“All poetry is supposed to be instructive but in
an unnoticeable manner; it is supposed to make us aware of what it would be valuable to instruct ourselves in; we must deduce the lesson
on our own, just as with life."
an unnoticeable manner; it is supposed to make us aware of what it would be valuable to instruct ourselves in; we must deduce the lesson
on our own, just as with life."
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
POEM OF THE MONTH
DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS
by Floriana Hall
Moving into a mansion of spacious rooms
Exploring upstairs and downstairs scene
Waking to a small cozy bedroom
Seemed so real, but was only a dream.
Trying to keep up with family
Pushing babies in strollers so fast
While pets got tangled in bushes
What a fantastic, lovable cast!
Repeatedly dialing the same phone number
Not getting through to a voice for years
Lo and behold, someone answered
To say she understood any fears.
A bus or train chugging, rolling along
To some destination unknown
Finally back where it started
In a private, comfortable zone.
Bees buzzing overhead
Running away to escape
Like a nightmare so tragic
Thank God it was only fake.
Hidden faces under the lamplight
Who is it standing there?
What are they waiting for?
Why, it's only a dream, not a scare!
Tramp, stamp, hustle of footsteps
Following in the darkness
Hastening departures
Is part of the process, I guess.
Perhaps it was the squash
Or too much fatty meat
Wouldn't mind waking up
To a frothy chocolate treat!
Romantic dreams may seem the best
Although a lover has gone
At least they result in smiles
That last the whole day long.
Is this what dreams are made of?
It's really not so bad
When none cause daylight trauma
Is that the dream I had?
Exploring upstairs and downstairs scene
Waking to a small cozy bedroom
Seemed so real, but was only a dream.
Trying to keep up with family
Pushing babies in strollers so fast
While pets got tangled in bushes
What a fantastic, lovable cast!
Repeatedly dialing the same phone number
Not getting through to a voice for years
Lo and behold, someone answered
To say she understood any fears.
A bus or train chugging, rolling along
To some destination unknown
Finally back where it started
In a private, comfortable zone.
Bees buzzing overhead
Running away to escape
Like a nightmare so tragic
Thank God it was only fake.
Hidden faces under the lamplight
Who is it standing there?
What are they waiting for?
Why, it's only a dream, not a scare!
Tramp, stamp, hustle of footsteps
Following in the darkness
Hastening departures
Is part of the process, I guess.
Perhaps it was the squash
Or too much fatty meat
Wouldn't mind waking up
To a frothy chocolate treat!
Romantic dreams may seem the best
Although a lover has gone
At least they result in smiles
That last the whole day long.
Is this what dreams are made of?
It's really not so bad
When none cause daylight trauma
Is that the dream I had?
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
BEGINNING
by Cheryl A. Van Beek
Laser beams split
rocks
roared.
Light drenched the
planet.
Crystal prisms and
cubes
folded molecules in
flaps
around treasure--
egg shaped geodes
bearing quartz
mirroring the dream of
the world.
The sun stretched way
down,
beaming through
raindrops,
dipped its toes
into the rosy hollows
of rhodochrosite
wound the fire out of
an opal,
melted yellow
from sulfur's frosted
druzy
foraged green
from a field of
malachite
swam in a grotto of
azurite
tapped indigo
from tanzanite's
jagged prisms
pressed violet
from amethyst's glassy
fingertips.
The sun juggled the
bands of colors,
slid them up her arms
like bangles
and rose.
She painted the colors
across the sky.
It wasn't yet a
rainbow,
but it was a start.
~~~~~
THE SONGBIRDS JOURNEY
by Susan Marie Davniero
Nearer Heaven and sky
Songbirds flutter by
Journey takes flight
Bird travelers’ plight
Lifted wings flew
To land they drew
Birds aloft are
Cometh from afar
Morning dawn clear
Turn a listening ear
Nature’s music rings
Hear Songbirds sings
Destiny gives way
Farther than today
For Songbirds yearn
Upon seasonal return
Where they sprung
Sweet songs unsung
Winged couriers flee
The Songbirds journey
Songbirds flutter by
Journey takes flight
Bird travelers’ plight
Lifted wings flew
To land they drew
Birds aloft are
Cometh from afar
Morning dawn clear
Turn a listening ear
Nature’s music rings
Hear Songbirds sings
Destiny gives way
Farther than today
For Songbirds yearn
Upon seasonal return
Where they sprung
Sweet songs unsung
Winged couriers flee
The Songbirds journey
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
~~~~~
LET US FORGET
by James Piatt
Let us forget
War, and
Instead, listen to the guttural
Croaking of frogs in a pond
When the moon is high and
We are safely tucked in our beds:
Let us forget
Dissension, and
Instead, listen to the soft murmuring
Of ring necked doves cooing in the
Dew of the early morn as we stroll
Atop pine needles on a country path:
Let us forget
Death, and
Instead, listen to promises of
Gentle prayers wafting through
Tall pines in the balmy evening while
We swing together on our
Old wooden, swing.
War, and
Instead, listen to the guttural
Croaking of frogs in a pond
When the moon is high and
We are safely tucked in our beds:
Let us forget
Dissension, and
Instead, listen to the soft murmuring
Of ring necked doves cooing in the
Dew of the early morn as we stroll
Atop pine needles on a country path:
Let us forget
Death, and
Instead, listen to promises of
Gentle prayers wafting through
Tall pines in the balmy evening while
We swing together on our
Old wooden, swing.
REFRESHING
by Barbara Irvin
The water sparkles.
It looks so deep, cool, and clean.
I long to dive in.
BARBARA IRVIN is just starting out in literary magazines. She has previously written for newspapers and newsletters. Contact
FILIAL DUTY
by Patricia
Wellingham-Jones
The slight man in
Birkenstocks
scoops up his father for
his birthday,
96 today and they’re
headed for the desert.
No women are allowed—
though his wife packed
chocolate cupcakes
with a can of chocolate
icing
in his backpack.
They’re doing their
guy-thing:
low-end motels,
long walks in the dust,
letting their clothes get
grungy
and cheeseburgers every
night.
They’ve been celebrating
Dad’s birthday
this way for many years.
Neither shows any sign of
stopping.
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES
is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with an interest in
healing writing and the benefits of writing and reading work together. Widely published in poetry
and nonfiction, she writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact
WEATHER REPORT
by Richard Schnap
RICHARD SCHNAP is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications. Contactby Richard Schnap
Once my mind was an angry sky
A mad canopy spitting down drops
Of acid rain that seared my heart
And flooded my soul like a black sea
That swallowed my lifeboat of dreams
Then you came and the clouds lifted
And the sun emerged to dry my tears
While the wind from your lips parted
The waves until I stood again on land
Marveling at the rainbow in your eyes
A mad canopy spitting down drops
Of acid rain that seared my heart
And flooded my soul like a black sea
That swallowed my lifeboat of dreams
Then you came and the clouds lifted
And the sun emerged to dry my tears
While the wind from your lips parted
The waves until I stood again on land
Marveling at the rainbow in your eyes
MILLIONS OF MEMORIES
by Jade Kolbo
If someone asks me what my favorite memory is
I won't know how to answer them
There are any number of memories to choose from
Moments of pure and inspiring happiness and joy
The time I landed my first lead theatre role
The time I accepted my first unpaid writing job
Moments of being completely proud and astonished
The time I said goodbye as my brother joined the Navy
The time I hiked to a cliff top with a group of twenty
Moments of hardship that made me stronger
The time I was bullied in junior high
The time I experienced endless school changes
So how can I choose and answer so complex a question
When I don't have a simple answer?
~~~~~
UNDER THE WILLOW TREE
by Floriana Hall
Willow, Willow, Dear Willow,
Weeping Willow tree
Do you ever weep for me?
Do you remember the month of June
When he sang, just for me, loves sweet tunes
In the sun, mist, or rain?
You stood tall outside my door
And listened to songs that I adore,
Songs that live forevermore.
Your leaves danced to the swing and sway
Or melancholy moments, our way of
Drifting to the mood of the day.
You heard the laughter and whispers of love
As you drank in God's liquid from above
And knew wings of the peaceful dove.
You will be living when I am gone,
He sings for me in the great beyond
Perhaps you still hear him softly.
What will it be like, dear Willow
In a whistle or sunrise glow
Will you know?
by Floriana Hall
Willow, Willow, Dear Willow,
Weeping Willow tree
Do you ever weep for me?
Do you remember the month of June
When he sang, just for me, loves sweet tunes
In the sun, mist, or rain?
You stood tall outside my door
And listened to songs that I adore,
Songs that live forevermore.
Your leaves danced to the swing and sway
Or melancholy moments, our way of
Drifting to the mood of the day.
You heard the laughter and whispers of love
As you drank in God's liquid from above
And knew wings of the peaceful dove.
You will be living when I am gone,
He sings for me in the great beyond
Perhaps you still hear him softly.
What will it be like, dear Willow
In a whistle or sunrise glow
Will you know?
Yes, by a new romance
People of all ages who take a chance
To live their lives together.
You will surely know, dear Willow
When you hear their melody of love.
People of all ages who take a chance
To live their lives together.
You will surely know, dear Willow
When you hear their melody of love.
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
~~~~~
CHURCH IS HOME
by Susan Marie Davniero
Whatever the reason
Whenever the season
No need to drift or roam
The Church is home
For what Jesus gave
You can be saved
In the steeple dome
The Church is home
Open door policy
Faith is your key
All faithful welcome
The Church is home
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
~~~~~
by Ronald Charles Epstein
Don't serve me rancid horsemeat,
on a day-old bun,
then try to tell me
that it's a Waldorf Red Hot,
served at Simpson's Downtown,
in Toronto-back in '63.
RONALD CHARLES EPSTEIN was born in Bogota, Colombia in 1956 and has lived in Toronto, Ontario since 1959. His first publication appeared in Piedmont Literary Review in 1982. He has also been published in Harvard Review, The Antigonish Review, The Toronto Star and Expresso Tilt. Ronald has several DVD reviews published in VIDEOSCOPE and his latest book review appears on the PRAIRIE FIRE REVIEW OF BOOKS website. Contact
~~~~~
by Roger Singer
Leather necking wind
Corners on black road surface lust
where devils wink
and angels fly off
to safer clouds
leaving behind Tommy Knockers
and café racers chasing
shadows into curves
where knees kiss the road
and shoulders slip the bounds
of gravity
while tires lick flat black
and side bend
hanging between the
death of beyond and the clouds
of now
as the riders beat the leather
into sweat
tasting speed
spitting at careful
dashing for the next
of what’s up front.
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
~~~~~
TAO OF BEER
With deliberation
I soak my grimed bandana
in refreshing mountain flow.
A sign near the bridge read:
Bard Creek—
which “bard” I know not
and somehow, doubt
if I am soaking up
energy of poetic effervescence
however jubilant,
this spring run-off
born of high blue ice
and endless seasons in time.
Today,
only the Tao of a cool beer—
immersed in frigid waters,
wedged between stones
conceived
in the fires of earth’s memories.
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
~~~~~
IF WE DARE TO CARE
by Patricia Crandall
for all children
A red-headed,
freckle-faced
bare-limbed boy
kissed by the golden
sun
is berry-juice brown
as he scampers along
the stretch
of a railroad bed.
A wide-brimmed hat
sets cockeyed upon
his tousled, curly
head.
He bounces along
to the tune of a song,
a train whistles
a refrain most
ill-bred.
Still, while a
passerby
views this small,
happy guy,
his uncluttered world
is to be envied.
His is a simple life,
carefree and lacking
strife.
It is the way it
should be
for a red-headed,
freckle-faced
bare-limbed boy
kissed by the golden
sun.
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 WAVE
by Hal Lorin
by Hal Lorin
Oh little darling
Smaller than the wave
At the edge of the sunny sea.
Jump now. Jump. Jump in.
See it shine your skin
In a moment
The tide will rise
The sun will set
The beach will empty.
Smaller than the wave
At the edge of the sunny sea.
Jump now. Jump. Jump in.
See it shine your skin
In a moment
The tide will rise
The sun will set
The beach will empty.
HAL LORIN has published in edited e-zines and printed anthologies. He has written four novels and two books of poetry. He has published books and articles in aspects of Computer Science and Technology. He has been a Consulting Faculty Member at IBM Systems Research Institute and has held graduate level professorships at New York and Hofstra Universities. He has spoken at universities and international symposia in Europe, Africa, and Asia. He is Principal Consultant of The Manticore Consultancy. He is a resident of New York City. Contact
~~~~~
letting go
by Steve Croisant
let the warm wash of breeze flow forth from your lungs
for there is life within it and inspiration and time
and in it lies my mood
let the gravity have its say lest your potion of laughter
drift me afar where its music will not echo within
a soar of solitude
let the night fall for we are moored in safe harbor
in a berth of ways and means where tranquil darkness gives us another way of seeing
let the lightning know our eyes and
thunder drum our hearts
the storm plays our song and letting go of everything but us is another way of being
© Steve Croisant, 2003
January 28, 2003
STEVE CROISANT has no formal writing training or education, but has been writing semi-regularly since the early 2000's. He has been a member of Columbine Poets for five or six years, and reads semi-regularly at a couple of open mics in the Denver metro area. His poems have been published in Brenda Stumpf's art book, Seshat, Columbine poet's anthology, Backstreet Poetry Review, and Long Story Short. Contact
~~~~~
BOB'S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS
(AT HOLY CROSS HIGH SCHOOL)
(To my husband Robert Davniero)
by Susan Marie Davniero
At Holy Cross he comes to depend
As if it was his best of friend
Faithful High School of command
Rises above he will stand
Tuition befalls on his parent’s concern
His boyish thoughts are to learn
Faculty’s lessons to fill his need
As he follows guidance to succeed
Knowledge rewards build to acquire
To store away for this young squire
Beyond the wealth of books for some
He plays sports ballgames to be won
His term of school years forward on to date
With honorable degree he proudly graduates
Bygone High School days are of the past
Yet, the memories found today still last
Credit:
Susan Marie Davniero
~~~~~
HAIKU FOR SPRING
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
spring is in the air
whispering breezes capture
hints of life again
crocus bursts through soil
bluebirds sweet melodic pitch
in tune with humans
romantic feelings
love songs new rhythm and beat
stir the fragrant soul
nature plays a part
banishes shivers and fears
love blooms in warm hearts
whispering breezes capture
hints of life again
crocus bursts through soil
bluebirds sweet melodic pitch
in tune with humans
romantic feelings
love songs new rhythm and beat
stir the fragrant soul
nature plays a part
banishes shivers and fears
love blooms in warm hearts
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
june celebrity poet
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749 – 1832)
nationality: German
JUNE
SHE behind yon mountain lives,
Who my love's sweet guerdon gives.
Tell me, mount, how this can be!
Very glass thou seem'st to me,
And I seem to be close by,
For I see her drawing nigh;
Now, because I'm absent, sad,
Now, because she sees me, glad!
Soon between us rise to sight
Valleys cool, with bushes light,
Streams and meadows; next appear
Mills and wheels, the surest token
That a level spot is near,
Plains far-stretching and unbroken.
And so onwards, onwards roam,
To my garden and my home!
But how comes it then to pass?
All this gives no joy, alas!--
I was ravish'd by her sight,
By her eyes so fair and bright,
By her footstep soft and light.
How her peerless charms I praised,
When from head to foot I gazed!
I am here, she's far away,--
I am gone, with her to stay.
If on rugged hills she wander,
If she haste the vale along,
Pinions seem to flutter yonder,
And the air is fill'd with song;
With the glow of youth still playing,
Joyous vigour in each limb,
One in silence is delaying,
She alone 'tis blesses him.
Love, thou art too fair, I ween!
Fairer I have never seen!
From the heart full easily
Blooming flowers are cull'd by thee.
If I think: "Oh, were it so,"
Bone and marrow seen to glow!
If rewarded by her love,
Can I greater rapture prove?
And still fairer is the bride,
When in me she will confide,
When she speaks and lets me know
All her tale of joy and woe.
All her lifetime's history
Now is fully known to me.
Who in child or woman e'er
Soul and body found so fair?
Tell me, mount, how this can be!
Very glass thou seem'st to me,
And I seem to be close by,
For I see her drawing nigh;
Now, because I'm absent, sad,
Now, because she sees me, glad!
Soon between us rise to sight
Valleys cool, with bushes light,
Streams and meadows; next appear
Mills and wheels, the surest token
That a level spot is near,
Plains far-stretching and unbroken.
And so onwards, onwards roam,
To my garden and my home!
But how comes it then to pass?
All this gives no joy, alas!--
I was ravish'd by her sight,
By her eyes so fair and bright,
By her footstep soft and light.
How her peerless charms I praised,
When from head to foot I gazed!
I am here, she's far away,--
I am gone, with her to stay.
If on rugged hills she wander,
If she haste the vale along,
Pinions seem to flutter yonder,
And the air is fill'd with song;
With the glow of youth still playing,
Joyous vigour in each limb,
One in silence is delaying,
She alone 'tis blesses him.
Love, thou art too fair, I ween!
Fairer I have never seen!
From the heart full easily
Blooming flowers are cull'd by thee.
If I think: "Oh, were it so,"
Bone and marrow seen to glow!
If rewarded by her love,
Can I greater rapture prove?
And still fairer is the bride,
When in me she will confide,
When she speaks and lets me know
All her tale of joy and woe.
All her lifetime's history
Now is fully known to me.
Who in child or woman e'er
Soul and body found so fair?
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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