LONG STORY SHORT: POETRY PAGE: November 2013 Poetry Page

“The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and storytellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland."

- Lucy Maud Montgomery
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

THANKFUL

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

When you pitch down the stairs on your nose

or crash to the floor and can’t turn over

I’m thankful there are only three steps

nothing broke and I can haul you to a chair

When you tangle in your walker

body jammed against the door

I’m thankful most of the blood comes

from a small scalp wound

When you fret about jobs you think you didn’t do

or worry about Smudge the cat

outside in dark rain

I’m thankful I can soothe your spirit

and you remember the cat’s name

(though not mine) and care

When you rage about people stealing you blind

or talk about your second wife’s good money judgment

I know it is not happening

and that is me though you don’t know that

When you use your Swiss Army knife to tear

your trousers in search of your wallet

I’m thankful you don’t use it on me

and I take it away

When you look scared about the men

surrounding you in your room

I’m thankful you’re in your own home

safe and alone in your room

When you say at bedtime thank you I love you

I’m thankful for the glow in your eyes

that says it’s true when you cannot

speak my name

When you praise me and the other two women
taking good care of you

I’m thankful you know you’re in good hands

though all those women are me

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has a longtime interest in healing writing and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Her poems, stories and articles are widely published; chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Contact

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NAUGHTY NOVEMBER

by Floriana Hall

The month of November is like a spoiled child

Who gets its own way no matter how wild

Winds whine and howl

Ominous clouds tear and bawl

Bare trees lose their luster

Bushes sway, twist, and cluster

Ice and snow crystals fall down at random

To form a seemingly endless tandem

Thirty days of misery or fun

Depending on outlook or someone.

No matter what anyone says or thinks

It will not be gone in a blink

The longest short month of the year

Is gone without a wipe of a tear -

Grin and bear it is easily said

But November might be a month to dread!

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

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THANKS TO THE WWII VETERANS

by Susan Marie Davniero

The Pearl Harbor attack

There was no turning back

December 7, 1941

Will live in infamy

With Japan’s Rising Sun

The war has begun

President Roosevelt’s command

Rally every able man

For army, navy, or air

To go over there

D-Day June 6

Freedom at risk

Naval forces invade

Paratroops land a raid

Airborne troops bombard

Foot soldiers infantry

Walking history

Battle of the Bulge rage

Germans and Americans rampage

Military’s adversity

Allied forces affinity

Atomic bomb blast

Victory at last

1945 Triumph occurs

German and Japan surrenders

A glory site gazing

Iwo Jima flag raising

United States wins

Thanks to the WWII Veterans

Susan's Father - Gerard Fischetti, WWII Army, 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

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AUTUMN
by James Piatt

It was a balmy fall day at the river,
filled with the meadow’s muted voice,
the trees sat in silence, as if waiting
anxiously for the freeze, which would
soon turn their leaves to a burnished
yellow, and fling them into a deep sleep.
The sun’s muffled beams of warmth cast
a sacred spell upon my mind, thawed
my soul from the thoughts of the coming
frigid chill: As gaudy birds sang near a
placid brook, the voices in my mind quietly
dwelled on summer memories, in my ears,
the songs of downy birds delicately trilled.
Holding my breath, I bathed in the
strangeness of the day, in my favorite
place, and with my pulse gently beating,
I held my worried thoughts far away, and
took in the strangeness of the hours
that harkened in the autumn, season.

JAMES PIATT earned his B.S. and M.A. from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. Broken Publications published Dr. Piatt’s début book of poetry, “The
Silent Pond” in 2012, and they will be releasing his second poetry book, “Ancient Rhythms” in the fall of 2013. A third poetry book will be released in 2014. His poem “The Night Frog” was recently nominated for best of web 2013. He has had over 450 poems published, and Long Story Short selected his poems for the POEM OF THE MONTH in 2011 and 2012. His books are available on Amazon. Contact

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WAGON TRAIN GIRLHOOD

by Nancy Haskett

Around 1960

my friend Diane

would play "Wagon Train" with me,

the front porch

transformed, for us, into a conestoga,

as we lifted our imaginary skirts to walk down

cement steps,

gathering twigs for firewood,

picking small, red pyracantha berries

to serve in plastic toy dishes —

berry stew

berry mush

a side dish of purple, jacaranda blossoms.

Sometimes we galloped to the corner

on unseen horses,

looping invisible reins over the mailbox,

walking off to meet

a pretend husband

or pioneer scout lover,

our arms encircling the street lamp post,

lips kissing stone,

teeth brushing lightly

against the reality

of rough granite

NANCY HASKETT is a retired junior high language arts teacher. She belongs to several poetry writing groups, and her poems have been published in numerous places, including the anthology More than Soil, More than Sky; Stanislaus Connections; Medusa’s Kitchen (website); Chaparral Updrafts; Song of the San Joaquin, and more. She lives in Modesto, CA with her husband and cat! Contact

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MASTER

by Gregory Liffick

Michelangelo

would

carve away

extra

marble

to reveal

the

figure

already

saw

in the

stone.

Need

hammer

and chisel

to go from

a chip

off

someone else's

block

to the

rock

you want

to be.

GREGORY LIFFICK is an artist, musician, and teacher of special education and college night-school courses from Ontario, California. He has been a poet, he says, for most of his adult life. His online poetry chapbook collection entitled WATERSHED is available to print online. Contact

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SWEET CHARIOT

by Linda Gamble

She sees him, tall, slender climbing

into that red Celica.

Don’t get a red one, she’d warned,

or a stick.

Home he and Dad came,

happy in cahoots,

her boy driving a red stick-shift.

Wonderfully maddening, those years,

tennis in fall, cross country in spring,

bright and full of himself, a rocket

ready for take-off. She misses

even those late nights waiting

for that damn car to pull in.

She waits some nights hears

the phantom click of his trick

ankle on the stairs.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Mused in September 2012.

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

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CALLING CALLING

by Joanna M. Weston

turn down
teenage sound and movement

footsteps up down stairs
slide the hall
leap old chesterfield

these days of endless text tweet
Ipods Ipads Blackberries in jeans pockets
lost in the depth of our hideaway chair …
that insistent ring

JOANNA M. WESTON: Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes,’ is published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father,’ is published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’ is available at her blog. Contact

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GRANDMA'S THANKSGIVING

(In Memory of Grandma Bridge Cioffi)

by Susan Marie Davniero

You’re invited to Grandma’s Thanksgiving

Holiday feast with all the trimmings

Family love surrounds where they sat

All bridging the generation gap

The table is properly dressed

In its suitable Sunday’s best

China plates surround trim with roses

Sitting on bed of placemat doilies

Apple cider poured in stemware glasses

Antipasto debut as appetizer

Welcome platter of homemade pasta

The golden turkey bows a starring role

Co-starring yams, cranberry, corn and rolls

Mangia telling by Grandma’s call

Announcing Bon Appétit to all

Rich desserts spread closing act

Italian pastries, pies and snacks

Full of turkey and all of the above

But most of all – you’ll be full of love.

Susan & Bob Davniero holding a Happy Thanksgiving sign
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

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LEAVES

by Patricia Landi Zippilli

I dress in colors
my veins are chemically
treated by moist
rotting sweetness.
Grey is my favorite
color, the sun takes
too much out of me--
I end up sleepy
on the ground.
Turning over and over
shivering my edges,
piling up--
kicked around.
I sound like a gathering
of voices
whispering illegible
conversations

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

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ECHOING WALLS

by Floriana Hall

She haunts the walls of the care home halls

No, she is not a patient.

She visits her husband almost every day

Because he cannot walk or transfer.

A machine and two workers do the job,

But she and they are patient.

You see, he fell and broke his hip

At the age of eighty-nine years

And now he is ninety-one

But keeps on smiling like the sun

That peeks through his window shades,

He feels that he has it made

When he can smoke a cigar

When loved ones come to visit.

And the jokes he tells

Reverberate so well

From the walls of the care home halls

Laughter that helps cure all.

Ha, ha, ha, lol.

~~~~~

SPIRIT OF THE FAMILY TREE

by Debbie Hilbish

Family ties, the bonds that lie

not-so-dormant

in a heart.

Roots tangle fervently,

with centuries of ancestry;

connecting us in so many ways

we can’t begin to see.

All trees have limbs that harbor disease

filled with sadness and stories

that will never ease,

standing alone in the cold,

shivering in a breeze.

Nothing would change

by a knotty eye

or be made whole

when leaves try to hide

life.

All that happens is meant to be;

adding color and spirit

to the family tree

whispering. gently, lovingly

Family ties, the bonds that lie

not-so-dormant

in a heart.

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

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CHIMES

by Patricia Crandall

I love to listen

to wind chimes play

when gentle weather comes.

As sweet, melodic harmonies

Chant hymns to everyone.

Chimes tease the leaves

on limbs of trees

hour by hour.

They ride on winds,

and on to spin

upon waking flowers.

A sound so pleasant

to my ear,

remembering those

who once were dear.

Gone now are they.

I love to hear

wind chimes play.

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

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GIVE IT TO THE LORD
by Douglas Ellington

You see I knew that the Lord was always there,
But I would push him away,
Like I didn’t care,
But it’s time to make a change,
So I’m giving the Lord my soul,
And keeping my heart away from the dark hole.

Because I know that he is here,
To keep me from all evil,
So I have nothing to fear,
Because the Lord is with me,
No matter where I go or where I may be.

Now you see my soul was once lost,
But now it’s found,
So I’m coming out the water,
Raising my hands to the father.

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

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THE OLD COYOTE

by James Piatt

The old coyote howled
Its eerie sound in the
Dark hours of the night,
It moaned its haunting notes
Into my dreaming, ears.

It sent forth rasping rhymes,
Evocative unnatural sounds
Of that which was frightening,
It was an unworldly, impious moaning,
That sunk into the murky soil.

It was unified with all that which
Breathed in the darkness and
Thrust my mind into the damp
Earth until it tasted humanity.

I long to see that old coyote that
Howled such ghostly songs, but
It has passed unobserved into
The obscurity of its own
Shadows…and mine.

~~~~~

THAT KISS

by William M. McCurrach

I want to tell you a story you will believe,

It was a long time ago, and no one will grieve! Pause;

It was a rainy November night, the darkness fell,

As we stood, there in fright.

But the memory would burn for years on end,

That gentle kiss my female friend.

That kiss echoed through the years,

I remember giving it to you, to stop your tears.

When we broke, you smiled you see,

Said you had to go home from me.

That kiss lives on in my mind,

That kiss never died even in time.

Five Years passed by and I saw you again,

You invited me over to have tea like a friend,

As we laughed and reminisced, suddenly up came that kiss.

I never answered your question you see,

Because I knew you weren’t for me.

That kiss still lingers in your mind and yes indeed even in mine.

One gentle kiss that we both shared,

Yet never once did you or I say we cared.

But the kiss lingers on till the day we die,

And I shall never tell you why?

Yes That kiss lingers on and onnnnnnnnnnnnn,

til we dieeeeeeeeeeeeee!

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

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COUNTRY WAYS

by Doreen James

There! Swallows diving and soaring high,

Can I see four, no I’m sure it is five,

Their plaintive song drifting in the breeze,

Calling each other above the trees,

Now they have gone.

The skies are empty, but here comes the hawk,

Swiftly heading for the ground,

What sweet morsel can be found,

Skimming the ground he soars up high.

Now he is gone.

What can I see held in his beak,

A harvest mouse, no time to squeak.

Now he is away gone from sight,

higher than the big blue kite.

Now comes the dusk

I see the hunter's moon begin to show,

The faint glow shows streaks of red

The clouds are tinged with a rosy glow

And so it is time for me to go.

The day has gone.

DOREEN JAMES is married with two daughters and four grandchildren (3 girls, 1 boy). She has been trying to write for years and has had two poem published. She belongs to a Creative Writing Group and with their help has had more confidence to send work to the various sites. Contact

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TOMORROW

by Shirley Securro

Tomorrow what will you bring?

Happiness and a song to sing

A tear-filled day

That calls to pray

Or none of these things?

A boring hour

An exciting call

Dancing on toes

Without a fall

A friend to share

Someone to care

Or none of these things?

A kind or loving word

A beautiful flying bird

A smile from a stranger

A flirt with danger

Or none of these things?

A dream unmet

A promise kept

To be at rest

To hope for the best

Or none of these things?

Tomorrow what will you bring?

SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact

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OUR THANKSGIVING HEART

by Susan Marie Davniero

Seeking to find our Thanksgiving heart

One Thanksgiving Day, we took our part

Volunteering to join the serving line

At the pantry for the needy to dine

The table is set with a Thanksgiving spread

Thankfully we pray to share our daily bread

Platter full of sliced turkey in starring role

Co-starring cider, yams, gravy and rolls

The door is always open to serve all

Welcome everyone to come each fall

One Thanksgiving Day from the start

We’re thankful that we found our heart

Susan & Bob Davniero serving Thanksgiving Day Dinner

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

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november celebrity poet

Lucy Maud Montgomery

(1874 – 1942)

nationality: Canadian

Lucy Maud Montgomery – Credit: Public Domain

source

NOVEMBER EVENING

Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.

Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing
Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing;
'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming,
Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.

Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding
Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding
Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping,
Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.

Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener,
Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener;
And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging,
Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.

Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden
Garlanded with her hopesrather the woman laden
With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living,
Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.

Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places,
The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces;
Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming,
We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.

Read the entire poem at:

http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/lucy_maud_montgomery/poems/3511

For the poet’s biography, see:

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