Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work is published in numerous anthologies, journals, and Internet magazines, including HazMat Review, Red River Review, Rattlesnake Review, Phoebe, A Room of Her Own, Centrifugal Eye, Ibbetson Street Press and Niederngasse. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing), Apple Blossoms at Eye Level (Poets Corner Press), Voices on the Land (Rattlesnake Press), and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). Her collection of caregiver poems, End-Cycle, is the winner of Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest, 2006. Patricia is also publisher of PWJ Publishing and edits and produces books by invitation. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com .
Joy Harold Helsing won two top awards for poetry in the Atlantic Monthly student writing contests while an undergraduate at the University of New Hampshire. Her work has since appeared in the Aurorean, Lynx Eye, The Lyric, Möbius, Nanny Fanny, The National Poetry Review, Rattlesnake Review, Tiger’s Eye, Tundra, the Unrorean, and other publications. In 2005 she published her first book, Confessions of the Hare (PWH Publishing), and has also published two chapbooks: The Great Snail Race (PWJ Publishing) and Waiting for Winter (Poet’s Corner Press). After many years in San Francisco she now lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills of Northern California.
Purpose and a Place
by John Anderson
I climbed long escalators through the mall-like structure.
Through fast pacing people--all together--yet hectically alone.
Striding through a silent early morning.
I opened the glass doors to an outer office where I would wait.
High up views in huge picture windows I didn't look out.
Sitting on oak furniture, under a high ceiling, in my best suit.
I took a cup of coffee from a Mr. Coffee and sat back down.
Stoically observing the herd entering the office to begin their day,
while drinking from the Styrofoam cup.
My new manager sat in his glass office formulating his plans.
Excitedly looking like he had been there for a while, yet he had just arrived.
And as he thought my day took structure.
He saw me sitting, and bounced out of his chair to meet me.
Papers folding on desks as he strode past, a sunbeam following him across the room.
Shaking my hand, he took me to join their meeting for the goals of the day.
Then seriously dictated them to earnest faces.
I sat there watching their intentions to achieve, feeling like a puzzle piece.
Searching for the barren hole that I would fill.
Everyone has a place, and a purpose, I thought.
I refilled my cup, looking for mine.
John Anderson: I am a son, brother, uncle, and soon-to-be husband, who was born under the star of an artist. In my free time, I write when I'm not being a son, brother, uncle and boyfriend. The remaining minutes in the day, I work for Hewlett Packard at a Ford Motor Co. facility overseeing a printer network, but that's beside the point. Not only do I enjoy poetry with websites at PoemHunter.com and Publishedauthors.net, but also write fiction. My last book of three I've written, Precious Life, was published in 2004.
I wrote this poem when I got out of school and dreamed and anticipated the futures ahead of me. Contact me.
Do you know where he’s straying – that husband of yours?
Would you make him tell you – say the words?
Would you slowly forgive him – take him back in your arms
And seduce him again, using all your charms?
Would you slowly forgive him or wait and see?
Tell me, dear lady, would you take him from me?
Do you know where he’s going?
Do you know where he’s been?
Do you know what he’s doing?
Would you make a scene?
Do you know who he’s phoning?
Do you know where he’ll be?
Did you know that your husband’s
Been sleeping with me?
Lisa MacColl is a freelance writer and stay at home mom who shares her home with her husband, Dave, her daughter, Laura, and the two family felines, Rocky and Max. She holds a Masters Degree in Political Science from Wilfrid Laurier University, in Waterloo, Ontario, and continues to be a self-professed political junkie. She is also an accomplished singer, and is a soprano in the Kitchener-Waterloo Philharmonic Choir, and a sought-after soloist at weddings. Lisa likes to relax by reading, doing all kinds of crafts, baking, dancing, e-mailing and attending theatre. She has published articles on choosing wedding music, shopping with a stroller, and keeping Remembrance Day memorable, and was a featured author on Longstoryshort.us for a work of short fiction. She is currently working on a number of projects, including children’s books, and a non-fiction book on the best advice ever received, which is destined to be a book of inspiration for women from all walks of life.
Floriana Hall, born 10/2/27 in Pittsburgh, Pa., June 1945 graduate and Distinguished Alumna of Cuyahoga Falls High School, attended Akron University Business school; wrote poetry as a child, and columns for high school newspaper. Married Robert E. Hall in 1948, five children and nine grandchildren. Author of four inspirational books, SMALL CHANGE, DADDY WAS A BAD BOY, THE SANDS OF RHYME, and OUT OF THE ORDINARY Short Stories; at least 500 poems published in U.S., England, and India, winner of many poetry prizes. Floriana founded the Poet's Nook at Cuyahoga Falls Library (Ohio) seven years ago and coordinates it monthly. She edited and published The Poet's Nook's two previous books, THROUGH OUR EYES, Poems of Beautiful Northeast Ohio, and POET'S NOOK POTPOURRI, and is in the process of publishing another poetry book, titled TOUCHING THE HEARTS OF GENERATIONS, and another nonfiction book, HEARTS ON THE MEND. She feels blessed that God has inspired her to keep on writing. WHO'S WHO IN INTERNATIONAL POETRY, WHO'S WHO IN US AUTHORS, EDITORS, AND POETS, MARQUIS WHO'S WHO IN AMERICA.
CHOCOLATE DEATH
By Linda Barnett-Johnson
The heart-shaped red box,
Tempts and beckons me.
From its snug abode of
Brown crinkly folds.
Drips with calories,
Fat oozing in pounds.
Succulently evil,
Dimples my thighs.
Poison wrapped in delight
Seeping with toxins.
Another lures my fate.
One calorie closer to death.
Linda resides in beautiful Big Sky Country Montana. She's Assistant Editor of Long Story Short and is the Administration Director for LSS School of Writing.She is the owner of the private writing forum, Your Writing Friend. If interested in joining, contact her.She has five grandsons and one granddaughter. You can find some of her work in the archives of Long Story Short. Read more about her.
A MEASURE OF TIME
By Karen Butts
Spring breeze, refreshing, cool
we breathe relieved
awaiting summer's heat,
when not a breath will stir
the thickness of a windless day.
A seed detached, swept on
in currents of adventures flight,
released at last in measured time
to find it's destiny.
The current flows, it knows not where,
the seed swept on unknowing.
A flight to pastures green perhaps,
or woodland's mysteries.
The wind now stilled so suddenly,
the flight has ended here.
A lonely seed lies in the street
in heat and agony.
One rush of air, a hope to feel
the breath of life
that lies beneath the dark, cool earth;
a narrow seam, the doom dispersed!
And life renews itself
in the busy city street.
A slender weed extends itself,
the busy street, the dusty air,
a measure yet of time to live
within a slender width.
Busy feet that pass it by
one step away from crushing
a lonely weed.
How could it know that carefully,
the eyes of those that can yet see
the wonderment of living things
that conquer fearlessly
and live, if for a measured time,
wherever life would choose
to send a seed.
A hopeful glance from those
who would not value life
as highly now,
but for the sight that
they have seen.
A tender weed that could
have lived
in pastures green and
woodland's mysteries,
whose flight had ended
here.
To live a measure of a time,
by the side of a busy street.
I have been an Artist/Writer for more than thirty years. I have written two, as yet unpublished novels, 45 poems on varied topics and two short stories, one of which was published in 'Long Story Short' in August 2006.
SESTINA
By Nonnie Augustine
One winter afternoon you knew,
as you opened the mail on the table,
that the lies would never stop.
They were getting bolder
because you stayed after the first lies.
They weren't so bad. You loved him.
Lies kept the cards off the table.
He hid from you behind his lies.
Secrets were deal-breakers you knew.
If only you had been bolder,
undaunted, unafraid of him,
ready to leave if he didn't stop.
You needed to act. You knew
that laughing, loving, ignoring the lies,
making small talk, amusing him
putting favorite foods on the table,
would not make him stop.
You had to be bolder.
If only you'd shown outrage when his lies
started and you'd told him what you knew,
he might have been willing to stop.
You hesitated, and afraid to be bolder,
you silently connived with him
to talk of little, harmless things at the table.
Then one night, sitting at the table
you lied to him.
First you told little, harmless lies
and then you couldn't stop.
Your lies became bolder
and were staining your soul. This you knew.
It felt like nothing could stop
the deceits. The masquerades you knew
would become more clever, bolder,
until you became strangers at the table.
He lied first. You could blame him
for the worst of the lies.
You knew you wanted to stop
all the lies. Finally bolder, you left him.
Missing him, you sat alone, at another table.
ICE
By Pavelle Wesser
The rose you gave me died
The same day I did, crushed
within the final chapter of
the last book I ever read.
The day I cannot recall,
But the month was February:
Blank, white, faceless -
Death came.
The how, the why, do not matter.
You were not there:
That matters.
Your nose bled, but you shed no tears.
Does it matter?
No more pain, no more lies.
No more promises, no more threats.
February: cold, empty.
As all those nights alone
in my bed when you refused
to sleep by my side while
hands of ice caressed me.
Now you will think of me
And one day soon you will cry.
That it took my demise
to teach you this lesson
requires no explanation.
I have previously published poetry in anthologies such as Voicesnet. I am a program manager for an educational site. I have a husband, two children and two dogs. Contact me.
WHAT I WANT
By Rick Slottow
I want more than the unusual
I want an intimate peace
I do not need your daring rejects
I want to discern your desire
I never settle for like just OK
I want smooth brilliance
I hope for extraordinary
I want to be God speaking
NATURAL MUSIC
By Rick Slottow
The wind like fingers
Picked through my hair, played the trees
Tiny castanets
Roaring traffic keeps a beat
And I live the melody
I have been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. I am now 51. I have had poems published in The Golden Gate times as well as many online sites, such as: GhazalPage.net and SoHo …and others. A search will show more. I enjoy writing all kinds of poetry, playing with some of the older forms.
.
THE HEART OF IT ALL
Floriana Hall - February 6, 2007
Awakened before dawn,
A heart shaped moon peeked through my shades
Casting a shadow of light on the bedroom floor.
As I gazed at this surreal scene
A drifting cloud crossed over the surface
And the moon became round once again.
February is the month of hearts
Sweethearts and Valentines
and human, beating hearts
That thump with the breath of life.
Red is everywhere
On cards, on pins, and decorative displays
Reminding us that the heart is vital
To life, to love, to gentle ways.
Startled by the light,
Aware of this magnificent sight,
My heart goes out to everyone
Suffering on this frigid day.
Warmth is the hearth of our hearts,
Empathy and tenderness,
Reaching out to others in need
With prayer and every good deed
Showing compassion
Like moonbeams lighting the way.
Comfort for broken hearts
overflowing with hurt,
Listening to the center
Of one's very being
Ticking away time with every beat
As night turns into demulcent day.
Oh, dear heart, what can I do for you
To help you attain your heart's desire?
WHAT’S IN A WORD
By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
what is in a word
depends on the voice
standing on an oyster mound
this overzealous clown
pisses on the river's reflection
I can black out my eyes
but there's no protection
I'm a whirling dervish
an eerie stranger's voice
echoing beneath towering erections
it always begins again
futility is my only friend
if only tomorrow
if not for today
coffin is open
corpse on display
casting lives away
inhaling madness
go away!
I can only see anxiety-gray
laughing at the sun
there is ample fuel
to transcend or travel
I can only laugh
it's hard not to
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr., is a thirty-two-year old writer/lyricist originally from High Point, North Carolina. He's been published by Unde1rground Window, Ygdrasil, Prism Quarterly, Seeker Magazine, Poetic Voices, Poetry Stop, Poet's Haven, Muscadine Lines, Oracular Tree, Cynic Magaine, Winamop, Wildchild Publishing, Endzville, and Infinite Glass. He currently lives in Jacksonville, Florida.
