“The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which
is beauty, is the aim of both."
is beauty, is the aim of both."
The editors of Long Story Short are proud to announce that "HEART OF THE WELL" by Debbie Hilbish has been selected the LSS Poem Of The Year. Congratulations, Debbie!
POEM OF THE YEAR
by Debbie Hilbish
When the man came,
needing a place to dwell,
he could look in
and see the depth
of the water in the
well.
No doubting
It had been neglected.
The rope was frayed,
bucket weather worn,
wheel a bit squeaky;
but the important
thing
the essence was there.
Almost full.
This is a good place,
thought the man.
Joyfully
the well offered up its sustenance
giving freely and often to this new
dweller.
Radiating
in the knowledge that its liquid nurtured the man.
Soothed-cleansed-comforted
sustained him.
The man covered the
well in winter
to keep it from
freezing.
Repaired the bucket
which allowed him to
reach what the well had to offer
and
For his survival
he needed.
He oiled the wheel,
repaired the rope
even planted flowers
around the well for beauty.
In appreciation
The well swelled and
sang
Yes
take from me, use me.
I give freely
and give and give for
this is my purpose.
A drought came.
The man continued
dipping
into the life of the
well.
I have no rain,
I have nothing to
replace
what is being taken
from me
thought the well.
Still, I have faith.
In time the man will
realize
I am in need of
nurturing.
The drought continued.
The water in the well
muddied.
The man continued to
take.
The well was patient
continuing to give of
itself
even if a bit begrimed
Wanting to believe
somewhere deep inside
surely the man will
realize
I must have returned
to me
that which I’ve given
so freely.
The well’s life
substance
ebbed lower and lower.
Who could guess the
length of time
the drought would
linger?
The well went dry
The man could look in
and saw...
only dirt.
This is not a good
place
thought the man.
Once again
the well was
neglected.
The rope frayed,
the bucket became
weathered,
the wheel began to
squeak.
Drawn into itself
the well had lots of
time to reflect.
Perhaps… In gratitude
the man had covered me
in winter,
repaired my bucket,
oiled my wheel
even planted flowers
for beauty.
Perhaps… To serve him
DEBBIE HILBISH has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. Her first book of poetry was published in 2007, followed by a published chapbook in 2010. Debbie has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. She also hosted an eight week author’s fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona from 2008 through 2012. She is presently directing her energy towards working on her first novel. Contact
POEM OF THE MONTH
MISSING GRAMMA
by Debbie Hilbish
when the canyon hid daylight
and snow piled half up the windows.
Her solace wrapped in pieces of cloth
and a beloved sewing machine;
an extension of her flow.
Cut, trim, then carefully sew
with fur or ribbons, maybe buttons and bows;
Seldom a pattern needed to wield
an array of clothes
befitting her adopted antique dolls.
Old socks, porcelain, cellulose or wood,
Gramma loved those raggedy old babes
she’d buy at auctions and second-hand stores.
Most looked like they’d lost a battle or more.
Massed in a nest,
what might once have been hair.
Stuffing, if any,
now home for a mouse.
Arms bent askew.
Legs at an angle causing feet to face rear.
Miraculous if all parts were there.
Grams would trim hair
for a thanks and some pennies
Trimmings provided
wigs for some babies.
The two pence collected
in her depression glass jar,
next to catalogs of doll pieces and parts;
pages all tagged with bent corners.
She studied those books thin,
painted lips, bought new eyes, whatever it took
‘til her babes transcended
their neglect.
Gramma loved them back to their new.
She brought gifts
of open minded joy,
laughter and unabashed delight to family,
friends and any stranger lucky enough
to be touched by her life.
Grams filled the room when she walked in,
though only a slender four feet ten.
Blue eyes sparkled when she spoke
and her aura’s prism shone.
Her uncanny glowing soul coaxed
beauty from neglect.
beauty from neglect.
At night I kiss
the spirit of her cheek and miss her.
the spirit of her cheek and miss her.
DEBBIE HILBISH has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. Her first book of poetry was published in 2007, followed by a published chapbook in 2010. Debbie has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. She also hosted an eight week author’s fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona from 2008 through 2012. She is presently directing her energy towards working on her first novel. Contact
JANUARY JEWELS
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
It's easy to find fault with the first month of the year
Snow, ice, and Jack Frost trickle down many a tear.
January should be a time to count blessings abundant
Sitting by the crackling fire with hot cocoa
Finding time to relax and read a book or two
Enjoying a movie while popcorn pops,
Watching youngsters slide down the hill on sleds
Or ice skate on the frozen pond at the park.
There is much to be thankful for -
Good health, or for just being alive
To see what 2014 will bring - perhaps a surprise,
Hopefully not too many disasters
Weather wise and otherwise.
Blessings outshine all the rest
In a warm abode to bake pies and cakes
In a warm atmosphere to cuddle
With a warm heart to show our love
Wearing the jewels of January.
~~~~~
TIMELESS
by Susan Marie Davniero
Beyond the time of day
It grew, traveling away
Past starlit dust of spray
Dance of eternity at play
Turn the tracks of the past
Future onward to ever last
Heaven’s reveal confess
Travel beyond will assess
Value of life rates priceless
Our lifetime is timeless
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
~~~~~
WINTER IS HERE
by James G. Piatt
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away,
The ocean’s tide no longer calm or still:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in snow.
Frozen streams and barren trees dismay,
Summer’s heart is abandoned and shrill:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away.
Cold thoughts linger as sunny dreams decay,
The mountains are white with winter’s chill:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
The unfriendly winds blow icy and gray,
Turning the sun to the iceman’s will:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away.
Unfriendly gusts of winter are due again today,
Blowing warm thoughts far away from the hill:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
In the months ahead, the cold wind will go away
Sunnier days will reflect upon a rill, but for now:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away, and
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
by James G. Piatt
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away,
The ocean’s tide no longer calm or still:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in snow.
Frozen streams and barren trees dismay,
Summer’s heart is abandoned and shrill:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away.
Cold thoughts linger as sunny dreams decay,
The mountains are white with winter’s chill:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
The unfriendly winds blow icy and gray,
Turning the sun to the iceman’s will:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away.
Unfriendly gusts of winter are due again today,
Blowing warm thoughts far away from the hill:
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
In the months ahead, the cold wind will go away
Sunnier days will reflect upon a rill, but for now:
Sweet visions of warm sands are fading away, and
The icy breath of winter is reflected in the snow.
JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt is a retired professor, writer, and poet. He is the author of the poetry book “The Silent Pond.” His second poetry book “Ancient Rhythms” will be released the end of 2013; his third poetry book is scheduled for released in 2014. He is also the author of 2 novels (“The Ideal Society” & “The Monk”), over 465 poems, 32 short stories, and 7 essays. His poem, “The Night Frog,” was recently nominated for best of web 2013. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact
~~~~~
THE
LURE OF WORDS
by
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Though
no academic
she
spent her life buried in books,
underground,
under the covers,
in
dark corners and wood-paneled rooms.
She
had no objective,
just
knew that time was short,
books
were legion,
and
she had to absorb
as
much of the written word
as
her mind could hold.
True,
she sometimes suffered
from
hangover of the word
and
when her brain felt eroded
or
she needed a treat
she
helped herself to a dose
of
light fiction, but always
gulped
and swallowed words.
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
~~~~~
PROGRESS
by Joanna M. Weston
fir tree torn up
roots exposed to frost
trunk a bridge
for rabbits and mice
pipes orange and white
scattered beside excavation
crows circle high
search for nests
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
~~~~~
IF I WERE YOUNG AGAIN
by Michael Lee Johnson
Piecemeal summer dies:
long winter spreads its blanket again.
For ten years I have lived in exile,
locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
jostled up against open Alberta sky.
If I were young again, I’d sing of coolness of high
mountain snow flowers, sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows;
I would dream and stretch slim fingers into distant nowhere,
yawn slowly over endless prairie miles.
The grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in evening eagles spread their wings
dripping feathers like warm honey.
If I were young again, I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves;
I’d have as much dessert as I wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingertips.
But I’m not young anymore and my thoughts tormented
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery
from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I've lived locked in this unstable cabin,
inside rush of summer winds,
outside air beaten dim with snow.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Itasca, IL poet. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 26 countries, and he edits seven poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book),which is available at Amazon and iUniverse, several chapbooks of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has 69 poetry videos on YouTube. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
DESCENDING INTO SCHIPOL
by Ronald Charles Epstein
Descending into Schipol
the real toy city appears,
Madurodam makes sense.
by Ronald Charles Epstein
Descending into Schipol
the real toy city appears,
Madurodam makes sense.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Madurodam is a miniature park and tourist attraction in the Scheveningen district of The Hague, Netherlands, home to a range of perfect 1:25 scale model replicas of
famous Dutch castles, public buildings, and large industrial projects as found
at various locations in the country. The park was opened in 1952 and has been
visited by tens of millions of visitors since that date. The park was the
inspiration for Storybook Land,
an attraction opened in Paris in 1955. The poet visited Maduroadam on a family
vacation in 1970.
 |
| Madurodam in the Hague
in the Netherlands; Model of Binnenhof en Ridderzaal; Den Haag, August 14, 2007, Credit: Malis - Ondřej Málek, Wikimedia Commons |
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
~~~~~
THE END GOAL
by Susan Marie Davniero
Be what it may
This time of day
We long to break
Run away and escape
The daily beating
On a path heating
Warmth of body and soul
Striving to reach our goal
Promises won is when
It’s over in the end
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
~~~~~
MOTION
by James G. Piatt
Life and death
Entwined in
A symphony, finite time,
Infinity,
Inseparable pieces
Of a single reality
Always apart, always together
Growing, dying, being, and nonbeing,
Changing and unchanging,
In life
We experience death,
In death
We experience life,
Our bodies
Living seeds
Die,
Then begin life anew,
Our existence a
Paradoxical quandary:
A rushing river
That overflows
Becomes a lake
Then dries up,
We like the river or lake
Are the past, present, future,
We are
That which is
That which will be, and
That which will cease to be,
We are one yet
We are many
We are all things, and
We are no things,
We are born
Live, die, and are reborn
All of life is motion.
Entwined in
A symphony, finite time,
Infinity,
Inseparable pieces
Of a single reality
Always apart, always together
Growing, dying, being, and nonbeing,
Changing and unchanging,
In life
We experience death,
In death
We experience life,
Our bodies
Living seeds
Die,
Then begin life anew,
Our existence a
Paradoxical quandary:
A rushing river
That overflows
Becomes a lake
Then dries up,
We like the river or lake
Are the past, present, future,
We are
That which is
That which will be, and
That which will cease to be,
We are one yet
We are many
We are all things, and
We are no things,
We are born
Live, die, and are reborn
All of life is motion.
JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt is a retired professor, writer, and poet. He is the author of the poetry book “The Silent Pond.” His second poetry book “Ancient Rhythms” will be released the end of 2013; his third poetry book is scheduled for released in 2014. He is also the author of 2 novels (“The Ideal Society” & “The Monk”), over 465 poems, 32 short stories, and 7 essays. His poem, “The Night Frog,” was recently nominated for best of web 2013. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact
~~~~~
CLEVELAND CINQUAIN
by Michael Ceraolo
Mounds of
plowed snow remain
after inches of rain,
held together by the debris
from streets
~~~~~
REALIZATION
by Floriana Hall
I realize
The importance of family ties
Resentments not a bit wise
Sometimes vault of downright lies.
I surmise
That I will hear baby cries
New members who will arrive
And old folks demise.
I surprise
Everyone with special buys
And I always try
To meet their plies.
With humor so wry
With interest of whys
While considering sighs
And sad goodbyes.
I play with small fries
Games, ideas that mystify
Catch balls that fly
Talk about stars in the sky.
I try to reply
To questions so sly
And I never will pry
Nor will I spy.
I will try to comply
And keep my eyes dry
With negative replies
Or personalities shy.
I will take care of my guy
When he is not spry
Good days that fly by
Will keep me so high.
I realize
The importance of family ties
Resentments not a bit wise
Sometimes vault of downright lies.
I surmise
That I will hear baby cries
New members who will arrive
And old folks demise.
I surprise
Everyone with special buys
And I always try
To meet their plies.
With humor so wry
With interest of whys
While considering sighs
And sad goodbyes.
I play with small fries
Games, ideas that mystify
Catch balls that fly
Talk about stars in the sky.
I try to reply
To questions so sly
And I never will pry
Nor will I spy.
I will try to comply
And keep my eyes dry
With negative replies
Or personalities shy.
I will take care of my guy
When he is not spry
Good days that fly by
Will keep me so high.
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
~~~~~
WINTER ICE STORM
by Patricia Crandall
Unsurpassable in beauty,
frozen in still life form,
the limbs of pine trees
hang heavy
with their burden.
A bright red bird
flits to the ground,
posing vibrantly
then plucks a seed
beneath an iced feeder.
He retreats
within the rimed buttress
of a towering pine,
bordering a winter garden.
Goldenrod,
anxious to wave in gentle wind
bow piously
in crystalline fields,
once greening meadows.
if this was a congregation
exhibiting such reverence
how pleased God would be.
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
~~~~~
SECOND CHANCES
by Shirley Securro
Second Chances
We all need them
We all desire them
We all get them
Take advantage
They are lurking
right around
the corner
Don't let them
pass you by
Give the gift
Forget the past
See the new
Take the risk
Watch it change
For the best
Change your mind
Turn your heart
Make it right
Accept the gift
Mend the rift
Second Chances
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
~~~~~
THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
by Susan Marie Davniero
by Susan Marie Davniero
Souvenirs of the living
Gifts were for giving
Stories behind
Each of the finds
Open the door
What is stored
Revisit a time
Memory rewinds
Sentimental trip
Love and friendship
Mementos believing
Lost time seeing
Open a draw about
Let the memories out
The special occasion
Good times raising
No price tag recall
Yet, most valuable of all
Moments were these
Thanks for the memories
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
january celebrity poet
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
nationality: American
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Read the entire poem at:
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
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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