“OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.”

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh
source

~~____________________________________________~~

POEM OF THE MONTH

SCHIZOPHRENIA NIGHT

(Devoted to John Nash, A Beautiful Mind Movie, 2001)

by Michael Lee Johnson

I am a chalkboard computer brain.

I have updated drawn raw

images even the classroom

students cannot see, hear, nor understand.

They sit quietly in Disneyland

wondering about my eccentricities

I capture their stillness, then I speak.

I am the professor, special agent of government

dream tracer of crossword puzzles.

Photographic memory in private rooms,

did I hear a critic, erase

destroy dissociative thoughts.

I walk out unsteady in disbelief.

Is there a shadow of storybooks following me?

I am a genius; I know who I am.

I spend nights in formula construction

drawing full color images of my brain,

percentages of gray matter lost.

I stick my ego to the eagle of the sky.

When on a high on an airplane, self-love,

full bloom, I keep my enemies at bay.

I shelter the skeletons of thought.

I trust Jesus because His image is stable,

every group I have ever known says "The Lord's Prayer."

Even then, new members leave, disappear, I hear what they said.

I had an MRI to trace all my youthful abuses.

There were no images there but voices I remember.

I cast their shadows, audio, visual for show, in the background.

In time, they quiet their voices. I walk beyond their images.

I pass on, they still screenplay.

You have to stretch lean, refer to sanity,

drink Asian tea, smooth out hallucinated sounds

before that stage, I took that Nobel prize,

even before, I forgave you.

AUTHOR’S FOOTNOTE: John Nash has suffered most of his life with severe paranoid schizophrenia and has gone on to be a celebrated American mathematician whose works in game theory, and differential geometry are appreciated around the world. The movie A Beautiful Mind, portrays Nash's mathematical genius and his struggles with schizophrenia and how he went on to win a Nobel Prize.

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

~~____________________________________________~~

SUDDENLY SPRING

by Susan Dale

Suddenly Spring

Muddily,

Puddily,

Fun-down duddily

Spring

Spritzy Spring

Of rosy Posies

Sun-warmed toesies

Clouds are dancing

Prancing

Fancy puffs across the skies

Rainbows arch

Wings do fly

Wearing

forsythia skirts

April dances

her blossoms

Across the earth

Sunshine days

growing stout

Winds turn umbrellas

Inside out

Galoshes slosh and slip

Raindrops fall

Going blip,

blip,

blip

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

~~~~~

FOR BLESSING

by Shonda Buchanan

today at crittenden middle school

me and langston's ghost misted a room while

fifty sets of brilliant orbs listened, giggled into their sleeves

smiled shyly at secret crushes,

writing group poems with solid bones. after,

she came up to me, half covering nervous, watery eyes

still, brave-hearted, thirteen, she said "i write poetry"

recited a poem sweet as spring water. sweet as summer tea.

reminding me of another girl,

her hair smelling of woodsmoke and weeping willows

dragging her feet down a long lonely hallway

to finish her last line before the bell. that girl liked the quiet too.

no taunts. no bullies to say, ‘why you always writing?’

was it possible, that i had slipped

into the future to whisper my own name, "Miss Shonda"

say ‘i write poetry’

saying, look at you now, teacher friend mentor.

poet. look at you now.

she wrote her name on a slip of paper

so i would remember her. this moment.

her/my far-away eyes.

but who could forget any of this, i wanted to tell her.

no one could ever forget

such a Blessing.

SHONDA BUCHANAN: Editor of Voices from Leimert Park: A Poetry Anthology, Shonda Buchanan's first collection of poetry, Who's Afraid of Black Indians? was nominated for the 2013 Black Caucus of the American Library Association Literary Award. Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Hampton University, Shonda is an Eloise Klein-Healy Scholarship recipient, a Sundance Institute fellow and a PEN Center Emerging Voice fellow. To contact the poet, visit her website or email.

~~~~~

PICTURESQUE

by Floriana Hall

Scenery that catches one’s eye -
Verdant meadows bring on a sigh
A hot apple pie from the oven

Is easy to picture in the mind.

A portrait of a lovely lady's face
A President, King or Queen in place
An exploration of outer space
Will be remembered in kind.

Children at recess on a playground
Riding the bus homeward bound
Chattering or not making a sound
Lovely to see, rain or shine.

Stars at night that light the sky
Along with the man in the moon up high
Rainbows after a shower beautify
Our world on cloud nine.

A warm handshake or embrace
Brings on a smile to a friend's face
Smiles are welcomed anyplace
Like the motion of a peace sign.

Vivid imagery is open to all
Spring, summer, winter or fall
Fancy or rhetorical recall
Practical, nonsensical, or divine.

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

~~~~~

DRIVE

by Michael Ceraolo

He moves along the baseline,

Un-cutoff by his man,

uses the basket as a screen

though not for the expected reverse layup

No, he counterintuitively

floats in the air away from the basket

and lofts a shot that bounces

once,

twice,

and

then drops through the hoop

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

~~~~~

FIRST HOLY COMMUNION DAY

by Susan Marie Davniero

First Holy Communion

Begins our blessed union

With Holy Eucharist receive

Body of Jesus we believe

First Holy Communion

Marks a lifetime union

Cup of wine pours

Blood of Jesus adored

First Holy Communion

Faithful commitment union

Blessed Sacrament we pray

First Holy Communion Day

First Communion with Susan Davniero and her sister, Laura, 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

~~~~~

DREAM LIBRARY

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

She steps from the small boat

to the green verge by the river,

walks in small paces through grass

studded with English daisies and primroses

to a terrace of large flat stones.

Footed urns hold ivy cascades,

red geraniums stain gray sky

and French doors open silently before her.

Inside the vast room, dim despite

the long narrow windows, books

from floor to ceiling are interspersed

by statues of strong women.

Linen-fold oak covers walls

not already fronted by books,

a fire glows in the hearth

at the narrow end.

Ladders on a rail frame high shelves

and a circular staircase leads

to a mezzanine where more books

carry the eye higher. Enchanted,

she turns a slow arc, absorbs the smell

of old leather, dust motes dancing

in rays of a reluctant sun,

the glint of gilt on ancient spines.

She trails her fingers along the rows of books,

plucks one at random, one that feels good,

reaches the slouched leather chairs

in front of the fire, settles in

for the rest of her life.

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

~~~~~

GARDEN OF EMOTIONS

by Rebecca Rose Taylor

Bright colors align the garden path

I look at the marigolds – so yellow and orange

Their delicate faces look like they’re smiling at me

Then I see the forget-me-nots – mostly blue

They remind me to tell the people I love how I feel

Next I visit the multi-colored tulips

Their blooms open and welcoming ask me to stay a while

In the back are the towering sunflowers

Their height a reminder to stand tall against the elements of life

Now I see the roses – a multitude of hues living together

A message that I need harmony every day

The apple blossoms are gorgeous up in their tree

Their scent delightful and I take a moment to enjoy

Lilac buds are opening on their bushes

I snip a few to take inside with me

To remind me of the bliss I had on my walk.

REBECCA ROSE TAYLOR lives in a small town in Quebec and enjoys writing poetry, fiction and articles. She also enjoys reading, quilting, knitting and crocheting. Some of her previous publications include: Long Story Short, Halcyon and All Rights Reserved. She is also a weekly contributor to the Paradise on Paper blog. Contact

~~~~~

SEPARATION
by James G. Piatt

The garden, light green, and
silent, a living essence separating
trees from gritty driveway, and
something much more…or much
less; a living verdant boundary
between austere memories, and
jovial dreams, between the
laughter of youth, and the moans
of the aging. I hear voices
troubled by storms and ills, and
those with deep worries, and
scatter the discordant remains
among the flowers to break their
monotony in the dark soil: I water
the flowers with voices infused
with laughter and gaiety, to bring
out the beauty of colors and
scents of perfumed fragrance. I
build brick paths so others may
stroll among the loveliness of the
garden that separates laughter
from weeping.

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 600 poems published. His poem, “I Am” was nominated for a 2014 Pushcart award, his poem, “The Night Frog” was nominated for best of web 2013, his poem, “In The Meadow,” was selected as 1 of the 100 best poems of 2014, and his poem, “Teach Me” was selected for the 2014 poem of the year award at Long Story Short. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Contact

~~~~~

JESUS, LEAD ME

by Susan Marie Davniero

Jesus, I pray

Lead me today

I will follow

On the path now

Lead me away

Show me the way

Take my hand

You understand

Help me cope

Give me hope

Lead me, come near

I am here

~~~~~

MY SENSE AND SCIENCE
by Debbie Hilbish

Vinegar and baking soda

can’t mix and not erupt.

I always get a tingle

thinking about your touch.

A brick may well effervesce

if a formula’s not followed.

When sad, there’s a big lump

I can’t seem to swallow.

Science alone cannot restrain

all the heart can know.

Some put faith in Tesla.

My heart follows Thoreau.

Balance is our differences

it makes the mobile go.

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

~~~~~

OUR HIDING PLACE

by Shirley Securro

We can go to our father and hide anytime

He's our refuge, our strength to abide

He will always be our high tower

In him indwells all the power

He has proved his faithfulness

And so we have truly been blessed

In times of trouble he's always there

Surrounding us and showing his care

There is no need for us to fear

He said he would dry our every tear

If the mountains crumble into the sea

He's still our refuge, our strength to be

Now and forever more!

SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact

~~~~~

CHANCES ARE YOU WILL WANT TO COME TO NEW YORK CITY

by Patricia Crandall

In 1958

Her streets were paved

in yellow brick

leading to Fifth Avenue

and 42^nd Street.

You might have seen

a zealous couple

dance-walking towards

Broadway’s winking lights.

You might have heard jazz

eking out of the Metropole;

Ahmad Jamal

polishing white keys

with rhythmical fingers.

Small armies of white hats

took leave then

from hulks of ships.

Bell-bottom trousers flapped

in the glittering glass town

past steel palaces

exerting attraction on

click-clacking

high-heeled shoes and

saucy red lips,

interchanging magnetic pick-ups.

Today

foreign invasion and

a caravan of chic boutiques

marketing on the upper east side,

symbolize the best and

worst of New York.

Yet, bright young thing,

Chances are you will want to come

to New York City.

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

~~~~~

THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD

by Susan Marie Davniero

At the Last Supper spread

The Fest of unleavened bread

"My appointed time draws near" Jesus said

One will betray me as Scriptures read

Blessed is the Holy Trinity

Behold our divine history

"Take and eat, for this is my body"

He took a cup, "Drink from it"

This is my Blood of Covenant?

The kiss of sinner concedes to deliver

Blessed Jesus to the unbeliever

Alas, mere thirty pieces of silver

Paid to Judas’ disloyal giver

"Hail King of Jews!?" they cried

"Let him be crucified!?”

Death of Jesus miraculously defies

Rise the Son of God, Jesus is alive

The Gospels of Mathew foretold

Sacred Scriptures words of gold

Glory to God, Son of Man behold

The Greatest Story ever told

Bible Cross Drawing, Credit: Susan Marie Davniero

~~~~~

IF YOU FIND NO POEM

by Michael Lee Johnson

If you find

no poem on

your doorstep

in the morning,

no paper, no knock on your door,

your life poorly edited

but no broken dashes

or injured meter-

if you do not wear white

satin dresses late in life

embroidered with violet

flowers on the collar;

nor do you have

burials daily

across main street-

if no one whispers

in your ear, Emily Dickinson-

you feel alone-

but not reclusive-

the sand child

still sleeping in your eyes-

wiping your tears away-

if you find

no poem on

your doorstep-

you know

you are not from New England.

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

april celebrity poet

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(1806 – 1861)

nationality: English

Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Credit: Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

source

THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS

I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in;
When for earth too fancy-loose
And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud---
I build it bright to see,---
I build it on the moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee.

Cloud-walls of the morning's grey,
Faced with amber column,---
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn!
May mists, for the casements, fetch,
Pale and glimmering;
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.

Build the entrance high and proud,
Darkening and then brightening,---
If a riven thunder-cloud,
Veined by the lightning.
Use one with an iris-stain,
For the door within;
Turning to a sound like rain,
As I enter in.

Build a spacious hall thereby:
Boldly, never fearing.
Use the blue place of the sky,
Which the wind is clearing;
Branched with corridors sublime,
Flecked with winding stairs---
Such as children wish to climb,
Following their own prayers.

In the mutest of the house,
I will have my chamber:
Silence at the door shall use
Evening's light of amber,
Solemnising every mood,
Softemng in degree,---
Turning sadness into good,
As I turn the key.

Be my chamber tapestried
With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless,---glorified
When the sunbeams come here;
Wandering harpers, harping on
Waters stringed for such,---
Drawing colours, for a tune,
With a vibrant touch.

Bring a shadow green and still
From the chestnut forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,
When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,
Carpet-wove around,---
Whereupon the foot shall fall
In light instead of sound.

Bring the fantasque cloudlets home
From the noontide zenith
Ranged, for sculptures, round the room,---
Named as Fancy weeneth:
Some be Junos, without eyes;
Naiads, without sources
Some be birds of paradise,---
Some, Olympian horses.

Bring the dews the birds shake off,
Waking in the hedges,---
Those too, perfumed for a proof,
From the lilies' edges:
From our England's field and moor,
Bring them calm and white in;
Whence to form a mirror pure,
For Love's self-delighting.

Bring a grey cloud from the east,
Where the lark is singing;
Something of the song at least,
Unlost in the bringing:
That shall be a morning chair,
Poet-dream may sit in,
When it leans out on the air,
Unrhymed and unwritten.

Bring the red cloud from the sun
While he sinketh, catch it.
That shall be a couch,---with one
Sidelong star to watch it,---
Fit for poet's finest Thought,
At the curfew-sounding,--- ;
Things unseen being nearer brought
Than the seen, around him.

Poet's thought,----not poet's sigh!
'Las, they come together!
Cloudy walls divide and fly,
As in April weather!
Cupola and column proud,
Structure bright to see---
Gone---except that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee!

Let them! Wipe such visionings
From the Fancy's cartel---
Love secures some fairer things
Dowered with his immortal.
The sun may darken,---heaven be bowed---
But still, unchanged shall be,---
Here in my soul,---that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with THEE!

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