“You are the person who has to decide.
Whether you'll do it or toss it aside; You are the person who makes up your
mind. Whether you'll lead or will linger behind. Whether you'll try for the
goal that's afar. Or just be contented to stay where you are.”
POEM OF THE MONTH
A FLASH AND A CLICK
by James M. Tilton
My aunt is one of those
women
Who likes cheap crafts
And long prayers
And family portraits.
Not just one portrait,
Many portraits.
Enough portraits to fill a
scrapbook.
A scrapbook which is, in
itself, both a craft and a prayer.
So, every Easter and every
Thanksgiving and every Christmas,
She corrals the family to
the fireplace,
The one that she says
reminds her of the Saturday Evening Post.
There she spends five minutes
arranging us,
And re-arranging us,
Like a choreographer that
will never be satisfied.
One minute has passed.
The dancers are still
patient.
They smile as the
choreographer reaches in,
And grabs shoulders,
And angles bodies,
And tells the children to
come to the front.
Two minutes have passed.
The dancers have begun to
joke.
They reach their arms
around each other,
Flicking ears and pinching
necks,
While the choreographer
works on, unconcerned.
Three minutes have passed.
The dancers have started
to sweat,
Standing in a group by a
fire.
They complain,
But the choreographer does
not hear them.
She is too focused on
coaxing the shyest cousin from behind her parents.
Four minutes have passed.
My grandma is complaining
that the turkey is going to burn,
And my grandpa is
threatening to go watch the football game.
My uncle pulls out his
phone and checks the score,
And his wife slaps his
hand and tells him to put it away.
The choreographer works
on.
She steps back and
observes her work.
She is nearly satisfied
“Quiet!” she says, and my
grandma stops her complaining.
“I’m putting the camera on
timer,” she says, and my uncle puts his phone away.
“Smile when the red light
starts blinking,” she says, and my littlest cousin grins,
Showing the camera his
first big tooth.
Five minutes have passed.
My little brother, having
watched my aunt and uncle,
Slaps his cousin on the
wrist.
She starts to cry,
And my aunt has to pick
her up.
My mom is on a knee trying
to make my little brother apologize,
But he is hiding behind my
grandpa’s wheelchair.
And there is a blinking
red light and a flash and a click.
ALL SAINTS DAY
(November 1st)
by Susan Marie Davniero
In our Church’s history
To honor in blessed memory
Faithful martyrs’ burdened life
Days are over, no more strife
For Heaven’s rest release
To await glorious peace
Come November 1st to
pray
To honor All Saints Day
 |
| 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
~~~~~
LONG-WINDED
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
There's no one around
But the wind makes the sound
As it twists and turns through the town.
It howls and it shouts,
"I'm in charge now
And I'll decide how
To make the trees bend,
To make seasons blend."
Smoothly to wildly increasing
Days of light slowly ceasing
Bare of leaves now
Frowns on many a brow
As acceptance dawns
In November
Like a prelude to remember
Who is in charge -
Mother Nature laughing
At the changing landscape!
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
~~~~~
AUTUMN RITUAL
by Patricia Crandall
Plum foliage
swells upon changing trees.
Leaves
tumble to the ground
in a play of wind,
crisping and curling
where they fall.
Beauty and color reign
in a time so fleeting,
breathtaking, and sobering
for the stark ritual
that is to come.
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
~~~~~
MY DAUGHTER ANN
by James G. Piatt
When upon your smile I rest my gaze,
I see truth untangled from the earth’s maize
I smile and find my heart filled with glee,
When beneath the clear sky I sit with thee.
The flowers do not have a sweeter scent
Than your smile which is heaven sent,
You are my joy, and my serenity,
When you sit and quietly converse with me,
Your softness and beauty too, is
A grace sublime and honest too,
So let us sit awhile just you and me,
Under the boughs of the apricot tree, and
Listen to the dove that sings, and
The soft murmurings of little things!
JAMES G.
PIATT: Dr. Piatt a retired professor, poet and
writer, is the author of 2 poetry books, “The Silent Pond,” (2012) and “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014),
2 novels, “The
Ideal Society” (2011), and “The
Monk,” (2013), 33 short stories,
and over 545 poems. His poem, “The Night
Frog” was nominated for best
of web 2013. His poetry books and novels are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact
~~~~~
REBOUND
by Michael Ceraolo
It was an ordinary
missed free throw
that bounced high off
the back rim
so that no one was in
position to grab the ball
Three guys leaped high
for it,
a rugby scrum in the
air,
but again no one could
grab it
and the ball was
tipped up
Again another scrum in
the air,
again no one could
grab the ball,
again another tip in
the air,
until in the third
aerial scrum
someone was able to
gain possession
MICHAEL CERAOLO is a 56-year-old retired
firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had one full-length book (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press)
and a few shorter-length books published, plus numerous magazine publications.
Contact
~~~~~
WORD PLAY
by Barb Phillips
Words, to me, are sexy;
I could play with them all day.
Caressing sounds they offer
With the thoughts that they convey.
I bend and twist them often;
But the truth is always clear;
I write so they will listen
To the things they need to hear.
I like the feel of typing
As my fingers slip and slide;
I start and I don't stop
Until my need is satisfied.
My husband - he gets anxious
When I start with page and pen;
It irks him when he sees me
Writing words down once again.
My laptop drives him crazy;
He considers it a trap.
He'd rather me be playing
Squirming softly on HIS lap.
But, as it is, I write;
It's still the only way I know.
Manipulating words
Until they swing and sway and flow.
I could play with them all day.
Caressing sounds they offer
With the thoughts that they convey.
I bend and twist them often;
But the truth is always clear;
I write so they will listen
To the things they need to hear.
I like the feel of typing
As my fingers slip and slide;
I start and I don't stop
Until my need is satisfied.
My husband - he gets anxious
When I start with page and pen;
It irks him when he sees me
Writing words down once again.
My laptop drives him crazy;
He considers it a trap.
He'd rather me be playing
Squirming softly on HIS lap.
But, as it is, I write;
It's still the only way I know.
Manipulating words
Until they swing and sway and flow.
AUTHOR’S
NOTE: "Word Play" was written to show the joy the poet gets by
being able to manipulate words to make them swing, sway and flow. She considers
it a gift to be able to compose and transfer from brain, to pen, to paper, what
is in her head, and ultimately, make it rhyme....
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
~~~~~
CORN HUSK DOLLS
by Patricia Crandall
One stands tall,
two stand small.
Flaxen hair,
pin-eyed stare,
basket of strawberry
flowers.
Three pretty maids
all in a row,
fabricated
within an hour.
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
~~~~~
VFW FOR ALL TIME
(Dedicated to Gerard Fischetti, VFW Member)
(Dedicated to Gerard Fischetti, VFW Member)
by Susan Marie Davniero
VFW for all time
Traces roots since 1899
Veterans come together
At the VFW chapters
Veterans of Foreign Wars
Supports veterans’ causes
From 1899 to everywhere
The VFW is always there
Standing up for veterans’ rights
The VFW for the good fight
Veterans are never alone
At the VFW you’re home
 |
Susan and Robert Davniero (Veteran) in front of the VFW chapter
Lindenhurst, NY, 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
~~~~~
CRANBERRY SAUCE
by Floriana Hall
by Floriana Hall
To avoid being garnished by cranberry sauce,
He himself would rather pick them
Gobble up the berries off the stem.
They fed the Pilgrims and Indian tribes
And helped some of them survive
Cold blasts of winter in Plymouth Rock,
Newcomers from England and some Mohawk.
In thanksgiving for safe landing, they ate their fill
Caught Mr. Turkey running up a hill
Added some corn and cooked with skill
Over hot coals, turning at will
While the cranberries cooked in the pot.
The end result was a feast with a lot
Of prayers in gratitude for this day
Thanking God for bringing them here
To this land of prosperity held so dear.
Through struggle, through strife,
Those left lived a new life
Freedom of religion and press.
To this day turkeys are dressed
With cranberries drizzled over them
Or as a side dish.
Mr. Turkey rarely gets his wish!
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
~~~~~
ACROSS GENERATIONS
by Jon Bowers
In Central Park, a blustery gray November day,
Sans the vendors--practical and savvy.
Umbrella spread, I cross from the Dakota,
Drawn without will
to Strawberry Fields.
Wet, shivering I should turn back.
Head down, striding, I reach the mosaic.
Fatigue fades, cold and rain forgotten
as I view the single embedded word: "Imagine."
A tingling up the back of my neck.
Alone among eight million in the City,
save one young woman in her early twenties.
Well-dressed--business type.
Trembling in cold slanting drizzle,
arms crossed and shoulders hunched.
Fashionable in her beret.
An eternity separates her from his heyday.
Yet her tears mix freely with the rain
that falls quietly
on the cold concrete homage at her feet.
And it is my privilege to witness raw emotion.
I approach, we talk. A hand briefly on her shoulder.
No further words--
Shared respect for one who gave voice to peace.
JON BOWERS: Contact
~~~~~
OAK ROCKER
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Decades ago my
brother-in-law
gave me his father’s
chair,
a turn of the century
oak rocker that lived in
his kitchen.
His dad won it in a poker
game
(some housewife was really
annoyed)
and carried it home upside
down in the rain,
the strangest umbrella
ever seen.
First in his own kitchen,
then in his son’s,
the dad rocked and read
the paper,
puffed his Lucky Strike,
had a nip of bourbon.
The rocker lives in my
kitchen now.
I rock and read the paper,
forego the cigarette,
sip a mug of tea and think
of those men.
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
~~~~~
THE ROAD TAKEN
by C. David Hay
by C. David Hay
Could we but travel back in time
And speak the words unsaid,
To ponder the road not taken
And the place it might have led.
The past is like a window,
On the outside looking in -
We see where we have ventured,
Not where we might have been.
Often a journey wearies and wends
As we never intended it to;
Too late we learn there's no return
From the "Land of Did Not Do."
So be content with blessings sent
On the path we chose to trod
And know it was the better way -
We put our trust in God.
And speak the words unsaid,
To ponder the road not taken
And the place it might have led.
The past is like a window,
On the outside looking in -
We see where we have ventured,
Not where we might have been.
Often a journey wearies and wends
As we never intended it to;
Too late we learn there's no return
From the "Land of Did Not Do."
So be content with blessings sent
On the path we chose to trod
And know it was the better way -
We put our trust in God.
C. DAVID HAY is a retired dentist
residing in Indiana. He is a graduate of Indiana University and IU School of
Dentistry. He is the author of five books of poetry. He has been widely
published and has had his poetry read on the British Broadcasting Channel. Dr.
Hay has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry and is recipient of the
Ordo Honoris award from Kappa Delta Rho. He received the Distinguished Alumnus
Award from IUSD. He is an avid scholar and collector of Native American
artifacts. Contact
~~~~~
A COLLECTION OF NATURE
by Patricia Crandall
We gather
acorn cups
nut covers
twigs
curled leaves
fern fronds
mushrooms
pinecones
grubs
from a boundless
expanse of God’s forest
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 Floriana Hall
Oh, Harvest moon
You shined too soon
In the wee hours of the night
Waking me up with a fright!
You zoomed past the bedroom and kitchen
So fast like a flash of brilliance.
I could have sworn it was daylight
But I do not swear about anything.
Going back to sleep was difficult
Expecting to see more of you
Like shadows creeping,
I could hardly wait until daylight.
Walking on eggshells for a while,
Funny how quickly one forgets
About the night before,
Not telling anyone,
Did not want to be a bore!
Did you stop my computer's function
Or was it my fingers still jittery
From the near frightening experience
Of God's amazing creation?
Will the next Harvest Moon
Be in tune with yesterday?
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
~~~~~
FALL IS GOLDEN
by Michael Lee Johnson
The last golden yellow
apple
hangs like a healing
miracle
bow down old apple
tree
winter is coming.
Life is a single
thread this time.
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 27 countries, and he edits 9 poetry
sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to
Freedom which is available at
Amazon and iUniverse (136 pages book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From
Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge
of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 71 poetry videos
on YouTube. Contact Website
Website
~~~~~
MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE
by Susan Marie Davniero
Macy’s seasonal tradition
Since 1924 a celebration
Sponsored by Macy’s trade
The Thanksgiving Day Parade
By way of Herald Square
The crowds gather there
Coming out to celebrate
This Thanksgiving date
Giving thanks it reasons
Welcoming in the season
Floats, bands, and clowns
A show parading down
Balloons fly in the sky
The parade is passing by
A national event is made
Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade
 |
Long Island Babylon Parade Marching Band, 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
Gettin’ together to smile an’ rejoice,
An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice;
An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they
Are growin’ more beautiful day after day;
Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men,
Buildin’ the old family circle again;
Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all.
Father’s a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men.
Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there.
Home from the east land an’ home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We’ve come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank,
Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank.
Give me the end of the year an’ its fun
When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.
Read the entire poem at:
_______________________________________
An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice;
An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they
Are growin’ more beautiful day after day;
Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men,
Buildin’ the old family circle again;
Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all.
Father’s a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men.
Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there.
Home from the east land an’ home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We’ve come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank,
Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank.
Give me the end of the year an’ its fun
When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.
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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