“Look not mournfully into the past,—it comes not back again;
wisely improve the present,—it is thine; go forth to meet the shadowy future
without fear and with a manly heart.”
POEM OF THE MONTH
GIRLS’ DAY OUT
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Down the hill, through the woods,
at the end of a root-tricky path
lay a swamp the town boys
claimed as their own.
My friend and I craved to know
what fascinated them,
wanted a look at their sacred treehouse,
maybe force them to vacate the premise.
One day we set off down the hill,
through the woods, tiptoed
over the path. We edged
along their skinny trail of boards.
Halfway through Nancy fell
into the muck to her knees and elbows,
her mouth wide in a squall.
I shushed her, heaved her up on the boards,
wouldn’t let her turn back.
She grumbled forward,
missed the jack-in-the-pulpits
and swamp cabbage, never noticed
the glimmering light I called
will o’ the wisp.
At the end of the boardwalk
we set thankful feet on solid soil
and, though exhausted,
charged the hill.
The moment the treehouse appeared
the boys screamed ‘Girls!’
in shrill horror and scattered
like leaves on the wind.
Back home in the kitchen our mothers
ate cookies, chatted over café con leche
(their experiment of the month),
serenely unaware of their
daughters’ adventure.
Smug-faced and mud-streaked
we took over the fortress,
munched the forbidden cookies,
riffled the comic books,
sniffed that musty boy-smell.
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
AN
OLD FASHIONED OCTOBER
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
It is a breathtaking view
As in days of old
But it’s all brand new
Crimson, burnt orange, and gold.
The trees look the same
As they did last year
The leaves are aflame
And their message is clear.
Beauty is to life like ice cream
It doesn't get better than this
Floating colors all night in a dream
Is soft as a stolen kiss.
As October drifts by
A plush carpet is seen
Traced by complex patterns
That swivel and turn.
Indian summer passes by
Dark clouds on the horizon
But Autumn is such fun,
Tales of yore homespun.
Magic in the air
Spooky days unfold
Costumes worn, young or old
Wind grows stronger
Days shorter, not longer
The soft appearance of snow
October, please don't go!
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
~~~~~
DAYS OF ST. GERARD
(Dedicated to my Dad, Gerard
Fischetti)
by Susan Marie Davniero
St. Gerard honored with
esteem
On Feast Day of October Sixteen
Missionary order of
1700’s preaching
The Word of God he was
teaching
St. Gerard Majella’s
contribution
Miracles of his
bilocation
Attributed quotes of his
released
“Only God can give peace”
Alas, St. Gerard’s death
has come
Here the will of God is
done
 |
| Stained Glass Cross Drawing, 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
~~~~~
PLAYFUL
by Michael Lee Johnson
Nothing
more playful
than a gray
moth dancing
- skeleton wings-
and a green-eyed
cat prancing
-paws swatting-
around a
lit kerosene
lamp
-shadow boxing-
and we all
had fun
in the
moonlight.
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
~~~~~
GYPSY SPIRIT
by Debbie Hilbish
I’ve often thought an
orange a nice place to be,
deep in the navel with
juices so sweet.
Staring up from the middle
I fancy there’d be white
fluffy clouds,
enfolding a harvest
moon.
It might even seem a
pretty large slice
of an interpretation of
paradise.
I know before long a
whim or a song
will whisper move on
before cobwebs begin
weaving a thick winter
coat.
No reason to stay until
you turn blue
or outworn welcomes
start haunting you.
I’ve contemplated simply
drifting downstream,
staying on the east side
of the sea,
in a boat I’ve made of
paper and schemes.
Once reaching a crystal
bay,
I’ll watch prisms and light
dance in the end of the day.
It may well lull and
appear
to be Shangri-la there.
But I know before long
the tug will be strong;
whispering it’s time to
leave
before moss cobbles
shoes on your feet.
No reason to stay until
you are gray
or your eyes unable to
see.
Life still holds too
much mystery.
There’s truly no end to
what simply began
as imagination
beckoning to meet
the gypsy spirit rushing
through me.
~~~~~
DOWN IN THE CELLAR
by Louise Michelle
My wife, the antique
shrew
resents the time I spend
down in the cellar
far away from her
I go there quite often
to sip my brew
just to make sure
it’s fermenting nicely
Sometimes I get tipsy,
and rather than stumble
back up the arduous
stairs
I sit down on the bench
and reach into my pocket
My trusty harmonica
has been with me
over fifty years
It still plays sweet
music
if it has a mind to
and if my lips aren’t
too numb
LOUISE
MICHELLE lives with her husband and three cats in a suburb of Houston, Texas.
Her work has appeared in "Confetti," "Every Day Poets,"
"Flashquake," "Hob-Knob," and "Long Story Short." Contact
~~~~~
A SINGLE FLAME OF LOVE
(Dedicated to my wife, Elaine)
by Fred Anderson
(Dedicated to my wife, Elaine)
by Fred Anderson
Aimlessly I wandered
In an unknown place.
In a dream
Void of time and space.
A stairway appeared ascending to high above.
My weary eyes held mesmerized
By the rare beauty of
A vision
Descending softly to me below.
Her white satin dress caressed
By the morning sun’s glow.
My mind took leave without a trace
As a winsome smile for me
Fell upon her face.
Eyes like sparkling windows
Peering into an azure sea
Cast their surreal spell
Seducing me.
And where heaven came
To kiss the earth
A single flame of love
Proclaimed its birth.
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. He has been published in a Long Short Story in addition to numerous letters to the editor in local newspapers. Contact
~~~~~
THE PENDULUM SWINGS
by Susan Marie Davniero
From dawn to sunset brings
The pendulum of life swings
It was once upon a time
Of swings and nursery rhymes
Young girls at Sheepshead Park
On the swings until it got dark
Flying high chasing the clouds
My childhood days allowed
As I look back on yesterday
The pendulum swings the other way
By sweeping fallen leaves away
I long to swing again today
 |
Susan, Teresa and Laura on swings at Sheepshead Park
|
~~~~~
LITTLE COLORFUL GARGOYLES
by James G. Piatt
Tree frogs in the glare of the sunlight stare at
me with bulbous eyes, tiny gargoyles savoring
tasty bugs on Sycamore tree leaves, looking
like gaudy clowns. They remind me of my
childhood when I used to collect them in a jar
to take home to my hand dug pond in the
backyard of my home. They were brought in
to keep my goldfish company, which I caught
in the murky pond in the park. I used to sit for
hours watching the tiny frogs leaping from the
water flowers I planted, to snag bugs flying by.
I used to dream and paint hopeful images in
the sky while watching the hours float carelessly
by. Now I am older and I wish I could gather
those hours and fill a pond with them to keep
the frogs and goldfish company… along with
my other fading dreams.
by James G. Piatt
Tree frogs in the glare of the sunlight stare at
me with bulbous eyes, tiny gargoyles savoring
tasty bugs on Sycamore tree leaves, looking
like gaudy clowns. They remind me of my
childhood when I used to collect them in a jar
to take home to my hand dug pond in the
backyard of my home. They were brought in
to keep my goldfish company, which I caught
in the murky pond in the park. I used to sit for
hours watching the tiny frogs leaping from the
water flowers I planted, to snag bugs flying by.
I used to dream and paint hopeful images in
the sky while watching the hours float carelessly
by. Now I am older and I wish I could gather
those hours and fill a pond with them to keep
the frogs and goldfish company… along with
my other fading dreams.
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
~~~~~
by Barb Phillips
The house is neat, but quiet;
Awkward silence - like a tomb.
The basement - spic and span;
It holds a vacant, empty room.
I like it better louder
And I liked that room messed up;
Leftovers on the table
And her half filled coffee cup.
Annoying calm disturbs me;
And I've put this veil in place -
To fight unnatural feelings
With a smile upon my face.
I miss the sound of laughter
That would echo loud and clear.
The quiet overwhelms me;
Entertainment's lacking here.
I miss the music blaring
From the speakers of her car -
Tranquility is maddening;
It's foreign and bizarre.
I miss the paintings and the smell
Of turpentine and fumes;
The hula hooping twirls and spins
Illuminating rooms.
The house is neat and tidy;
Signs of youth have disappeared.
Without the girl, it's empty;
It's abnormal, strange and weird.
I much prefer the dusty
And the messes spread about;
Than to have this screaming silence
That I'm left to figure out.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: "Empty Nest" was written as I was in the throes of sending my 18 year old
daughter almost 1,000 miles away to art college in Colorado. The basement was
her studio, and she was consistently painting and spilling and mixing
turpentine to clean brushes, etc... She has already been away at Rocky Mountain
College of Art and Design for a year, and the empty nest syndrome continues,
but the house is clean and now lacks the paint fumes and messes.
I miss it.
BARB PHILLIPS has been a nurse for 18+ years, but has been writing poetry for over 30+ years, and only recently has felt the need to share the words she has kept hidden in pretty boxes in her closet. Barb writes every day that she is not working at her regular job, in addition to having hundreds of poems already penned from years past. Her goal is to compile them and possibly have a book published. Contact
~~~~~
VISITING TIME
by Charles Costa Jr.
Faces looking,
strangers all
Names are gone,
where’s my shawl
Feel a chill, touching
hands
Soft and warm, washing
pans
Pretty ladies,
daughters all
Look familiar, holds a
doll
Wedding dress, sweep
the floor
School bus comes, skin
is sore
On a couch, sit not
straight
Slouching now, lose
some weight
Man beside me, very
young
Has old hands, songs
were sung
No more sliding, hugs
me so
He once loved me, I
don’t know
Quiet now, darkness
sets
Bed so soft, all is
wet
Windows bright, chair
is rocking
Feet are cold, rooster
cocking
Music playing, sour
smells
Pretty dress, lady
yells
Piano notes, oh so
pretty
Nurses now, very witty
Visiting time, man is
back
Oh my hero, love you
Jack
Touch his cheek, smile
at eyes
Oh so blue, please
don’t cry
I know now, where I am
Not so bad, hold my
hand
We had children, son
so true
Times a plenty,
daughters too
Happy times, oh so
many
Always there, in my memory
CHARLES COSTA JR.: After a stint in the US
Navy, a short time hair dressing, and fifty years in the bakery business, he is retired
now with time to fulfill his many hobbies...the favorite one being writing. He’s
written a book, The City Kid, a story of growing up in a big city, and many
other short stories, and he is currently working on a book of poetry. Known as
the storyteller by family and friends, he is often asked to tell one of his
stories at their many social gatherings. Contact
~~~~~
FOR YOU IN OUR AUTUMN
by John T. Hitchner
I smooth my fingers across a fallen maple leaf,
one of a montage of leaves—
orange, red, yellow, and umber
upon our frost-tipped lawn.
Remember how we kicked through leaves
on our walks home with the kids?
I carry two Adirondack chairs inside from the deck.
Together we will sip warm tea
within our room of books and your paintings
of spring and summer landscapes.
Remember those first snows of our cabined years?
Remember how we read to each other?
I your passionate shepherd,
you my lover rowing in Eden.
Yet I cannot ask you anymore
to whisper my name or swim those waters.
And so I give you prescribed daily dosage,
but those pills won’t dissolve
the snakes of plaque strangling your memory.
I watch you stare at the television screen.
You don’t smile anymore, you don’t laugh anymore
at chummy neighbors and bumbling policemen.
Your mouth struggles for words ordinary
as a child’s questions,
your eyes wonder like a wordless infant
trying to understand faces above a crib.
And so I roam room to room,
change angles of photographs
of you and me and our children.
Then, together, we watch the sunset
lose color and light beyond West Hill.
Our hill, our paths. Remember?
JOHN T. HITCHNER’s work has been featured in Long
Story Short in the past, including the Featured Poems “Snow Upon Green” and “Jimmy
and Me in Those Days.” His
first novel, THE ACOLYTE, was recently published. It is now available
in print at Amazon.com. John teaches Coming of Age in
War and Peace at Keene State College in Keene, New Hampshire. Contact
~~~~~
WALKING A TIGHTROPE
by Floriana Hall
Toes gripped to balance
by Floriana Hall
Toes gripped to balance
The
straight and narrow passage
With a clutch above to help,
Small steps taken slowly
To reach the goal ahead.
In the workplace, the brain takes over
At home, the heart and soul
Like a vista never vibrating
To reach the ultimate goal.
The most out of more
Kindness and respect,
The host of no regret,
A guidepost with composure
On the strings of life's events.
From Cheerios to dynamos
From curiosity to generosity
From macabre to magnanimous
Unlock the stumbling block.
Some quivering may happen
Jaywalk or gridlock
The steadfast are never last
In the quest for happiness.
With a clutch above to help,
Small steps taken slowly
To reach the goal ahead.
In the workplace, the brain takes over
At home, the heart and soul
Like a vista never vibrating
To reach the ultimate goal.
The most out of more
Kindness and respect,
The host of no regret,
A guidepost with composure
On the strings of life's events.
From Cheerios to dynamos
From curiosity to generosity
From macabre to magnanimous
Unlock the stumbling block.
Some quivering may happen
Jaywalk or gridlock
The steadfast are never last
In the quest for happiness.
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
~~~~~
HALLOWEEN BEAT
by Susan Marie Davniero
Trick or Treat
Halloween Street
Dress as Beatnik
Cool counterfeit
Halloween trick
It all fits
Trick or Treat
Halloween beat
 |
Teresa, Susan (in the middle dressed as a Beatnik) and Laura on Halloween
|
~~~~~
HOME
by Susan Dale
A terrain of time and
place
Home – a quiet place
I repeat to find in my
mind
Past and present traveling
string-straight lines
Before they spiral, one to
the other to rise
to higher elevations
of twilight
faces – secret voices at dawn
But never losing contact
with the soil of my roots
A wildflower under shadows
wide of woodland trees
Taking root from a seed
carried by an autumn storm
Through dark tunnels and
out
To a quiet forest
Pulsing upwards from the
soul’s blood in spring
Tasting winds – hearing
the stars’ chatter
A tangle of blood and
genealogy
This soil of linkage to
Ohio’s ever-changing seasons
Remembering and forgetting
Remembering again
To resurrect in
rain-drenched whispers with the songs of ascension
Upwards to spread
Reaching out to find
To touch again
The ever-elusive phantom
Of home
SUSAN DALE’s poems and fiction are on Hurricane Press, Ken *Again,
Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Feathered Flounder, Garbanzo, and Linden
Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
october celebrity poet
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807 – 1882)
HAUNTED HOUSES
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
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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