PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has written DON'T TURN AWAY: Poems About Breast Cancer and END-CYCLE: Poems about care giving, among others. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and her work is published in numerous anthologies, journals and Internet magazines. A cancer survivor, Patricia has a longtime interest in 'healing writing' and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com
HARVEST TIME
by Michael Lee Johnson
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed over as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside¾approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
refrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears start
to mount in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, . He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in over 240 publications in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, as well as Poland internet radio. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request. He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission. Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/Contact her.
ANYWHERE BUT HERE
by Robert Simmons
If this life were a song, I would not dance.
If the eyes are the windows into the soul, I pray for blindness.
If the words spoken are bridges into the souls of others, I beg to be deaf and shall never cross.
If which makes this world go round is love, I ask on bended knee to be numb and unfeeling.
If the mouth speaks from the heart's abundance, I choose to be mute.
If we are all connected and come from the same tree, I ask the limb which dangles my fruit to be lopped off.
If the spirit of this world were a rose, I wish to not sense aromas evermore.
If it is wisdom which permeates through life's air, I choose to breathe in folly.
My piece does not fit in HERES puzzle. HERE, the fog chokes and distorts my light, rendering it opaque, muddying it through it's wall of misted confusion. I wish to fly but am anchored down by an anvil of flesh. Who's lark was it that plays this game of tomfoolery with me?
My ticket was punched, but my destination was not meant for HERE. HERE, is a facade, HERE, everything wears a mask. HERE everything lurks. HERE is a place reserved for the lost on the road to THERE. HERE is where the skeletons remain.
The haze and clouds of the gray vaporous fog refuse to lift, I hear the train's whistle, it is distant and muffled and never seems to get closer. Around the bend the kiss of its orange light never casts it's glow on the rails of the track to signal its approach. I will stay on this platform and wait for it for the remainder of my days. Its destination is a welcomed one if it is going to anyplace but HERE.
ROBERT SIMMONS was born and raised in Hollywood California, After many years in the IT financial and investment sectors, he feels compelled now to address the passion he has always felt for expressive writing. He currently calls New England home. Contact Robert.
I WISH
by Floriana Hall
I wish every kind thing I intend
Turns out right
But it doesn't,
I wish people would tolerate
Each other’s differences
But they won't,
I wish every one understood me
And I them
That won't happen.
I wish there were no wars
And only peace,
Unrealistic
I wish there were no natural disasters
Like hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, earthquakes
Nature is fickle
What should I do?
Continue being compassionate
Forgive other’s faults
And don't retaliate
For anything said that may hurt
Do my best to help others
Pray for them
When I know in my heart
I did,
I'll give it all up to God
He'll see me through,
Guide me to make right choices
And
I'll have no regrets.
From GATHERING GRACES.
FLORIANA BERDYCK HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, PA, She is a Distinguished Alumna of Cuyahoga Falls High School, OH and attended Akron U. She has been married to Robert for 59 years. They have five children, nine grandchildren, one great-granddaughter. She is author/editor of ten nonfiction inspirational books, SMALL CHANGE, self published; THE ADVENTURES OF FLOSSIE, ROBBIE, AND JUNEY During The Great Depression (2006); THE SANDS OF RHYME, poetry; DADDY WAS A BAD BOY; OUT OF THE ORDINARY SHORT STORIES; HEARTS ON THE MEND (2006); FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT (2008) and GATHERING GRACES, poetry (2008). Founder/coordinator of the Poet’s Nook at Cuyahoga Falls Library, Floriana is Editor of the group’s three books, THROUGH OUR EYES: Poems of Beautiful Northeast Ohio, POET’S NOOK POTPOURRI, and TOUCHING THE HEARTS OF GENERATIONS. She is the winner of many poetry contests and mentioned in WHO’S WHO IN US WRITERS, EDITORS AND POETS, WHO’S WHO IN INTERNATIONAL POETRY, MARQUIS WHO’S WHO IN AMERICA. She has been published in the US, UK, France and India and is a Poetry teacher, YOU, ME, AND POETRY at www.LssWritingSchool.com. Contact Floriana. www.alongstoryshort.net/FlorianaHall.html and www.BooksofExcellence.com
OVER THERE
by Monica Garcia Saenz
Life seems so strangely unfair today
Because I am here missing you
And you are so very, very far from my reach
I sit here comfortable in my lovely world
Painted a rosy shade of pink
almost feeling guilty
Knowing you are over there…
In a world not quite so lovely
Painted a darker shade of night
Not so comfortable I suppose
I question life and wonder…
Maybe a mother’s greatest flaw
Is her inability to see her child
as a grown man over there… at war
Never having imagined, never having known
Never having seen, never having had time to prepare
As if preparation is even possible –
for the great flood of fear and pain
and emotions that overwhelm her
at just the thought of him
Over there…
Under the hot burning sun… in harm's way
Walking in the dusty wild wind… in death's presence
So close to hate and anger and ugliness…
amidst chaos and desperation
With the weight of his country's freedom
On his young shoulders
His heart heavy with longing for home
While mine is largely longing to just hold him once again
Over here… next to me
Far away from there…
Over here…
Safe…
Home…
Free…
Alive…
Over here…
MONICA GARCIA SAENZ is a native of Kansas City, Missouri, whose roots grow deep in Chihuahua, Mexico, where she spent her childhood summers. She feels blessed to be 100 percent bilingual and bicultural. She now lives in Southwest Florida working closely with the local non-profit community and striving to make a difference with her life. She is a mother of three and loves reading, writing, motivational speaking and cooking authentic Mexican food. She currently has a few books in the “making.” E-mail her.
POEM OF THE MONTH
AUTUMNAL EQUINOX
by Mei-Li Liu
Harvest moon
Chinese country women’s hands
Sheared the bark of the cassia
Cinnamon marinates
Into zeal of
Chow-Ya’s laughter
On the riverbank of
Yangtze River
A crane
Wading its legs
Into the brim of
Trembling muddy water
Wisteria’s perfume
Slices the bluish sky
MEI-LI LIU was born and raised in Taiwan and now lives in Colorado . Her poetry appeared in Skipping Stones Magazine 1999 and “My Father Found His Dream” won a Father’s Hall of Fame 2000. She won an award in the Mighty Muse 2001. She is author and illustrator of “Ten Thousand Miles from Home,” published by Dragon Press 2004 and a chapbook, Poems, published by Dragon Press 2007. Other publications include She has been published in Brave Hearts, Red Hawk Review, The Mid-America Poetry Review 2006, Arabesques Review, Barnwood Press, Long Story Short, Essential Wellness, Heron’s Nest 2007, Asian American Female Poets Anthology, Autumn Leaves, Taj Mahal Review, lucid rhythms and Autumn Leaves 2008. Contact her.
TWIGS TO BURN
by Ernest Williamson III
the better documents are in the trees
along the rinds of the core
in the twisted arms
posing for vanity
of curious eyes
though the mist hovering
round the base of the willows,
as wasps do over sweet food,
constricts my angry ignorance
of what I see
in the trees
and also what I see
in the leaves
ERNEST WILLIAMSON III is a 31 year old polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 150 online and print journals. He is a self-taught pianist and painter and his poem "The Jazz of Old Wine" has been nominated for a Best of the Net award by the editors of "Thick with Conviction". He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis. Ernest is listed in the prestigious Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers: www.pw.org/content/ernest_williamson_iii . He has taught at NJCU and is currently an English Professor at Essex County College. Professor Williamson is also a Ph.D. Candidate at Seton Hall University in the field of Higher Education, and a member of The International High IQ Society. View his website: www.eyeoftheart.com/ErnestWilliamsonIIIContact Ernest.
DECEPTION
by Pavelle Wesser
Encircled by light,
she dances, her
movements intuitive,
familiar. Her first
step she will miss
today. By tomorrow
she will have forgotten
entirely the hours of
instruction as her
crippled feet, in their
deception, lead her
on toward she
knows not where.
PAVELLE WESSER's fiction and poetry has appeared in various webzines, including "Flash Shot" and "Silverthought." She teaches English in Connecticut, where she lives with her husband and two children. Contact Pavelle.
UNTIL THEN
by Susie N McCray
He said that if
He was the father
He would be there
But he's from
Africa and he wants
To take my son
To his home.
I'm afraid because
This miracle child
That I thought I
Would never conceive
Would never be
Returned to me.
I can't take
That chance but
When my son is
Older and asks
About his real
Father I'll give
Him his name and
The photos I have
And explain to him
My fears
But then it will
Be up to him
To be in his
Father's life.
SUSIE McCRAY has been writing poems since middle school. Two of Susie's poems have been published by Long Story Short ("Before Investing All of You" October 2005 and "A Friend Indeed" May 2007), as well as a short story ("An Understanding" July 2005). This writer recently published a collection of poems entitled SEE WHAT I SEE, and is currently working on a novel. To learn more about this author, check out her website at www.susiemccray.com. Contact her.
THANKSGIVING DAY AT MY HOUSE
by M. David Lutz
Thanksgiving Day is that special time
When giving the bird isn't a crime
We've got a turkey and a fruit cake
Which is my Uncle Jim and my Aunt Kate
Grandpa Jones drinks too much wine
Passing out before dinner time
Men and boys watch the football game
Women cook, gossip and complain
I haven't eaten all day long
My stomach thinks that’s just plain wrong
It wont be ready in time for lunch
I'll die soon without something to munch
Food in the kitchen that’s what I seek
I opened the door to take a peek
My intrusion was swiftly greeted
By mother’s threats so I retreated
Due to this imposed depravation
No doubt I'll succumb to starvation
A morsel a crumb, how much longer
If I don't eat soon I'm a goner
“Dinner’s ready” announces my mother
Just in time or I'd eaten my brother
With eyes closed, and heads bowed in blessing
I stuff my mouth with some cornbread dressing
Plates and bowls start moving everywhere
I grab a leg while one was still there
Thanksgiving Holiday is hard to beat
With leftovers left over for us to eat.
“This is the way we should always dine!”
Mom said, “No way, quick, pass me the wine!”
M. DAVID LUTZ obviously has a good sense of humor. He has had a few stories published in LSS and is a member of its Writing Forum. Visit his website: www.mdavidlutz.com . Contact him.
DAY OF THE DEAD
by Odarka Polanskyj Stockert
Mexican children fear not the skeletons,
in fact, they dance with them
are joyous with the dead!
In my country,
we picnic on the graves
share the Pascal food
and blessings
remember.
Would we otherwise forget?
In the north, crowned in wreaths
women make a birch branch she
erotic essence personified
and dress her and dance in the trees
In the end, stripped,
they drown her in the river.
But the dead will not
be silenced easily
they rise again
year after year
demand their audience,
to hear.
Previously Published in Exit 13 Magazine (issue #15)
ODARKA POLANSKYJ STOCKERT is the current leader of South Mountain Poets. Odarka is also a long time collaborator of the Yara Arts Group based in New York City. She is an accomplished harpist and lives in Millburn, NJ. She has been previously published in Gathered on the Mountain, Lunatic Chameleon, Literary Mama, www.Mamazine.com and the anthology, A Walk Through My Garden (Outrider Press) and is pending publication in The Poet’s Touchstone (Poetry Society of New Hampshire) and the upcoming Mothers and Sons Anthology. Visit her website: www.odarka.com. Contact Odarka.
WISH
by Marie Delgado Travis
I wish that I could
Snatch the rose
And lie with it,
Until my lusts
Were satiated.
To dance and laugh
and sing,
As if I were
inebriated...
Unpricked by
The thorns.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning writer. She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Visit her website at www.mariedelgadotravis.com. Her personal storefront is www.lulu.com/marilu
HURRICANE
by Mahdy Y. Khaiyat
Waged an unprovoked war;
His blitzkrieg punched
Through fortified defenses,
Left wounds and carcasses--
And goose-stepped his way out.
MAHDY Y. KHAIYAT lives in Goleta, near Santa Barbara, California. He is a freelance editor and translator. He has written poetry since 1990. His poems have been published in the United States, Canada, England, Australia, Japan, and France. Contact Mahdy.
NOVEMBER GALE
by Lenard W Eccles
I feel this strange
wild night around me
a pull of wind and sea
the racing wind
chills my bones
cuts deep into my soul
hell unleashes
swallows me whole
down into the sea
the ship bell tolls
sounds grow soft
the water grows cold
Lenard W Eccles, author of “Pego, the Sea Unicorn” is an internationally published poet, storyteller and artist. He has illustrated many children’s books, including “The Adventures of Sydney Snail” series. He lives in the state of Washington. See www.sidneysnail.com. Contact her.
DOZING OFF WHILE HUNTING CAIMAN
AT MIDNIGHT IN THE AMAZON
by Nikolai Von Keller
If you wake to find
yourself in darkness,
carving a slender furrow
upon some minor creek
whose unexplained
and periodic fleets of light
resemble a sky depopulated,
know that the caiman
deaden all but their eyes
in honor of your presence,
that you have only just
left the belly of your mother,
and the jungle, though
equally blind from
its own clotting thickness,
remembers where you are
by memory.
NICKOLAI VON KELLER is a 2007 Bowdoin College graduate who recently returned to the U.S. from a year-long Watson Fellowship studying the effect of native culture and landscape upon Japanese, South American, and Caribbean poetic traditions. He has been published in the Albion Review and USC's Lettered Olive. He has also been awarded the Forbes Rickard Poetry Prize and the Nathalie Walker Llewellyn Poetry Prize. He placed third in the Dehn Poetry Competition. Contact Nick.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors.
