“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.”

- Carl Sandburg
source

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The editors of Long Story Short are proud to announce that “TEACH ME” by James G. Piatt has been selected the LSS Poem of the Year. Congratulations, James!

POEM OF THE YEAR

TEACH ME

by James G. Piatt

the mermaid's song, to understand the laughter of a child, decode the
Zephyr's windy messages, the sun's heated voice, and the moon's cool
rhythms as they cover my soul, to savor the herb's spicy tang, the
sweet taste of cool water after a long trek, the soothing grace of a
soft pillow at night, and the orange dawn when I arise, teach me how
to remember the sound of honest laughter, forget the voices of
avarice, the beauty of colorful flowers, the mightiness of towering
pines, to love the unlovable, and care for those in need, teach me the
essence of the silent lake, the still pond, and the whistling of Birch

trees bending in the wind, to grasp the essence of the rumbling sound
of waterfalls, and the soft murmuring of the dark earth, teach me to
remember the rhythm of peaceful times, and forget the tempo of bloody
wars, the cadence of our short life, and to appreciate calm and quiet
days, teach me to savor each hour, and have dignity among the
undignified, to bend when I wish to stand rigid, and to listen to
those of contrary hearts, to hear choirs of angels, and the thunderous
poems of an ocean's rushing tide, teach me not to wallow in my own
misfortunes, but help me to give solace to those who have real
misfortunes, to be that which I can be, and forgo that, which I
cannot, to accept success with humility, and failure with elegance, to
take the road less traveled, and not the treacherous path of pride,
teach me to love the truth, and shun that which is not, to embrace
righteous souls and avoid false voices, to comprehend the artist's
mind, the poet's soul and the writer's skill, to desire fewer things,
to be satisfied with less, and enjoy simple Wednesdays, teach me the
way to create serenity in a world filled with the din of war and terror, not to fear the darkness of the tomb or the crackling of my
aging bones, but especially how to take your hand, and listen closely

to your voice.

JAMES G. PIATT: Dr. Piatt a retired professor, poet and writer, is the author of two poetry books, “The Silent Pond,” (2012) and “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), his third poetry book will be released in 2015. He has had over 585 published. His poem, “The Night Frog” was nominated for best of web 2013, his poem, “In The Meadow,” was selected as one of the 100 best poems of 2014, his poem, “I Am” was nominated for a 2014 Pushcart award, and his poem, “Teach Me” was selected as the Poem of the Year at Long Story Short. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact

Congratulations to James who will receive a $25 prize in honor of former Poetry Editor, Sue Scott, and congratulations to all of the “Poets of the Month” for your fine work. We look forward to reading your poems in the New Year!

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POEM OF THE MONTH

MEMOIRS OF LIFE

by Debbie Hilbish

Not even back to where we were

just lacing the outskirts of thirty-six years past.

Strange,

always change,

still enough remains to cause memories

like loose cannonballs to come slamming through

my brain.

The kids, ninety miles just one way to school.

Right now

where we are

only marking the half way of their five day a week

life

plus Saturday sports events trips,

If it was a home game.

There,

at Stateline,

we’d come sixty miles for pizza,

just a jaunt in our relative world.

The rackety trap restaurant

not even there now

but the one

the only hot spot of its time.

Real People featured Amargosa Opera House.

Real People no longer airing

but

the Opera House

It’s still standing,

is Marta Becket?

Frail tiny self-imposed city outcast

creating a place to be remembered for herself

her ballet her painting her love of cats

and vagabonds.

Tiny thin slices of the past

that’s all I want.

This very moment is also busy creating new memories

to pull out on occasion.

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

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IT'S COLD OUTSIDE

by Floriana Hall

Little baby, it's cold outside -
You take it all in stride
Strapped in your car seat
To travel to places Mom has to go
Every school day of the week.
With a smile on your face
When from slumber you wake
To take your brother and sister
To their destination,
There is no hesitation
Your pleasant disposition shines through
Wherever you go, like a new
Toy brings laughter and grins,
The baby doll spins
In the stroller you push
Or the little vacuum to swish,
During the cold months of winter
You'll still be a winner
With the pleasure you bring
And the twitch of your nose
As fresh snow falls these days
And cold wind turns rain to ice
Everything is still nice in your world
With that smile on your face!

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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SNOW BIRDS

by Susan Marie Davniero

Snow birds escape

Fly away to the cape

Unwrap the cold

Winter's on hold

Southern retreat

Welcome to the heat

Melting ice floats

Unbutton the coats

Taking the seasonal run

Until the winter is done

Suddenly spring is found

Flying north on the rebound

Home until next winter days

Snow birds fly the other way

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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BUZZER BEATER
by Michael Ceraolo

The six-ten center

is bouncing the ball at the top of the key

as time counts down,

his team trailing by two in the first overtime

He goes around

his man too easily given the game situation,

goes to the basket,

finger r o o o o o l l l l l s

the ball in

off the backboard as the buzzer sounds

Replay confirms

a second overtime will need to be played

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

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SOMETIMES I MOURN THE LOSS OF FOG

by Nancy Haskett

which hung like a curtain

outside winter windows;

not transparent sheers,

but thick gray-white drapes

that obstructed views,

closed us in,

muffled sounds,

hid the nearby orchards and vineyards

transformed, now,

into neighborhoods

which cover the soil,

hold on to sunlight and heat,

suck up moisture,

repel vapor.

In its way,

that fog was reassuring,

whispering the message

that, although we lived

with the usual creature comforts,

we were still close to the earth

somehow,

not just one more subdivision

amid suburban sprawl

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 American Penwomen website; Long Story Short ezine; Medusa's Kitchen website; Song of the San Joaquin, Iodine Journal, Penumbra and many more. When she's not writing poetry, Nancy enjoys reading, traveling, going to the gym and spending time with three grandchildren! Contact

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BIRCH TREES

by Patricia Crandall

White bark
peeling.
Birch trees
leaning.
An old man's
wintered face.
White-haired men
lean too.

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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ALONE

by Floriana Hall

I came into this world alone

To join a family

Who bonded.

I became a teen

Struck out on my own

While in high school,

Worked after days of learning

Helped support my family

Until my brothers were grown.

Met my future husband

We were not alone,

We had each other and five offspring

It was a beautiful thing.

Now our children are grandparents

My husband is in a care home

And I am all alone.

But I am never really alone

I have God in my life

And beautiful great-grandchildren

Yes, we come into this world alone

A diversified journey.

When we leave, we expire alone

That is our fate

Will we meet in heaven?

We will not be alone.

~~~~~

COOKING UP WISHES

by Susan Marie Davniero

My cooking days from the past

Learning basics in Homemaking class

When I was a high school cook

Cooking family dinners when Mom would work

Assistant Manager at the bank

At home I was Mom's assistant cook

With each of the family dishes

I was cooking up wishes

Pitch of love, a kiss of this

All went into the loving mix

Recipe’s a taste from the past

Season with a lot of love to last

Nowadays when my family comes over

I serve the past recipe leftovers

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WINGS

by C. David Hay

Oh, to catch the winds of flight

And soar where eagles go,

To leave the woes of troubled souls

Behind me far below.

I'd listen to the song of birds

And sail in endless flight,

Then chase the sun through cloudy paths

And play with stars at night.

The boundless heavens for my home,

The breeze to lift me high,

To rise above my mortal bonds

And never have to die;

Knowing I had found the way

To trails where angels trod,

And when my wings could fly no more -

I'd take the hand of 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

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DEAD GREY WOLF SKINS

(Tribute to Aldo Leopold)

by Michael Lee Johnson

INTRODUCTION: Aldo Leopold (January 11, 1887 – April 21, 1948) was an American author, scientist, ecologist, forester, environmentalist, and conservationist. In the 1920-1930 eras, he moved to the Baraboo, Wisconsin area. The grey wolf was viewed as a predator, to be killed and sold for their skins. Even then, the grey wolf population was diminishing. Leopold helped restore the value and dignity of the grey wolf to Wisconsin farmers and residents. Musical credit on YouTube: Sound Of The Wolves - Music and Nature Sounds For Relaxation.

1935.

Dead grey wolf skins hang

on white clotheslines across Baraboo, Wisconsin

the dark surface, dirty old shack, side of the moon,

that only exists in memories hung high, long before.

Hunters in the past did their job well,

sold skins, collected a few bucks,

increased deer for hunting, saved cattle,

decreased fear, told tales, short stories, adventures.

The grey wolf face now emergent,

opens his mouth wide in the safety

open in blue sky.

Shows his white teeth against

background of black sky, shadow,

hears thunder again, releases

fireflies at night, monarch butterflies

during the day, guts down pine tree spikes.

He walks once again over landscapes of turquoises.

He consumes dirt road dust, tracks trails, 114.4 miles from Milwaukee to Baraboo.

His keen eyes are sharp for growth of skyscraper, Pabst brewery building.

Traveling side roads over many years brings him to the present.

No more violators, hunters with guns,

fake Jesus people

slender in His bathrobe Christ repeats two fishes,

5 loaves and the wolf survives.

Aldo Leopold feeding inmate in small jail cells only kills a few wolves for research.

Aldo a Saint of conservation a consumer of cigarettes and butts,

heart wings of doves attached, broken, stroke fire,

a neighbor field

heart stroke drops into history.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. 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 875 small press magazines in 27 countries, 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

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WONDERFUL KITE SHOW

by Pijush Kanti Deb

It’s to be believed or not

but a human body is to be flown

like a kite in the sky

caused by the restlessness of brain

and its tumbling down to knee

making head blank and weightless

and body light to float in the air

in quest of something more.

It may be the sign of abnormality

yet eyes are indifferent to the symptoms-

reflected from the wonderful kite show

exhibited in the open sky of hunger

where all go as they like

as hands start beating their own drums

guarding their own ears

from the invasion of others’ beating,

feet run faster than the mind

to reach “El Dorado” - the golden dreamland

trampling others’ feet,

heart hides again and again

in the pools of the clouds

and makes itself more mysterious,

but the old soul looks thoughtful and disturbed

before going for long hibernation

wishing “safe flying” to the floating body.

PIJUSH KANTI DEB is a new Indian poet with more than 180 poems and haiku accepted or published by Indian and international publishers since June 2013. He is an Associate Professor in Economics. Contact

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CELEBRATION DINNER

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

We linger around the table

no longer tempted to nibble,

talk interrupted by contented sighs,

occasional belch.

We applaud the cook for her meal

pulled off with nary a glitch.

Aromas of bread and cinnamon

perfume the house.

We admire the bouquet I remembered

to bring, how the white lilies

and chrysanthemums are perfect

with the sprays of red.

The hostess enjoys stirring things up

with talk of politics and local events

but we’ve loosened our belts,

too sated to engage.

The chat turns to murmurs,

people gather themselves,

the hostess refuses kitchen aid

so I slide through the door,

gill-stuffed and guilt-free.

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

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TAPESTRY OF FAITH

by Susan Marie Davniero

Tapestry of faith glory

Weaves pattern of life story

Divinely woven by God’s hands

That only He shall understand

Paragon in shades of glorious hue

From glistening gold to silver blue

When the life story comes to end

Aging colors fade and suspend

Alas, the unraveling will begin

and it’s only just wool again

~~~~~

MOCK WINTER STORM

by Patricia Crandall

A squall is a facsimile

of winter's harshness.

Winds howl while birds perch

on trees, unintimidated.

Square flakes accumulate

on window ledges, obliterating

frozen scenery. Within

a northern home, an orange fire

twists and burns

in a blackened hearth.

A blue sky unfolds

over the dark mountains.

~~~~~

HURRY ON BY, JANUARY

by Floriana Hall

Here it is the month of January
Already?
Christmas and New Year's are over
Such fun with family!
Let's see, what is there to do now?
Perhaps get caught up with chores
Left over from all the celebrations.
The thank you notes are written
But the sidewalks, porch and driveway
Are full of piled up snow
And, lo, it is still falling!
Guess that's what January is about,
Kind of pretty to view
With a hot cup of cocoa or tea.
Wait, there are bills to be paid,
Future plans to be made,
There's really plenty to do
With boots and snowshoes.
Get out the shovel,
No need to grovel,
Baby winter is here
So get up and cheer
For blessings of this season
For good health, we always pray
For spring to come soon, we say
So hurry on by, January
Let the fun begin.

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

january celebrity poet

Carl Sandburg

(1878 – 1967)

nationality: American

Carl Sandburg – Credit: Public Domain

source

INTERIOR

In the cool of the night time
The clocks pick off the points
And the mainsprings loosen.
They will need winding.
One of these days…
they will need winding.

Rabelais in red boards,
Walt Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And there is nothing…
To be said against them…
Or for them…
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.

A man in pigeon-gray pyjamas.
The open window begins at his feet
And goes taller than his head.
Eight feet high is the pattern.

Moon and mist make an oblong layout.
Silver at the man’s bare feet.
He swings one foot in a moon silver.
And it costs nothing.

One more day of bread and work.
One more day … so much rags…
The man barefoot in moon silver
Mutters “You” and “You”
To things hidden
In the cool of the night time,
In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo,
In an oblong of moon mist.

Out from the window … prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry.
The crickets keep on chirring.

Switch engines of the Great Western
Sidetrack box cars, make up trains
For Weehawken, Oskaloosa, Saskatchewan;
The cattle, the coal, the corn, must go
In the night … on the prairielands.

Chuff-chuff go the pulses.
They beat in the cool of the night time.
Chuff-chuff and chuff-chuff…
These heartbeats travel the night a mile
And touch the moon silver at the window
And the bones of the man.
It costs nothing.

Rabelais in red boards,
Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.

Read the entire poem at:
http://www.best-poems.net/carl_sandburg/poem-2158.html

For the poet’s biography, see:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg