"This is a brief life, but in its brevity
it offers us some splendid moments,
some meaningful adventures."

- Rudyard Kipling
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

DREAMS OF LONG AGO

by Floriana Hall

We were hiking on different trails many years ago

Leading our little grandkids, five of them in tow.

On dark shadowed paths we would walk and sing

Of Hansel and Gretel and birds on the wing

We scattered breadcrumbs along the pathways

So woodland inhabitants would stop and graze.

The children ran to the left and the right

Ahead of us, behind us, such joy in their flight

We called out, “Please do not stray too far”

But they took off like little marathon stars.

In their carefree fashion, they halted in time

We worried but then were relieved, sublime.

They picked up small limbs from the trees

Threw them ahead along the breeze

They hopped, skipped and chanted nursery rhymes

Oh, it was our middle years most wonderful time

Now they are all grown, have kids of their own

We cannot anymore be their chaperone.

New babies will soon be walking the trails

Of life and all the pleasure it entails

We can just hold and bounce them on our lap

Sing songs of the forest that remain in our cap

The younger grandparents will take over the job

Of teaching little ones to hike and hobnob.

We still dream of those hours of pleasure

The same grandkids grown are forever a treasure.

Reminiscing back to when we were spry

Brings tears to our eyes, but we never cry

For life goes on, and seasons come and go

While woodlands remain for the living to know.

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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DAD'S FISHING ESCAPE

(In Memory Of Gerard Fischetti)

by Susan Marie Davniero

The morning dawn breaks

And seagulls’ call makes

A new day as beach awakes

For Dad’s fishing escape

Yet, red sky this morning

Fishermen take warning

Rough waters at bay

The fishes escape today

Gerard Fischetti on a fishing escape at Captree Beach, Long Island

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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RED ROCKING CHAIR

by Michael Lee Johnson

A red rocking chair

abandoned in a field

of freshly cut clover,

rocks back and forth-

squeaks each time

the wind pushes

at its back,

then,

retreats.

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

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HIGH STYLE

by Joanna M. Weston

he swooshes
down the long yellow slide

wearing green rubber boots
with this week’s favorite red Superman outfit
and bright orange sunglasses

he has an eclectic sense of fashion
but
he is four years old

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 eBooks can be found at her blog. Contact

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STORM

by Elaine Kaye

Dark clouds

thunder in the distance

lightning flashes here and there

sweet smell of rain is in the air.

Wind rushes by

soft drops hit my face

loud crashes of thunder

rain beats down harder.

Thunder, lightning brightens my room

giving me memories of childhood chills.

Animals run for shelter

I hide under blankets.

Wind is dying down

soft rain falls again

colorful rainbow caresses the sky

birds sing

butterflies flutter

fluffy clouds speckle the sky.

Another storm has come and gone.

ELAINE KAYE has published two stories with The Story Shack, a flash romance with Short-Story.Me, and a suspense story with Diverse Voices Quarterly. Her poem, A Grain of Sand, has been featured on Long Story Short. She currently lives in Florida, but has called Honolulu, Hawaii and Okinawa, Japan home. Contact

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RINGING IN MY HEAD

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The day of bells

started with the telephone’s ring,

my friend in a baker’s disaster –

loaves in the oven, element quit.

Could we experiment? Sure, come right over.

Down she buzzed with part-baked bread,

rolls and desserts on trays.

The doorbell squawked, oven-temp pinged

as she flurried inside.

We crossed our fingers

that interrupted baking would work

and each returned to Saturday chores.

In a bit the timer chimed at me,

I re-arranged items on their racks.

Within minutes the raucous scream

of the smoke detector

raced through heart and house.

Smoke billowed from the oven,

swirled through the rooms,

eddied in corners.

Nerves clanging with the klaxon

I yanked the burned loaf to the sink,

resettled the others, then dashed around the house,

threw open doors and windows, set up fans.

By the time my friend returned for her bread

(which mostly survived unscathed)

neurons quit zinging, and I decided

to be glad I now knew

the smoke detector worked.

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

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WALKING MY INNER BEING

by Changming Yuan

On a sunny Saturday afternoon

I would lead my inner selfhood

Out of my small rented room

To the Fraser River Valley Park

To let it play with other dogs

Running and jumping wildly

Catching the ball each time I threw

Into the air, the tree shade, the ditch

The bank, the water, and sometimes

The ridge, where it sometimes stopped and stood

Looking beyond the horizon, as if to join the wild

Becoming one and the same with the little cloud

Drifting freely around, under the western sky

CHANGMING YUAN, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China but currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-publishes Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan and operates PP Press. With a PhD in English, Yuan has most recently been interviewed by [PANK] and World Poetry (CFRO100.5FM), and had poetry appear in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 809 other literary journals/anthologies across 28 countries. Contact Blog Facebook

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GRANDPA'S ROSES
(In Memory of Grandpa Joseph Cioffi)

by Susan Marie Davniero

Sunshine awakens the birth

Grandpa’s Roses from the earth
As blush of colors bathe

Grace the walking path

Enchanting scene we behold

As the rose buds unfold

Bloom is Heaven sent

Burst of sweet scent

Giving Mother Nature’s kiss

Splendor by garden’s bliss

The seasons come and go

Blossom of Grandpa’s Roses

Grandpa and Grandma (Joseph and Bridget Cioffi)
with sisters, Susan, Teresa and Laura, Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

~~~~~

JUST ASKING

by Floriana Hall

Acceptance of what life brings is living well,
It may be fair weather or pain to dwell
Along with difficult people at times as well.

Acceptance adds strength to bear pain,
A keen brain can enhance beauty from plain
Being slightly humble instead of vain.

Pleasing others, a special gift of response,
Listening intently without any yawns
While weighing pros and cons.

Along with misfortune comes hope,
Embracing good things to help cope
While grasping tightly to climb the towrope.

Appreciation of gifts or giving them
Is gratifying and sparkles like a gem
From which many blessings may stem.

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

~~~~~

TAKING THE MORE LEVEL

seldom used trail,

leisurely,

through dense trees

and sun dappled scrub.

I ford the stream—

coming upon two

lithe gazelles tanning

on a blanket in the glade.

They cover flirtatiously,

giggle and wave.

Tipping my tattered hat,

I stumble along

briskly.

the edges of my ears burn

p.l. wick

p.l. wick: a versifier, never a “poet”—a writer, busy having a good time writing... Contact

~~~~~

CLEVELAND CINQUAIN

by Michael Ceraolo

Airport

on man-made land

along the lakefront- air

traffic so rare it should have stayed

as lake

MICHAEL CERAOLO is a 56-year old retired firefighter/paramedic who has had one full-length book, Euclid Creek from Deep Cleveland Press, published, and a second full-length book, Euclid Creek Book Two from unbound content press, forthcoming later this year. Contact

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FOR SALE

by Mary Ellen Shaughan

Like the page of a beloved cookbook

dotted with grease spots

and a splotch of something red,

the old step ladder stands

off to the side in a family’s yard sale,

its history indelibly recorded on its rungs –

brown for the lower clapboards of the house

it stood beside at least once a decade,

pale pink for the room of a girl

now married with children of her own,

then a Rorschach of green, dappled with yellow, eggplant and blue –

colors of the lives of those who lived here,

now selling their history for the low, low price of

ten dollars,

or five,

or ‘Hey, make me an offer.’

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

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IN OUR GARDEN
by James G. Piatt

In the garden scented herbs do grow
Among the daylilies, and roses aglow,
In the humid earth, there's a connection,
Amid dreams of colored perfection,
Flourishing under an orange sky's glow:

Where gaudy hummingbirds softly go,
Our thoughts and dreams softly flow,
Gentle memories become confection,
In our garden:

We dig into the dark loam slow,
Sowing pleasures near our Chateau,
The tiny plants receive affection,
From the beams from the sun above,
Sending warmth to all things below,
In our garden.

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

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DAMSELFLIES AND DRAGONFLIES

by Patricia Crandall

A dragonfly

rests upon a wooden dock

in restive purple sunlight.

Gossamer wings

spread out in beauty.

A damsel-flies by,

perches nearby,

wings folded.

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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WATERS OF THE EARTH

by Floriana Hall

So much water, so much rain
Stinging every windowpane
Is it me, or others thinking
The warm days of spring are shrinking?
Waters of the sea
God's plan came to be
Beautiful lakes and river streams
As observers and bright sunbeams
Waters of the eyes
Crying or surprise
Birthing and surmise
Waters of mankind
Seeing or even blind
Wonderful gift to cherish
Gentle or even bearish
Days of love and laughter
Only water is forever after.

~~~~~

DAD, SING ME A SONG

(In Memory of Gerard Fischetti)

by Susan Marie Davniero

Dad, sing me a song

Tell me how I belong

To you, as a family

Together in harmony

Dad, sing me a song

Tell me to sing along,

Sing with me now

And teach me how

Dad, sing me a song

Tell me about the days I long

When you were big and strong

Before we parted and said so long

My Dad, Gerard Fischetti singing at home
with my Uncle Gus accompany on guitar, Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

june celebrity poet

Rudyard Kipling

(1865 – 1936)

nationality: English

Rudyard Kipling – Credit: Public Domain

source

IF—

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Source: A Choice of Kipling's Verse (1943)

Read the entire poem at:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175772

For the poet’s biography, see:

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