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.
Born near Chicago and raised in the western suburbs, jason e, 33, now resides along the Fox River in Geneva, Illinois. His work has appeared in magazines, poetry websites, newspapers, and a love anthology. In 2004 he self-published his first book, called Kairos, which is still available. In addition to writing, his other passion is music. He and his blues band, The Beer Tears, tour extensively throughout the Chicagoland area (on those rare nights when all the band members don't have to work!). Contact Jason.
WHO AM I?
by Susan Garner
A child, yearning heart's release, suffering secrecy's silence....
A heart restored via music and song.
A connoiseur of words,
A mother,
A grandmother,
A nurse and empowerer.
A Christian with messages to nurture the soul,
Writing to transcend time
And rescind misguided reasoning.
Past careers have included training in social work and various types of nursing, the most rewarding field being that of hospice nursing. I am now enjoying searching out ways to share with and educate the world through my writing. I presently reside in the Sikeston, MO area of the Missouri Bootheel."
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.
Winter Angles by Jim Barton
the winter sun at this angle sings lullabyes—
peace and sleep and waiting
glory to come
glory to be
bedded now softly
in dusting of snow
crust of ice
whisper of frosted breath
sleep, sweet sleep
lifeclocks
at this angle
slow inner rhythms
ease pendulums
ever so slightly
angels sing
lullabyes
shalom, peace,
sela, amen
only the dead
ghosts of the mind
now murmur
stir from their beds
cock their heads
at angles
blink once
then lie still
in the quiet
of the long dark night
to dream of the
coming Spring
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.
EXPRESSION
by Marie Delgado Travis
Yesterday you told me
I was your whole world.
I shook convulsively...
Couldn’t help it.
No one should be
Anyone’s entire world.
We're so flawed, fallible...
For a minute, it was hard to tell
If I was Atlas or Sisyphus.
But then, I composed myself.
It was probably just
Hyperbole anyway.
The Hobo
By Kenneth J. McCaffrey
His clothes were dirty, tattered, and torn.
He lived life on the street without love, only scorn.
His fate started many years ago.
Most of his time exposed to rain, sleet, and snow.
He traveled by train from town to town.
But only when an open boxcar could be found.
No one ever knew his birth name.
He never found respect, fortune or fame.
His home was made from a cardboard box.
He rarely had a shave or change of socks.
His shoes were stained from the salt on the road.
If he had self-pity it rarely ever showed.
He smoked a stub of a cigar held tightly in his lips.
From a half-gallon jug, cheap wine he would sip.
His life belongings were in a pack on his back.
His lunch in a red bandana made into a sack.
He worked odd little jobs for very little pay.
He was dependable for the moment, but he just couldn’t stay!
He was kind to children and animals he met.
The sensitivity he showed, they will never forget.
He was found in a stairway late one night.
From the cold and weak heart, he gave up the long fight.
They buried him in the cemetery up on the hill.
I can see his marker from my window sill.
His identity, the townspeople didn’t know.
So engraved in his stone are the words, “The Hobo”!
CLOUDS CAN HAVE FACES
By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
clouds can have faces
of varying
size
shape
and races
people reign
and fade into abstraction
reality is no less fleeting
listless
the whisperer is alone
beneath skies of blue
the moon is a mannequin's head
faceless
and
distant
a symbol of futility
less than figment
the befuddled look
of an inept liar
a fly in a scatter garden
POEM OF THE MONTH:
I Rummage ‘Round in My Safe Place
By Russell Bittner
I rummage ‘round in my safe place
of wistful rustication,
then watch as stars wink back from space
like points of exclamation.
Here, branches dangle little socks
of buds in veneration
to winter’s still persistent knocks
and spring’s procrastination –
till sultry summer calls on cue
to brood about her station,
and autumn gripes, yet muddles through
her fall from adulation.
Each season has its cross to bear –
then when it’s lost, vexation;
yet lest we think their lot unfair,
they, too, all take vacation.
Published at LauraHird.com (June, 2006)
Just before Christmas
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
I eavesdrop
that’s what writers do
in the molded plastic booth
at the yogurt shop
Listen to an older woman
relative? long time friend?
grill the young owner
on this last day her dream
will have open doors
They talk about Christmas
taking the kids here and there
shopping they still need to do
The hairs on the back of my neck
quiver in sympathy
at the unscreamed protests
the young woman swallows
I finish my sandwich
scrape paper and plastic
into the bin to be hauled away
Look at her shaky smile
twitching fingers
Wish her well
FIRST CHRISTMAS AGAIN
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
She bolted from the house,
from turkey gravy she was stirring,
from guests with wine glasses
tilted to their lips,
from her new step-daughter's family.
In the slight protection of the eaves
she opened her mouth, released
into rain the wail that had built
through an endless round of hosting.
Bent from the waist, she roared out sobs
she'd swallowed all day.
Heedless of her hairdo
she stepped away from shelter
into storm, tipped her head back,
let rain wash down her cheeks
with tears.
Returning through a distant door
she splashed cold water on red, swollen eyes,
dragged a comb through flattened hair,
freshened makeup. Pinning a smile
on still-trembling lips, she rejoined the group
apologizing to nobody,
including her husband
of a few months,
for missing the one
no longer there.
LAVERNE
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
We call her LaVerne the Lovely
and take her on our ranch walks,
docile as a huge white cotton ball
at the end of a blue braided leash.
Her amber eyes ringed in purple
glow above the doggy smile.
She samples creek water, marks
her territory, checks to see
who visited last.
LaVerne doesn’t look so lovely
to the coyote stealing down to the sheep.
In the field the Great Pyrenees dog
rises on legs rigid as fence posts.
She bares large teeth, expands her chest in a roar
that brings the rancher
running, rifle cocked.
Coyote melts into shadow,
fades from the field.
Rancher returns to his late dinner.
LaVerne paces around her wooly charges
huddled in a fluffy mass,
those amber eyes burning.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and assistant editor of Underground Window. Her work is published in numerous anthologies, journals, and Internet magazines.
A BODY MAY WITH WIT REBEL
By Russell Bittner
A body may with wit rebel,
claim fame, and quit the earth –
as nothing less than death dispels
the stain of one’s own birth.
And while that body may repel
its bit of blame on earth,
less so the shame – and least, the spell
that casts for both at birth.
Russell lives and writes on a small island off the East Coast. The island is called ‘Long’ and his borough is called ‘Brooklyn.’ Like Hobbes, he believes that “life is short, brutish and nasty.” He also believes, however, that – like this tiny clod of an island – art is long; and, with Donne, that no man is one, entire of itself – either an island or a work of art. He can be found here.
LABYRINTH
by Marie Delgado Travis
I’m a little mouse
mired in a maze.
I go round
and round
but always end up
in the same place.
I’m a small mouse
mixed-up in a maze.
I chew tobacco
like a goat,
eat like a pig,
drink like a fish.
Then ask myself,
why in blazes
does my stomach
feel so acidic?
I’m a tiny mouse
muddled in my maze.
White pills to calm me,
blue for sleeping,
rose for waking,
happy pills to smile.
And I wonder,
why don’t
I ever feel alive?
I’m a teeny mouse
messed up in my maze
I let them shout
at me at work
and abuse me
in my own home.
Being a victim pleases me.
Blaming others, even more.
And I ask, why is it
that things always
turn out wrong?
I’m an itsy bitsy mou ...
NOOOO!!!
I’m not a mouse
in any maze!
I simply am...
I AM... I AM!!!!!!!!
And, perhaps,
if I turn here on my back
to contemplate the sky
from the bars and tangles
of my own labyrinth,
I’ll begin to see
more clearly
how to tear down
these walls...
and how to
escape.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning writer. She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Her poem, "The Window" recently won Second Prize in the international Tom Howard Poetry Contest (over 1,600 entries received). Marie's web site
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr., is a thirty-two-year old writer/lyricist originally from High Point, North Carolina. He's been published by Underground Window, Ygdrasil, Prism Quarterly, Seeker Magazine, Poetic Voices, Poetry Stop, Poet's Haven, Muscadine Lines, Oracular Tree, Cynic Magazine, Winamop, Wildchild Publishing, Endzville, and Infinite Glass. He currently lives in Jacksonville, Florida.
SEASONS
By Kenneth J. McCaffrey
How quickly the seasons pass by.
Spring rain to winter snow.
Life has its own special seasons,
All too soon they go.
In the spring of life;
Spirited as a newborn colt.
Running fast as the wind,
Kicking up the dust as we bolt!
The summer of life, light hearted.
Casual and fancy free.
So busy making our plans,
So much of life to see.
The autumn of life, refreshing.
Colorful as the painted trees.
Appreciation of the simple things,
No need to hurry, please!
Life’s winter brings reflection.
Patience and love our way.
More attention to the cardinal’s song,
Thankful for one more day!
My name is Kenneth McCaffrey and I am a member of the Poet's Nook. I have been writing poetry now for about 6 years. I am 62 years old and retired from the airline industry. I am married with one daughter and I enjoy nature, bike riding, hunting, and gardening.
Karla: My poetry will be appearing in Ceremony magazine November, 2006, Down in the Dirt magazine in upcoming months, the autumn issue of Poetic Hours, Struggle Magazine, and has also been published by Black Book Press and the National Library of Poetry. I graduated in 2005 from Ohio University with a B.A. in Creative Writing/ English. While I am first and foremost an avid reader and writer, I am employed as a substitute teacher and English tutor. Contact Karla.
of wistful rustication,
