her endeavors, she shows other young women they can achieve all that they see.

BARBARA IRVIN's work has been featured in newsletters, newspapers, and other literary journals. She hopes readers find inspiration in her work. Contact

~~~~~

MOTHER'S DAY

by Susan Marie Davniero

Blessed is the mother

There is no other

Bleeding heart

Pulse of care

Echoes within

Feeling akin

Related bond

Never gone

Soothe the soul

Her hand to hold

Loving smother

Thank you Mother

Loving way

Of Mother’s Day

~~~~~

ANOTHER CHANCE

by Roger Singer

Puddles drip out to a better day.

Dragonflies drop a thousand eyes under

warm curving blue skies.

Swift currents of words stream by full of

shadows.

Pointing fingers, the spiders of pain and arrows loosed,

fall hard on the faces of war.

The sun, wrapped gold and tight, promises by tomorrow

another chance.

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

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TAKE ME BACK TO BLUE SKIES

Above—

an expanse of searing pale xanthos;

still, with these hollow sightless voids

I can feel its glaring, stabbing,

its cloudlessness—

no horizon, there, to anchor me.

Parched, rustling, snag-grass

reaching, stretching tall around—

over-arched—long, gaunt

prison fingers interlocked.

Tortured zephyrs scratch

their haunting measure

through my rattle-spire ribs.

Take me back to blue skies.

Let me be again,

in a time far, far from now

beneath an endless azure veil—

where high, gentle gossamer clouds

stretch and rub, merge and dream.

Just, for the briefest moment—let me rest,

where, all is soft and comfortable;

where a lilting current dances—

swirls light on fairy wings,

and slips across my downy fur.

My face pressed firm against

mother’s warm,

sweet-smelling underside,

I push and knead in rhythmic repeats.

Metronomic pulses:

spreading wide my paws

I squeeze her softness,

sucking long—drawing in

the luscious liquid life she has for me.

Brothers, sisters, lie beside and

press, caress, their softness to me,

purring, mewing,

kneading—drinking deep—

a contented reassuring cluster nestled

snug and safe within this

mother-fragrant grassy hollow;

stretching and rubbing,

merging and dreaming

beneath that faint blue sky

with high, gentle gossamer clouds.

for: the nameless old gray “tom” who now

sleeps beneath the grass by the railroad tracks.

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

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MOTHER SQUIRREL
by Wayne Scheer

I've never liked these hairy rodents,

these squirrels,

digging up potted plants

and stealing my tomatoes,

but yesterday I gained a new respect.

I heard a squirrel squeaking and squawking,

scratching at the screening of my front porch.

I kept chasing it away,

but it would return

with hysterical energy,

rabidly determined to find a way inside.

I finally discovered the problem.

A tiny baby squirrel,

about the size of a mouse,

had squeezed onto the porch

and couldn't get out.

I could hear it whimpering,

calling for its mother

who continued to scratch and claw

in maternal frenzy.

I propped open the screened door

and spied through the window.

It took a while

for the critter to discover the open portal,

but when it did

it scampered straight to its babe,

calmed it, probably nursed it,

but my view was obscured,

picked it up in its mouth

and shot out through the open door

so fast its tail could barely keep up.

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 http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife. Contact

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QUIET ROOMS, QUIET LIFE

by John T. Hitchner

Art and Betty live

in the cottage-style house,

second from the corner.

Spring, summer, and fall

they leave their doors open,

in case anybody wants to visit.

It’s a neighborhood where families

keep to themselves.

Neighbors wave “Hey, how are ya’!”

That’s all.

“They have their own lives,” Art says.

Saturday mornings Art follows tradition.

He brings coffee and donuts

to the kitchen table.

He and Betty read the town’s paper

and enjoy the warm, sweet treats.

TV and radio off,

quiet rooms in a quiet house,

the way Art and Betty prefer.

When Betty finishes Art's treats,

she goes upstairs.

On her way she stops

at the photographs of their children,

kisses her fingertips,

and places them on the faces

of Sam killed in Viet Nam,

Corlene a year later in a car accident.

“Love you, kids.”

Art knows Betty’s ritual.

He used to watch her every Saturday morning.

Not anymore, though.

He sips coffee, folds the newspaper,

checks the front and back doors.

No one there.

Another quiet day.

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

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TWINS

by Helen Fischetti

A double blessing came to us

Right from the Lord above

He sent two little baby girls

For us to have and love

Instead of sending just one child

He blessed our home with two

Laura Marie is the older

Susan Marie came next

Named for our Blessed Mother

We ask that she protects

Now as every day goes by

We see them changing so

Their cries now in chorus

Their faces are aglow

The day will come when

They’re not babies any more

But till that day, so far yet near

We wonder what’s in store

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was written by Helen Fischetti and is submitted by her twin daughters, Susan Marie Davniero (Fischetti) and Laura Marie Bowman (Fischetti) of Lindenhurst and Babylon, New York in memory of their mother.

Laura Marie and Susan Marie Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

Laura Marie Bowman and Susan Marie Davniero

Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

Helen Fischetti - Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

IN MEMORY OF HELEN FISCHETTI

by Susan Marie Davniero

I hear my Mother playing the piano. Motherhood was an art to my Mother, Helen Fischetti. My mother, Helen Fischetti, was very talented in writing music, plays and poetry. My mother worked full time as a Bank Branch Manager. Her hobbies also included designing and sewing clothes, reading novels and playing the piano. A woman of many words?; she wrote the songs. All the sounds of talent danced around her. To leave comments for Susan Marie, please contact Susan Marie Davniero

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CARING
by Ronald Roland

Caring is a way of hoping

A way through strife

A way of coping

A way of life

Caring is a way within the madness

A path of kindness

A way within the sadness

A way of gladness

Caring is a way of growing

A way of giving

A way of knowing

A way of living

Caring is a way of crying

A friend, a wife

A way of dying

The way of life

RONALD ROLAND was born in 1933 in Kentucky and has spent the better part of his last fifty-five years as a teacher, administrator, and college professor, while playing golf and tennis regularly. He is happily married with three grown children and two grandchildren. Contact

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SOLILOQUY TO SPRING
by Floriana Hall

Spring brings so many new things
Warm air, blossoms on trees
Birds on the wing
But I am still waiting.

I am still waiting and anticipating
The sun to shine every day
To see children out to play
While I observe in my rocking chair.

My rocking chair with weave so bare
Has traveled many miles
Has seen so many new styles
Come and go as years pass by.

The years pass by so quickly
Changes happen all the time
In life, economy and rhyme
This form is one of the changes.

Change puts everything in perspective
Times of our lives which were fun
We can no longer do, they are done
And a new generation takes over

Young people take over responsibility
For themselves, babies, and kin
A new cycle of love begins
As we sing a different tune.

~~~~~

SNAPSHOT: MY MOTHER ON HOLIDAY
c. 1960

by Abigail Wyatt

Here you are on holiday, smiling but shy,
back slightly arched, shoulders held back,
posing with a blue beach towel;
the straps of your costume, black, boned,
are rolled down to teasing effect.
Plump and pale, you are too apt to burn,
and your hair is a halo of dark frizz:
home-permed, still damp from the ocean,
salt-seared from all day in the sun;
and you, you are young, still able to giggle
and, flirting, you blush scarlet to your roots;
and this is the year you fled into the night
in search of shooting stars; but, instead,
you found a cow pat, still warm and fresh,
where you thought to rest your head
and we woke to tears and bustle,
saucepans and a kettle on the stove.
I looked out my window where the stars
shone bright but this was no night for romance.
The tears you wept were shards of glass
and your fury was your passion come undone.

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

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REWARD THE MILITARY HERO

by Susan Marie Davniero

Here he stands

Glorify the man

Honor the military

Citing bravery

Of distinguished valor

Noble qualities to savor

Brave amidst gore

Plague by war

Reward for gallantry

Military cavalry

Heroism derives

Saving lives

Beyond call of duty

Fight for liberty

Triumph over adversary

A hero is legendary

At time of war

For all they endured

A medal on their chest

Salute America’s best!

Father Gerard Fischetti, 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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

may celebrity poet

Amy Lowell
(1874 – 1925)

nationality: American

Amy Lowell – Credit: Wikimedia Commons

source

LILACS

Lilacs,

False blue,

White,

Purple,

Color of lilac,

Your great puffs of flowers

Are everywhere in this my New England.

Among your heart-shaped leaves

Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing

Their little weak soft songs;

In the crooks of your branches

The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs

Peer restlessly through the light and shadow

Of all Springs.

Lilacs in dooryards

Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;

Lilacs watching a deserted house

Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;

Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom

Above a cellar dug into a hill.

You are everywhere.

You were everywhere.

You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,

And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.

You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,

You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver.

And her husband an image of pure gold.

You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms

Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—

You, and sandal-wood, and tea,

Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks

When a ship was in from China.

You called to them: “Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,

May is a month for flitting.”

Until they writhed on their high stools

And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.

Paradoxical New England clerks,

Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the “Song of Solomon” at night,

So many verses before bed-time,

Because it was the Bible.

The dead fed you

Amid the slant stones of graveyards.

Pale ghosts who planted you

Came in the nighttime

And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.

You are of the green sea,

And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.

You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,

You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.

You cover the blind sides of greenhouses

And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass

To your friends, the grapes, inside.

Amy Lowell, “Lilacs” from The Complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell. Copyright © 1955 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Copyright © renewed 1983 by Houghton Mifflin Company, Brinton P. Roberts, and G. D'Andelot, Esquire. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

Source: Selected Poems of Amy Lowell (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2002)

Read the entire poem at:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171731

For the poet’s biography, see:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amy_Lowell