“Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or
flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or
flourish.”
POEM OF THE MONTH
When he was tanned
a rich dark copper
and his eyes burned ice-fire blue,
when his hair and beard
were thick, brimm’d with adventure
salt spray and new sunshine,
he’d be seen hitching ’long Coast Hwy,
tattered rucksack shouldered over,
fish-tail Ron Jon tucked beneath his arm,
Lucky Strike tucked behind his ear…
Cautiously, now,
he takes the easy access to the beach,
no longer headlong
over sandstone bluff and boulder field
to combat a ragged Pacific surf
reserved
only for the bold and daring.
Morning’s early salmon glow
will find him daily along the strand,
weathered Levi pants and jacket,
watching grey, billowing sets build
far out in the beginning day;
contemplating distant
bobbing pods of wet-suit surfers—
or are those seals
searching breakfast amongst the breaks…
Adjusts his glasses,
bending to study a tide-line world,
its small and tumbling finds.
Hands full of grit-and-surf sculpt’ mollusk
armor: periwinkle, nautilus flaunting pearl;
bits of polished glass and tunneled stone,
occasional green of abalone teardrop shell—
he gazes away along the wet sand merge.
Sun-glitter trinkets and ebbing ribbon of foam,
to the horizon, on-and-on.
a rich dark copper
when his hair and beard
were thick, brimm’d with adventure
salt spray and new sunshine,
he’d be seen hitching ’long Coast Hwy,
tattered rucksack shouldered over,
fish-tail Ron Jon tucked beneath his arm,
Lucky Strike tucked behind his ear…
Cautiously, now,
he takes the easy access to the beach,
no longer headlong
over sandstone bluff and boulder field
to combat a ragged Pacific surf
reserved
only for the bold and daring.
Morning’s early salmon glow
will find him daily along the strand,
weathered Levi pants and jacket,
watching grey, billowing sets build
far out in the beginning day;
contemplating distant
bobbing pods of wet-suit surfers—
or are those seals
searching breakfast amongst the breaks…
Adjusts his glasses,
bending to study a tide-line world,
its small and tumbling finds.
Hands full of grit-and-surf sculpt’ mollusk
armor: periwinkle, nautilus flaunting pearl;
bits of polished glass and tunneled stone,
occasional green of abalone teardrop shell—
he gazes away along the wet sand merge.
Sun-glitter trinkets and ebbing ribbon of foam,
to the horizon, on-and-on.
p.l. wick
 |
Wave Breaking on the coast of Buzios, Rio de Janeiro
Photo courtesy of: Christian Meyn, FreeDigitalPhotos
|
p.l.
wick: a versifier,
never a “poet”—a writer, busy having a good time writing... Contact
AUGUST PRELUDE
by Floriana Hall
It is still July, but August thoughts
Haunt me already
In the back of my mind
I can feel the heat and humidity
But the waning of summer
Leaves me cold.
There is still beauty around me
And fun things to do
So why do I feel blue?
Change of seasons is inevitable
And September comes too soon
School is in full swing
Birds still on the wing.
Banish the vision of winter
Remember it's still summer
Sunshine and showers
Brighten the landscape
Like drinking lemonade
Refreshes the thirst
For a lasting taste of nectar
And the beautiful sun bursts.
Haunt me already
In the back of my mind
I can feel the heat and humidity
But the waning of summer
Leaves me cold.
There is still beauty around me
And fun things to do
So why do I feel blue?
Change of seasons is inevitable
And September comes too soon
School is in full swing
Birds still on the wing.
Banish the vision of winter
Remember it's still summer
Sunshine and showers
Brighten the landscape
Like drinking lemonade
Refreshes the thirst
For a lasting taste of nectar
And the beautiful sun bursts.
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
~~~~~
DANCE OF THE DOLPHINS
by Susan Marie Davniero
Dolphins flow an ocean’s symmetry
In water dance of rhythmic symphony
In water dance of rhythmic symphony
Roar of the wave beats nature’s tone
Swimming free in the dolphins’ zone
Water bound lives instinctually
Graceful harmony beneath the sea
From shore to ocean they roam
The ocean calls the dolphins home
 |
Florida Dolphin from my friend, Marge's vacation, 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
~~~~~
GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ROSE TRELLIS
by Patricia Crandall
Passing a newly painted trellis,
wild roses clinging to each square,
an old-world fragrance
perfumes the vaporous air.
In a pampered garden,
grow deep purple pansies and scarlet geraniums.
Bonnets of sweet peas
stretch toward a late summer sun.
The gazebo, entwined by morning glories,
offers rain-washed benches.
We bite into fresh-picked green apples.
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
~~~~~
by Richard Holleman
Blowing through your saxophone dizzied me.
Air from my tip toes to my soft brown hair
did not stretch a note to maturity.
Your counseling office was so high up,
perched on the stony cornice over Snoopy,
big as a balloon-dream floating downtown.
You stayed home more. I snuck in the bedroom
and drew a picture of you from your bed’s foot.
Mom trashed it, saying you needed your rest.
You went somewhere so far I could not reach.
With air from my tip toes to my gray hair
I plead for you to pick me up.
RICHARD HOLLEMAN is a
computer programmer in his early forties although he originally studied English
Literature at the University of Oregon. After graduation he married his soul
mate who remains with him to this day. He has been published in Awakenings
Review (Spring 2011), Midstream (March 1995), and Pacifica
(1996). Contact
~~~~~
NO STRANGERS
by Debbie Hilbish
As I approached the chain link fence
my first view was of your back engaged in a lurid dance of combat
forcing reluctant weeds
to yield to the puller.
Quarrelsome roots challenged their upheaval by
scattering dirt clumps in protest
at the indignity of being yanked, root and all,
from the spot they had claimed as their own long before your arrival.
Everything about that pose spoke of determination.
Your pup would not tolerate me scrutinizing unannounced,
as I have a tendency to do.
(Wishing to be the people watcher standing behind a one way mirror.)
You straightened to look at me
and I reddened, feeling as if I had been caught like Peeping Tom
outside a bedroom window.
Stumbling around words that might justify my meddlesome behavior,
“I am visiting family down the lane.”
Without hesitation, all in one moment, your hand motioned come come
while the depth of your eyes invited me in
and your lips wrapped around
“Hi, my name is Sherry.”
Your elfin face lit up in a smile out radiating the sunflowers,
as if you had never laid eyes
upon a stranger.
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
~~~~~
THE SECRETS THEY KEPT
by Mary Ellen Shaughan
For three quarters of
a century
they lived together as
husband and wife
and yet after 50
years, or 60,
each of them, out of
earshot of the other,
would glow when
remembering early loves.
“He promised to return
from service
during WWI so he could
marry me,” she brags;
later, he smiles,
lowers his voice and asks,
“Did I ever tell you
about Lucy, the girl I met in Paris in 1918?”
as if after all those
years of fidelity,
it was important to
remind themselves and us,
their children, that
they could have made other choices.
They had been desired
by more than one person,
but how lucky for us
that they chose each other.
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
~~~~~
WIND CHIMES
by Michael Lee Johnson
The wind chimes
on the balcony
today,
different
sounds in all
different directions-
my thoughts chase
after them.
 |
| Wind Chimes, Credit: Michael Lee Johnson |
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
~~~~~
CELLULOID LIFE
by JD DeHart
I piled up their grand
images, their kind
words
"Best
wishes" autograph
sentiments, and
planned
my own speeches
according to the
talented poise
of the actor, the
response
of the actress, all
played out
until I had a better
grasp
of pretend and
fantasy.
JD DEHART is a writer and teacher. His work has
previously appeared in Long Story Short, and has also appeared in Eye On Life
Magazine and Eunoia Review, among other publications. DeHart's first
chapbook will be released Fall 2014. Contact Blog
~~~~~
WALKER
by Patricia
Wellingham-Jones
Feeling like a young wench
instead of the old crone
she’s been for so long
she takes her new knee
for a long walk every
morning.
Cheery as a cardinal
in her red shirt and
sparkling eyes
free of pain, she high-steps
and quick-walks down the
center
of the country road.
Balance,
she explains when I look
askance
at the danger. The most
level part
she can find. Traffic is
scarce
this early, on the
shoulders
blackberries tangle. We
greet and pass,
sometimes I fall in step,
we march into the day.
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 with poems recently in The
Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University
Press). 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
~~~~~
ST. HELEN'S HEART
(Dedicated to my Mother, Helen Fischetti)
(Dedicated to my Mother, Helen Fischetti)
by Susan Marie Davniero
Empress Mother of St. Constantine
With faithful grace so pristine
Awaken converted to Christianity
Merciful gifts of charity
Church founded by her hand
Home on the sacred Holy Land
Tomb of the Lord came across
Miracles flow from the Holy Cross
Forever framed with Cross by art
August 18 Feast Day embark
Honoring St. Helen’s heart
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
~~~~~
A CHILD’S FACE
by Fred Anderson
When I close my eyes at night
My mind’s eye becomes my sight.
A child’s face is what I see
Waiting at the door for me.
Wide eyed and excited
Beyond belief
She greets me home
Such sweet relief.
Little did I know
Little did I see
How precious and short
That time would be.
I wish for a moment back in time
One moment both yours and mine
When you were three maybe four
That moment to last forevermore.
 |
My daughter Christine at age 3, Credit: Fred Anderson
|
FRED ANDERSON is an emerging poet and lyricist originally from upstate New York. He is now retired living in Virginia with his wife and cat. His numerous letters to the editor have been published in local newspapers. Contact
~~~~~
ON TRACK
by Floriana Hall
The thoughts that flow from this special pen
Are thoughts I didn't know back then
When I was just a child.
But they were present
Like a seedling that slowly grows
And bursts into bloom,
Like a train that chugs along
Gradually accelerating to its destination.
The thoughts of conscience
That separate the good from the bad,
The soul and mind talking to each other,
Perceptions unlike any other person, but then
If we all thought alike, no one would be thinking.
Deliberation, a chore of the intellect
And daydreaming, its pleasure
Associating with loftier rationalization or logic,
Wisdom acquired sometimes by disenchantment,
For to be wise, one must live and learn.
Unlike knowledge, wisdom lingers
But is for naught unless used to help others.
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
~~~~~
SKY PAINT
by Patricia Landi-Zippilli1st layer - 8:05 pm
canvas
blue sky
red hot orange sun
setting into a line of pink
streaking across in natural color
broad strokes of light play
with horizontal rays
2nd layer - 8:30 pm
ultramarine
descending
evening’s transparent
tint veil
circulates the atmosphere
captivating the last
yellow light
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
~~~~~
TOUR LONG ISLAND
by Susan Marie Davniero
Along the Long Island cove
It’s a treasure trove
Find a tapestry of sights
Visiting days or nights
Robert Moses’ master plan
Map of Long Island land
Long Island plays host
To beaches on its coast
All that nature creates
Gardens, parks, lakes
Lush Long Island hues
Greens, browns, blues
Lighthouse at Montauk Points the way
To where the Ducks team play
Party on at Jones Beach Park
Stay for fireworks after dark
All together can be found
Along the Long Island Sound
Tour Long Island and roam
The place I call home
It’s a treasure trove
Find a tapestry of sights
Visiting days or nights
Robert Moses’ master plan
Map of Long Island land
Long Island plays host
To beaches on its coast
All that nature creates
Gardens, parks, lakes
Lush Long Island hues
Greens, browns, blues
Lighthouse at Montauk Points the way
To where the Ducks team play
Party on at Jones Beach Park
Stay for fireworks after dark
All together can be found
Along the Long Island Sound
Tour Long Island and roam
The place I call home
Bob and Susan Marie Davniero at Bergen Point Park in Long Island, NY
Credit: Susan Marie Davniero
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 thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
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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