Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). She won the Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest 2006 with End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com
Buds & Bees
by Jim Barton
On the bare porch rafters above me
carpenter bees worry the wood
leaving little drifts of sawdust on the floor,
detritus from their secretive drilling.
They are careful never to let me observe
their ongoing work hollowing out
near-perfect bee-sized holes
in the soft pine boards.
Once as a child I tried to watch
a yellow rosebud open its pale face to the sun.
I stared for hours;
it refused.
When I awoke, it was done;
the magic remained.
Jim Barton is a story-teller who writes poetry from the pine woods of south Arkansas. He has performed his work on stage at Festivals and college and university gatherings as well as on the radio. He has had work published in such fine journals as Mississippi Review, Louisiana Literature, Poetry Motel, Timber Creek Review, The Mid-America Poetry Review, Bear Creek Haiku and others. Contact Jim.
NATIONAL UNITY DINNER
By Ronald Charles Epstein
Johnsonville sausages
from Sheboygan Falls,
Wisconsin.
Zartrain's jambalaya
from New Orleans,
Louisiana.
Red state,
white plate,
blue state.
FOXY GRANNY
By Ronald Charles Epstein
Stylin...
leather skirt
with matching
leather boots.
Aging boomers
all remember
Barbarella
and deadly
Mrs. Emma Peel.
-----30-----
I was born in Bogota, Colombia in 1956 and have lived in Toronto, Canada since 1959. I graduated from the University of Toronto with an Honours B.A.
For then each day I’ll play a different part of me.
Raised in Austin, Texas and now residing in Los Angeles, California. Simultaneously pursuing my career in acting, and freelance-writing. I hope to own my own production company through which I write, act, and have creative control over what stories I tell.
A Best Friend
A whimsical tale
By Portia Dent
Eyes like warm chocolate
Hair of silken curls
Long beautiful nails
Teeth white as pearls
A body lean and muscular
A smile that lights up my world
A heart as big as Texas
A soul unblemished and uncorrupted
A mind open and giving
Loyal steadfast and true
Ever faithful
Always a friend to the end
God how I love my dog!
I am a 50 yr old divorced mother of 2 grown daughters. i have 4 cats.
SWEET PLEASURE
by Michael Keshigian
Sweet little chocolate
in the candy shop,
I gave your brown shell
a bite when no one saw,
took your creamy filling
for a ride in my mouth,
on my tongue
to all those secret places
where I might sense the nuance
of your flavored butter breath.
As you awakened my palate,
I tried to appear innocent
from the guilty pleasure
your confectionary sin availed,
greeting the clerk
with a tight lipped smile
as I perused the display
with you discreetly perched
behind my teeth,
slowly melting away.
A FRIEND INDEED
By Susie McCray
You’ve taught me what a true friend was
We’ve done things for each other, just because
Even when you upset me, I loved you still
I suppose, no matter what, I always will
I hope we’ll be close ‘til we’re old and gray
I hope we talk to each other almost every day
I’ve had friends before, but never one like you
Anything I wanted to do, you were down for it too
Remember how we met, our men were friends too
I hope that the men we marry become just as cool
I hope, if we have children, they’ll be friends for life
I hope they love and respect each other with all their might
It’s good to have a friend when you find yourself in need
I’m so glad that you are such a wonderful friend to me
(Previously published on www.poetry.com)
Susie McCray has written poetry and short stories ever since she's known how to read and write. Her work is inspired by the different people in her life--within relationships, friendships, and family. Contact Susie.
IN THE STARS
By Michael Keshigian
They suspend
like handfuls of confetti
thrown from the windows
that surround Times Square
on New Year's Eve,
clusters that never seem to move,
just shocking the sky
when they suddenly appear.
Like dazed fireflies,
they twist in darkness
and blink
when their momentum abates
so we might glance
a fading streak
before their lights go out,
which is why
we lean against buildings
and always look up,
why we sneak a peek
through the moon roof
when traffic stalls our progress,
why the affluent
and the homeless stare at the sky,
because solace and hope
line the dark ceiling
and the lamps
that bring the night to life,
hide answers to the dreams
that evaporate on our pillows.
I am a musician and educator, performing and teaching on the collegiate level in Boston . Most recently my work has been published in the following periodicals: Fairfield Review; Meridian Anthology; Pegasus ; Tryst; Westward Quarterly; Red River Review among many other online and written journals. I have 3 published chapbooks and 2 Pushcart nominations.
SWEET PLEASURE
by Michael Keshigian
Sweet little chocolate
in the candy shop,
I gave your brown shell
a bite when no one saw,
took your creamy filling
for a ride in my mouth,
on my tongue
to all those secret places
where I might sense the nuance
of your flavored butter breath.
As you awakened my palate,
I tried to appear innocent
from the guilty pleasure
your confectionary sin availed,
greeting the clerk
with a tight lipped smile
as I perused the display
with you discreetly perched
behind my teeth,
slowly melting away.
THE CANYON
By Lisa Sullivan
She stands near the edge of
the canyon ledge
and questions distance,
her speck of a body,
and whether this place
is larger than souls.
The canyon has taken her words.
Hikers slowly pass,
walking off regrets
as the sun dips past noon,
and still she stands
waiting to accept
the magnificence
of pastel layers,
the height and depth of a
heaven and hell.
She shoves her map
into the pocket of
her hiking shorts
and waits for her words
to echo back into her mouth.
She cannot swallow.
And she dares not step closer -
not for fear of rock crumbling,
but of acknowledging
that she had looked down.
She backs away and
begins her ascent,
smiling empathically
at other wordless mouths.
COULD YOU STAY THE NIGHT, FOREVER?
By Jason E
Wrapped in the fireplace
of your arms. Warmed by
the trust in your smile.
The night and our love
Are acquainted. You cuddle close
and feel my heart. I brush your
hair away from your face.
The window and the rain
Are old friends. Soft candle-
light washes over our skin,
soft music over our repose.
The ambiance and timing
Couldn't be better. I look
down at you, you're falling asleep.
I kiss your forehead
and whisper, Sleep well.
With eyes closed, you sigh
and reply, Then don't go.
BELOW ZERO
By Jason E
A dimness has poured over the bright of her day,
where dirty light tightens around the body, squeezing
bitter truth from lemon-flavored karma.
An infant's voice bounces and plays inside her head,
where love is a pale, frozen rainbow; shining
just faintly above an empty playground.
The choice came with the crystal air of a cruel winter,
the day was cold unforgivably cold but heat danced through it.
No one would come close to understanding this.
Now, she is rigid; severely pensive beneath falling white.
Acrobatic thoughts dissolve within her stillness
as winter coils around her, ready to strike:
And in the icy wind, a baby cries.
Tiny footprints in the snow fade away.
Where once was a life is now empty space
empty space with a fading lullaby.
My name is jason e and I am 33 years old. I live in the western suburbs of Chicago and work in a herbarium. In 2004 I self-published a book of poetry called "Kairos." Contact me.
A DAY IN MAY
by Floriana Hall
Looking over the neighbor's fence
Basking in the sunshine
Overwhelmed by magnolia scents
Dogwood beauty compliments.
Pink and white blossoms, cool blue sky
Relaxing in my lawn chair --
It's the first day of May, oh, my
How the warmth of spring is nigh!
A day of celebrating in some lands,
A day of demonstrations in others,
I gather all this beauty in my hands
To scoop and savor, or take a stand.
A day in May, a day in a trance
Enthralled by nature's beauty
Cirrus white clouds join the dance
The garden of life to romance.
A day in May the month embraces
Of peace and good feelings
The weather brings out many faces
Change of pace and breathing spaces.
A day in May is meant to distract
From problems or create them
From the ordinary to matter of fact
This maypole day has its impact!
POEM OF THE MONTH
CARVED OUT PLACES
By Lisa Sullivan
I.
Some don’t have the qualities
to summon followers
or to be a comfortable follower.
But comfort neither given nor found
can be made.
He carved out this place
in his own backyard;
a welcoming space
where everything
is random and right,
despite the
awkward scrub pine,
the stinging nettle,
and suffocating wysteria vine.
He feeds his pigeons, starlings, and grackles,
from a makeshift log bench,
he whistles and whittles
and counts time by the sun.
II.
She watched him with his scythe
for three, full days
as he wrought that quaint spot.
It was the first time she
had seen her neighbor -
though he’d been there for six months.
She tried to pinch color
into her plain face, then laughed.
She tucked the worn basket of fruit and bread
under her meager arm and headed out
to ask if she could share his carved out place.
She would point out that beyond the scrub pine grove
is a meadow of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Lisa Sullivan lives in beautiful Plymouth, Massachusetts with her husband, Dennis. She has been writing poetry for eight years and her poems have appeared in several publications.
