"Ideas came with explosive immediacy,
like an instant birth. Human thought is like
a monstrous pendulum; it keeps swinging
from one extreme to the other."
POEM OF THE MONTH
HOW WILL HE KNOW HE IS BEAUTIFUL?
by Barbara Ragsdale
by Barbara Ragsdale
His thin arms wrap her shoulders; holding tight.
His head burrows into her neck.
He’s beautiful. But how will he know?
The legs much longer than when first he came,
His mother lowers him to the floor.
She takes his hand to guide him.
A mop of curly hair, so black it shines, frames his face.
The eyelashes, dark and thick, curl in a magical arc.
His beauty he cannot see.
A younger child bounces into the room;
The flaming red hair sprouts in all directions.
She skirts around the chairs, touching each one.
He sits quietly, head bowed, as though asleep,
The other tot, in sharp contrast, moves at a frenzied pace.
The mother’s gaze, divided like her heart, is split between the two.
The little girl rushes to whisper to her mother.
She rises to tend to her, leaving the handsome boy alone.
He never moves.
How will he know he’s beautiful?
The mirror will not help.
His beauty he cannot see.
How will he hear the tender words of a loving mother?
Or the joyous sounds of an energetic sister?
His ears can barely hear.
I sit beside him; touch his hand to assure him that he’s not alone.
He reaches, his fingers trail my arm.
“Mom will be back,” I tell him. He folds his hands and settles into quiet.
And then I know how we will tell him that he is beautiful.
Fingers will talk, describe, feel, console.
Caring touch will shatter the walls of his darkness.
BARBARA RAGSDALE is a columnist for
Southern Writers Magazine with her Nuts & Bolts column offering writing tips. Her
awards include recognition from Southwest Writers and National Pen Women in
non-fiction short story competitions. In addition, she is published with
three stories in the Chicken Soup anthologies. Her stories have been featured
in three collections of prayers, devotionals and Christmas stories published by
CCWriters. Contact
THE BEAUTIFUL MONTH OF MAY
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
The
world has been waiting for May
The month when everyone sighs to say
Winter is over at last.
Sun rises on the horizon so bright
Stars in the sky twinkle at night
The long season of snow has passed.
Ribbons fly in gentle breeze
Around the Maypole to please,
But don't zoom by too fast!
Children run outside to play,
Sometimes to pick a sweet bouquet
Happiness unsurpassed.
Field trips and trail blazing,
Dreams fulfilled amazing,
If only it could last.
Swinging to the tunes of the day
In the merry month of May
Are we, warm weather enthusiasts!
The month when everyone sighs to say
Winter is over at last.
Sun rises on the horizon so bright
Stars in the sky twinkle at night
The long season of snow has passed.
Ribbons fly in gentle breeze
Around the Maypole to please,
But don't zoom by too fast!
Children run outside to play,
Sometimes to pick a sweet bouquet
Happiness unsurpassed.
Field trips and trail blazing,
Dreams fulfilled amazing,
If only it could last.
Swinging to the tunes of the day
In the merry month of May
Are we, warm weather enthusiasts!
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
~~~~~
MOTHER
by Mary Ellen Shaughan
My mother carries her youth in gnarled,
arthritic hands,
arthritic hands,
holding it gently,
lifting it up with awe and reverence
whenever someone mentions family history.
She and I have arrived at a place where
we both marvel at what we once were,
and who we have become.
MARY ELLEN SHAUGHAN is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. She has been writing, in one genre or another, since childhood. She admits that she often views life through a kaleidoscope, which results in some unusual observations. Her poetry has appeared in Mid-America Poetry Review; Peregrine: The Journal of Amherst Writers & Artists; Foliate Oak; Long Story Short; Daily Palette/Iowa Writes, and other journals. Contact
~~~~~
DANDELION DREAMS
by Sandra H. Bounds
On the verge of a
shallow ditch
beside crumbling
pavement,
dandelions cluster.
Gentle breezes toss
their feathery orbs
in hypnotic sway that
conjures images
of our daughter busily
plucking
these saucy intruders
of our well-tended
lawn, trying with
softly rapid pushes of breath
to blow all feathers
off each sphere
in one puff so her
wishes will come true.
This pleasant reverie
turns my heart
upward with ripples of
praise
for dandelion dreams
that have come true.
SANDRA H.
BOUNDS has a Master of Arts in English and has taught in both high
school and community college. An active member of the Mississippi Poetry
Society, she was its 2005 Poet of the Year, and MPS published a chapbook of her
poetry to honor that selection. She has won many awards in the annual contests
sponsored by MPS, and she has been published in such journals as ART GULF
COAST, THE LYRIC, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, SHARING, THE WELL-TEMPERED
SONNET, and WESTWARD QUARTERLY. Contact
~~~~~
REMEMBRANCES
by Susan Marie Davniero
Taking a trip down
Memory lane town
Longed for the ways
Of the good old days
A potpourri of change
Lifestyles range
A journey back
In the time track
Nostalgic glories
Recalling stories
The way life was
That came to pass
What a century
It has been to see
Remembrances to last
Of the times past
~~~~~
SWEET AROMAS
by James G. Piatt
The flowers upon the windowsill waft
their beautiful aroma throughout the
room, a purer scent man cannot will or
manufacture for his tomb. Pine trees
carry a dove's soft voice so clear, so
traveler and homebound alike will listen
by James G. Piatt
The flowers upon the windowsill waft
their beautiful aroma throughout the
room, a purer scent man cannot will or
manufacture for his tomb. Pine trees
carry a dove's soft voice so clear, so
traveler and homebound alike will listen
with a heartfelt ear.
JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt is a retired professor, writer, and poet. He is the author of two poetry books “The Silent Pond,” and “Ancient Rhythms.” His third poetry book is scheduled for released in late 2014. He is also the author of 2 novels (“The Ideal Society” & “The Monk”), over 535 poems, 33 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
JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt is a retired professor, writer, and poet. He is the author of two poetry books “The Silent Pond,” and “Ancient Rhythms.” His third poetry book is scheduled for released in late 2014. He is also the author of 2 novels (“The Ideal Society” & “The Monk”), over 535 poems, 33 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
~~~~~
ODE TO MUD
by Carol Smallwood
Dirt roads--harbingers of spring:
the slowing, swaying, pulling ruts,
the spattering mud claiming
your connection with soil,
puddles reflecting
your place in the universe
the slowing, swaying, pulling ruts,
the spattering mud claiming
your connection with soil,
puddles reflecting
your place in the universe
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was previously published in Subliminal Interiors Literary Arts Magazine, May 2012.
CAROL SMALLWOOD’s books include Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching, foreword by Molly Peacock (McFarland, 2012) on Poets & Writers Magazine list of Best Books for Writers; Divining the Prime Meridian (WordTech Editions, 2014); Bringing the Arts into the Library (American Library Association, 2014). Carol has founded, supports humane societies. Contact
~~~~~
MORE THAN SECOND-HAND
by Joanna M. Weston
the high chair
that we lovingly repaired
painted decorated
for our first child
it was then
pounded dripped on
scratched splodged
by three children
then passed on
to other new parents
found years later
with another child
happily banging
our chipped paint
in a new neighbour’s home
~~~~~
MY GUARDIAN ANGEL
by Susan Marie Davniero
Angel of God my dear
Has come to be here
This day by my side
To guard and guide
I have no fear
Knowing you are near
 |
| ANGEL, Hand Drawing by 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
~~~~~
FOX-PLAY
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
In the field across the
way
three young foxes watch
mother leave.
When she’s safely out of
sight
capturing breakfast
they burst from the
blackberry tangle
in a shrill clamor of
yips.
The foxes leap, race and
cavort
as the sun glides over the
mountain,
gilds their red coats,
their bushy tails as big
as their bodies.
I don’t understand Fox,
they surely don’t speak
English,
but we all recognize joy.
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with poetry widely published in journals, anthologies and Internet magazines. She has a special interest in healing writing, leads a cancer center writing group, and has work in several anthologies on related subjects. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew. Contact
~~~~~
SHADOWS AND REFLECTIONS
by Nancy Haskett
My mother’s face and voice,
once as familiar
as my own signature
or the soothing sound of rain,
have become mere memories yellowed with age,
like lace and appliques on the gown
she sewed for my wedding,
dimmed like old photographs
no longer vibrant with color,
her aspects eluding me even as
I run my fingers down the surface
of an oil painting,
searching for the softness of her hand
that created it.
Today, in this year that divides
exactly
our thirty-two years together
from thirty-two years apart,
I look for traces of her in my own reflection,
catching a glimpse, sometimes,
in the gray of my hair,
the slight swell of my belly,
but more often seeing shadows of my father
in the set of my jaw
the turn of my mouth,
and I worry she is lost to me
until I find her again,
just for a moment
in my daughter’s smile
NANCY HASKETT is a retired educator who lives in Modesto, CA. Her poetry has won numerous awards and has been printed in many places such as the collected anthology More than Soil, More than Sky; Stanislaus Connections; National League of Penwomen website; Long Story Short ezine; Medusa's Kitchen website; Song of the San Joaquin and many more. When she's not writing poetry, Nancy enjoys reading, traveling, going to the gym and spending time with three grandchildren! Contact
~~~~~
NIKKI
by Michael Lee Johnson
Watching doves
peck away,
all day long at
a full bowl
of mixed seeds,
out on the balcony
of my condo,
my cat curls
up on the sofa,
after a meager
meal of house flies-
and dreams of
sparrows with
wide soaring
wings.
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
~~~~~
MY DESERT ROSE
by Debbie Hilbish
My desert rose is made of stone,
no scent
perfumes night’s air
no soft caress
across your hand,
nor color’s vibrant flair.
It can’t be bought
on city streets
to assuage a bad affair.
It will not make
the bearer seem
thoughtful and debonair.
My desert rose is not well known
no songs
for love’s sweet lair
no deception wraps sweetly ‘round it,
nor stems
with thorns to tear.
It does not grow
in gardens lush
to win the maiden fair.
It does not grace
the banquet halls
to accent the dinner wear.
My desert rose is made of stone,
soft lines make her plain
in compare.
Yet her center holds
the desert warmth
for just plain folk to share.
Her beauty is her simplicity.
That, in itself,
makes her rare.
DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. She has held poetry readings throughout the Southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. Debbie also hosted the annual eight week Author's Fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona 2008-2012 years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact
~~~~~
WHEN LOVE MEETS LOVE
by Arthur C. Ford, Sr.
You meet a red-breasted robin,
It sings, so you won't grieve,
But instinct reminds it of its young
So then it flaps and leaves.
Cool and comforting waves
Meet you on the shore,
But dissipate within your grasp
Leaving you with hopes for more.
Bright and warming sunlight
Greets you in the morn,
But it must leave, for curfew says
That night will soon be born.
Love's search is never ending,
As minutes depart from hours
Hours depart from days,
But WHEN LOVE MEETS LOVE, it stays.
ARTHUR C. FORD, Sr. is originally from New Orleans, LA. He is presently living in Pittsburgh, PA and publishing the quarterly "The Poetry Explosion Newsletter (THE PEN). Contact
~~~~~
THE EDGE OF HAPPINESS
by Floriana Hall
There's no measure that can calculate
And no person who can estimate
The presence or absence of happiness.
To be content with what you have,
Sometimes on the fringe of felicity
Enjoyment simulating simplicity.
A mother holds her newborn child
The child rides a roller coaster wild
Tea parties have some beguiled.
Love of God that never ends
Enjoying trusting friends
Or someone who on you depends.
This can encompass our very being
Which results in sometimes seeing
That fragile euphoria can be fractured.
Finding happiness generates celebration
Sharing it a great sensation,
Fear of losing it overwhelms jubilation.
No one can be happy forever
Analyzing it is a useless endeavor
Masking it can be very clever.
Mortal bliss is individual expression
Of everyday occurrences overcoming suppression
Or masking mild depression.
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
~~~~~
NEW ENGLAND SPRING
by Patricia Crandall
The soft greening shades
of mountain trees,
vast open meadows
fill with buttercups,
turned-over fields
eke out earthy scents,
crystal blue lakes
and tree-lined ponds
mirror geese flying overhead.
Everywhere...
a natural falling off
of winter.
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
~~~~~
I REMEMBER
MOM AND DAD
(In Memory of Helen
and Gerard Fischetti)
by Susan Marie
Davniero
This is to be their story
Mom and Dad in all their glory
Love brought them together
They complemented each other
It was a good life
For this man and wife
I know I needed them
To provide and guide me
During those formative days
Until I went my own way
This serves as a memento
From a time long ago
All I have come to value here
Wake on days when I was there
Footprints of steps at every age
Born from the early stage
Alas all good times must end
Mom and Dad are in Heaven
To my parents I bid goodbye
My love will never die
For those years we had
I remember Mom and Dad
 |
Helen & Gerard Fischetti’s Wedding
Credit: Susan Marie Davniero |
 |
Susan Marie with her parents on her wedding
day
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
O mother-my-love, if you'll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
We'll walk in a sweet posie-garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.
There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you,
There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you;
For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew stream
And sing you asleep when you're weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.
And when I am tired I'll nestle my head
In the bosom that's soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing, in my stead,
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we'll wander,--
Away through the mist to the beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
We'll walk in a sweet posie-garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.
There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you,
There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you;
For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew stream
And sing you asleep when you're weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.
And when I am tired I'll nestle my head
In the bosom that's soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing, in my stead,
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we'll wander,--
Away through the mist to the beautiful land,--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.
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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