POEM OF THE MONTH
YOU CAN’T LOVE A CORPSE
by Michael Lee Johnson
You can't love a corpse
cause a corpse can't
love for free-
between being here once,
now gone.
Years pass
memories of then
photograph in heart now.
There he is on hard times,
hollow days,
Christmas Eve playing
Halloween tricks.
He speaks memories in
your eyes, they keep you twisting.
The cheers, the methodology,
the mirror, pools, of dark still water-
history is the way your face looks
when you wake up from this dream.
He was the best of images reflected.
The deep frost
amber memories
expose his face tonight
the way it was-
antiquities, ceremonies
of the living dead.
The farm, this farmer,
children,
campfires,
hayrides, friends,
harvester,
this way the Ottawa,
Illinois sky covers
its face with orange smears.
Little sticks of carrots
pop up from the ground,
farm reports and crop prices,
neighbors’ yellow harvest the corn.
Phillip was/is a good man
gone piecemeal dry.
Everything comes back
in brilliant face,
colors, autumn leaves,
then passes quiet
back into the night.
Somber, sober, this marking
of fragments I share this
space in time with you.
AUTUMN ENCHANTMENTS
by Patricia Crandall
I bite into fruits of summer
not bitter like winter’s condiments.
Voices are airy,
drifting across foliage
mirrored on the quiet lake.
Hummingbirds seek out
yellow-gold chrysanthemums
in spring-like fashion.
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
~~~~~
SPLENDOR IN THE TREES
by Floriana Hall
Driving through the countryside
Up and down the hills
Gazing at splendor far and wide
Seeing colorful spills
Of autumn leaves in their glory
Reds, yellows, rust, and gold,
Each year adds an age-old story.
Looking out the windowpane
Seeing gentle breezes turn to bold
As deciduous growth starts to wane,
It's still a beauty to behold;
Crispness turns to listless
Dance of pirouetting begins
And the earth is overdressed.
Gazing at the fallen leaves
With bare branches lifted upward
At a glance it is perceived
The season has no regard
And there is no retrieve;
Just wait until the spring
Driving through the countryside
Up and down the hills
Gazing at splendor far and wide
Seeing colorful spills
Of autumn leaves in their glory
Reds, yellows, rust, and gold,
Each year adds an age-old story.
Looking out the windowpane
Seeing gentle breezes turn to bold
As deciduous growth starts to wane,
It's still a beauty to behold;
Crispness turns to listless
Dance of pirouetting begins
And the earth is overdressed.
Gazing at the fallen leaves
With bare branches lifted upward
At a glance it is perceived
The season has no regard
And there is no retrieve;
Just wait until the spring
Which brings back everything!
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
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
~~~~~
TWO PRINCESSES AND A WITCH
(Happy Halloween)
by Susan Marie Davniero
Three darlin’ sisters – which are which
Every Halloween costume’s switch
Year to year Mom would stitch
Crafted costumes to bewitch
Halloween has its own hitch
A holiday that is candy rich
Trick or treat sisters would pitch
Two Princesses and a Witch
 |
Susan, Laura and Teresa in their Halloween costumes
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
~~~~~
OLD MELODIES IN MY MIND
by James Piatt
Crimson wind-driven notes,
Creating nostalgic memories,
As jazz streams from
A hunting tenor saxophone
Played by Charlie Parker,
Scandalous notes
In 1/8 time
Tear into my mind,
Musical chords rumble
Stridently as dark
Melodious harmonies,
Too many years gone by,
Too many tunes mislaid,
Songs
By dead musicians
In concert in their graves
Gushing stridently,
Rivers of
Discordant rhythms
Flow
Into my
Age-worn soul.
Creating nostalgic memories,
As jazz streams from
A hunting tenor saxophone
Played by Charlie Parker,
Scandalous notes
In 1/8 time
Tear into my mind,
Musical chords rumble
Stridently as dark
Melodious harmonies,
Too many years gone by,
Too many tunes mislaid,
Songs
By dead musicians
In concert in their graves
Gushing stridently,
Rivers of
Discordant rhythms
Flow
Into my
Age-worn soul.
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
~~~~~
CLOTHES OF COURAGE
by Patricia
Wellingham-Jones
We strolled down the hall
from the blind keyboard
player
singing old tunes. My head
nodded as I sang under my
breath,
steps bounced in their own
little dance.
You said in a quiet aside,
“You always have more fun
than I do.”
I stumbled over the words
in the song
as my brain processed your
words.
I agreed, “I do enjoy
life,” then remembered
our decades of friendship,
how time after time
dark images spilled from
your lips,
brought back to sunshine
in your next breath.
I realized you’ve always
known
you lived within a gray
cloud
and, in a sudden shaft of
light, I saw
the courage you don like
clothes,
to approach each day with
a smile
when the corners of your mouth
were designed to turn down.
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
~~~~~
GREASE-BANDING THE APPLE TREES
by Neil Leadbeater
by Neil Leadbeater
In the last days, we made our way to the trees -
disrobed them of their hay-bands, those coarse bits of
sackcloth that had caught the caterpillar codlin moths
and foxed them at their game.
Without ceremony,
the men began to burn them; to set alight the larvae
that might have lingered there…
and I danced round the rag fire, stone-blind
in boy shorts, eyes smarting
with October smoke
while my father bound the grease bands
to stem the winter moth.
It was all a blur to me,
I was too gone on the red inferno
to watch with any interest
his husbandry at work.
Now it is my turn.
Doing my father’s labour, I wrap them like babes
in swaddling bands.
He watches me from a distance,
the last enactment of summer’s strength
ebbing through his hands.
NEIL LEADBEATER is an editor, author, essayist and poet living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His latest book, Librettos for the Black Madonna, was published by White Adder Press in 2011. His work has been translated into Spanish and Romanian. Contact
~~~~~
TRICK OR TREAT (a
nonet)
by Linda Gamble
Days adorned in hues
hot and spicy,
leaves dropped
seductively, caught in
wind’s bold bolero,
click of
castanets underfoot.
Sky, cloudless
blue, air
crisp and new ----
fall’s
cruel trick:
dress to
kill.
LINDA GAMBLE is a retired reading specialist who previously published articles in educational journals, but is now free to enjoy her first love of poetry. Her poems have been published in Edison Review, Mused, Long Story Short and Camel Saloon. Contact
LINDA GAMBLE is a retired reading specialist who previously published articles in educational journals, but is now free to enjoy her first love of poetry. Her poems have been published in Edison Review, Mused, Long Story Short and Camel Saloon. Contact
~~~~~
CATCHING HER HALF-SMILE:
INHALE, EXHALE
by Geoff Thurgood
Notice: evening sun
the same
as morning sun, shafts
of color fill shadows,
inhale or exhale
of disparate worlds.
You can feel
difference in their
intensity: the promise
of heat to come,
the promise
it will return.
GEOFF THURGOOD is the pen name for a husband and father of two from Lexington, KY. Though a full-time teacher for two years, he now works in a factory to be closer to his children and his thoughts. His poetry has been featured in the Atlantic Pacific Press, Chantarelle’s Notebook and Recently Eclipsed. Contact
~~~~~
WORDSWORTH SPEAKS HARLEM
(written in Harlem Renaissance workshop
at Tintern Abbey)
by Shonda Buchanan
I saw you Josephine and all the other Josephines
Satined by the sleek porous spotlight
That fragile forested night
Hot eyes pressed against your waxy glow,
Feathered harness, the scarred St. Louis of your eyes.
It was fall. The midnight crisp of autumn
Sat in the pink cool of my mouth like sycamore leaves
As the horn smoked around your naked belly.
I knew then that you were leaving.
And, as men do, I felt love for you then.
“And even the motion of our human blood”
slowed in me. For a moment I forgot the silver of music
the cry of deep rivers in the belly of English woods.
You and I became nature’s eternal timeless
Shadow of stone and rock.
Calling to the onyx inside me
Unfolding the porcelain of you
And I smelled the clotted blood of autumn dusk
Under your breath cracked by freedom
Stolen by the remittance of the dance.
I recognized it; but I did not own it.
And it was never a primitive thing.
SHONDA BUCHANAN: Editor of Voices from Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology, Shonda Buchanan's first collection of poetry, Who's Afraid of Black Indians? was nominated for the 2013 Black Caucus of the American Library Association Literary Award. Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Hampton University, Shonda is an Eloise Klein-Healy Scholarship recipient, a Sundance Institute fellow and a PEN Center Emerging Voice fellow. To contact the poet, visit her website or email.
~~~~~
IF I DIE
by William M. McCurrach
If I die tomorrow and my life does end,
Who would show at my funeral my friend?
Would they come from my youth, the days when I ran free,
A boy in the woods, enchanted you see?
I doubt that they would even remember me!
Would they come from my Elementary School days,
Ah even if I wish to know some,
I doubt it is what I say!
Would they come from the days I roamed high school hall?,
Carving and writing names on walls, long lost loves and
Male friends, and all.
I doubt it you see for I didn’t play ball!
Would they come from my teenage years, when my hormones raged?
And I had no fears?
I doubt they would remember me after all these years!
So if I die tomorrow who would come?
To see a man who always had to run?
Would my ex-wives show up, or my kids,
I do not know, for I am a lone wolf and that is my soul.
So as my blood pressure rages, and my nerves get blocked, my heart starts to clog and my life starts
To Stop, Tell me Lord who will be there to mourn
me when I drop!
WILLIAM M. MCCURRACH: Age 57; 16 Year Retired Veteran and Disabled in Navy; Attended Naugatuck High School in Connecticut; Graduated Magnum Cum Laude from Naugatuck Valley Community Technical College 1997; Writes Poems, Short Stories and Rants and Rave on his Blog; Contact
me when I drop!
WILLIAM M. MCCURRACH: Age 57; 16 Year Retired Veteran and Disabled in Navy; Attended Naugatuck High School in Connecticut; Graduated Magnum Cum Laude from Naugatuck Valley Community Technical College 1997; Writes Poems, Short Stories and Rants and Rave on his Blog; Contact
~~~~~
EPITAPH FOR SOOTY
by Abigail Wyatt
You were scarcely more
than a rag-scrap of fur
a newborn thing, curled inward,
half-blind,
I thought a sock or
glove misplaced, left idly on a chair.
You lay there, just as
in the womb, the two of you entwined;
your tiny paws and
tender noses, ears like pink-veined shells,
unlooked for and quite
perfect, two small miracles aligned.
Then, you and he,
Sooty and Smokey, cast your feline spells
to win our laps, our
fireside mats, our cushions, and our hearts;
but, though we bought
you catnip toys, you would wear our bells.
This afternoon we
closed your eyes and made our
last farewells.
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. Visit her new Blog. Contact
last farewells.
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. Visit her new Blog. Contact
~~~~~
RUBBER-STAMPED
by Sy Roth
Her electric cart squeaks as it turns down the aisle.
He dutifully follows, aged cygnet
shuffling the watery corridors behind her.
She whispers discoveries to the shelves.
He nods assent to the air around him,
ennui etched on his marbled face,
shuffles like a shuffleboard disk always landing on one,
rubber soles burping along the floor.
We form a camel’s caravan,
Dusty-desert purveyors of finite dunes,
marking time with the spaghetti boxes and
Aunt Jemima pancake mixes,
Aunt Jemima pancake mixes,
Prego sauces and Keebler cookies.
A clickety-clack sojourn of wheels and remembrances,
the superannuated goblin, parchment skin dotted with Chinese letters,
face a frayed patchwork sodded with clumps of droopy beard,
pant leg tucked askew into his laughing boot.
We crawl the aisles and listen to her sing-song exegesis.
Defeated hands dangle, slouch the seconds to inevitability.
Muzak interludes interrupted by fish sale announcements,
limp to the register for our rubber-stamped receipts.
SY ROTH comes riding in and then canters out. He resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway. He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight anthology. A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan. Contact
SY ROTH comes riding in and then canters out. He resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway. He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight anthology. A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan. Contact
~~~~~
ASHES AMIDST
by Jody McKinnon
The moon dwells in its resting place,
The fire burns its intensity, its plain honesty, its warmth,
The ashes float amidst the air,
The higher they float; they but dissipate into nothingness, as if
they weren’t even a part of the fire,
A piece of the very something that burns these flames,
The somethingness becomes absorbed to nothingness,
The branches were once one, with the tree, the earth, the air,
How fast they become amidst floating up high in the space of
this world,
But looking into the grandeur of it, when the flames have raised
their highest and can no longer burn,
The ashes that remain still linger with the sweet remembrances
of that burning fire!
JODY MCKINNON lives in a small town in Southern Maine and is a mom of four beautiful boys. Jody has had a love for poetry since her early teens and continues to fall in love over and over again. It’s a large part of who she is. She really would like to share her thoughts with the world and spread the love. Contact
~~~~~
BY THE GRAVEYARD GATE
by Patricia Landi Zippilli
Powdered moon
behind grey moving
clouds
painting a shadow's
light
across the stubbled
corn crop.
Carefully crossing
headstones
that whisper under
languid trees.
The crack of a
branch---
footprints left in
mud--
thick fog
casts a smoky atmosphere
on buried bones.
Black crows sit
on gate-top knobs
shortly screaming
in the mist,
before they take
to cutting flight.
They circle the yard
with some intent.
I watch them circle
in ceremonial dirge
then spirits soar.
PATRICIA LANDI ZIPPILLI
enjoys reading and writing, and a bit of
the TCM classics. In the past, she belonged to a ballet company, and taught art in an
elementary school. Her heart now belongs to poetry. Contact
~~~~~
GHOST MEMORY
by Debbie Hilbish
Twenty and some odd years passed now
Since Uncle Ira cast his
spell
Weaving magic
With the glorious stories
he’d tell
keeping us wrapped
In frightful delight
Scenting the image of a
ghostly
Flight
Caught in fragments
By the kerosene’s light
A pause from his voice and
closer we’d creep
Doing our best not to
scream
Anticipating
The illusion of witches
and demons
His deep throated whispers
entreated
He stored them all in his
head somehow
Never once was it thought
To write his words down
Now the choice is gone
from our grasp
There’s only his memory
These twenty years past
I gaze with sadness at the
empty chair,
Where Uncle Ira created
the lair
For a child’s imagination
It saddens me knowing
the new generations will
never hear
All his wondrous creations
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 an eight week author’s at The Reader’s Oasis in Quartzsite, Arizona 2008-2012 years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact
~~~~~
THROUGH A COUNTRY WINDOW
by Patricia Crandall
Reclining in my favorite,
low rocking chair
inside a calico blue kitchen
scented by pumpkin spice muffins,
I gaze through the window
to a point where sun
strikes leaves of shimmering gold
strung on trees in autumn.
In straw fields
lie orange pumpkin rounds.
Corn stalk sentries
stand tall and erect.
It is time to harvest
and reap in good thoughts.
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
~~~~~
HOW SWEET IT IS
by Floriana Hall
How sweet it is on Halloween
When sweet little children can be seen
Strolling up some neighborhood walkways
With scary masks or disguised many ways.
How sweet is it when candy is handy
So much sweetness in the candy
M&Ms, gummy bears, and lollipops
Satisfy taste buds, sometimes nonstop.
Parents or guardians keep them in sight
Especially in the darkness of night
Make sure the treat is wrapped
And there are no mishaps.
Eating sweets all at once can be done
But saving some can be more fun,
No tummy ache, no reprimands
As sweet kids drift off to dreamland.
Halloween comes but once a year
Sometimes a child's favorite holiday,
More sweet celebrations will appear
On Thanksgiving and Christmas day.
When sweet little children can be seen
Strolling up some neighborhood walkways
With scary masks or disguised many ways.
How sweet is it when candy is handy
So much sweetness in the candy
M&Ms, gummy bears, and lollipops
Satisfy taste buds, sometimes nonstop.
Parents or guardians keep them in sight
Especially in the darkness of night
Make sure the treat is wrapped
And there are no mishaps.
Eating sweets all at once can be done
But saving some can be more fun,
No tummy ache, no reprimands
As sweet kids drift off to dreamland.
Halloween comes but once a year
Sometimes a child's favorite holiday,
More sweet celebrations will appear
On Thanksgiving and Christmas day.
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 DREAM CATCHER
by Susan Marie Davniero
Rest assured my child
In the dark night cycle
Promise dreamland visits
To come peaceful and still
Quieting your fears
In your early years
Your nightmares escape
Before you awake
Through the chimes’ stretcher
By the Dream Catcher
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
october celebrity poet
Edgar Allan Poe
(1809 – 1849)
nationality: American
THE HAUNTED PALACE
In the greenest of our valleys
By
good angels tenanted,
Once a fair
and stately palace—
Radiant
palace—reared its head.
In the
monarch Thought’s dominion,
It
stood there!
Never seraph
spread a pinion
Over
fabric half so fair!
Banners
yellow, glorious, golden,
On
its roof did float and flow
(This—all
this—was in the olden
Time
long ago)
And every
gentle air that dallied,
In
that sweet day,
Along the
ramparts plumed and pallid,
A
wingèd odor went away.
Wanderers in
that happy valley,
Through
two luminous windows, saw
Spirits
moving musically
To
a lute’s well-tunèd law,
Round about
a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene!
In state his
glory well befitting,
The
ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with
pearl and ruby glowing
Was
the fair palace door,
Through
which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And
sparkling evermore,
A troop of
Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was
but to sing,
In voices of
surpassing beauty,
The
wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil
things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed
the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us
mourn!—for never morrow
Shall
dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round
about his home the glory
That
blushed and bloomed
Is but a
dim-remembered story
Of
the old time entombed.
And
travellers, now, within that valley,
Through
the red-litten windows see
Vast forms
that move fantastically
To
a discordant melody;
While, like
a ghastly rapid river,
Through
the pale door
A hideous
throng rush out forever,
And
laugh—but smile no more.
Source: Poets of the English Language (Viking Press, 1950)
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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