TOE-NAIL APPRECIATION DAY

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

We're feeling unappreciated,

think of going on strike.

Wonder how she'd like it

if we curled up over our backs,

left ten exposed and raw little stubs

to jam against her shoes.

Granted, we sometimes poke holes

in those fancy socks with flowers or cats.

That's only our way of saying,

Time for a trim.

She did take care of our two big guys

who got ingrown, hurt with every step

and the time a jar of pickles crashed on us

she was quite kind.

Mostly though we're ignored,

do our job, never complain.

Maybe somebody'll give her nail polish

and she'll think of us.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has a longtime interest in healing and the benefits people gain from writing and reading their work together. Chapbooks include DON'T TURN AWAY: Poems About Breast Cancer, VOICES ON THE LAND, and END-CYCLE: Poems about Caregiving. Contact Patricia.

COMRADES IN ARMS

by Bill Roberts

I finally list to a halt at your grave,

Clarence A. Reverski,

Killed in action on the sixth day of June,

D-Day, 1944, on the sand below the cliffs,

Perhaps, on ominous Omaha Beach.

Your sleek, rounded alabaster cross

Is one of many, interspersed by

The occasional six-pointed star,

All arranged in precise mathematical

Geometry in this vast, pristine cemetery

Containing the remains of 9,387

Noble Americans who sacrificed their lives.

You were a young sergeant from Michigan,

I read on your cross, causing my emotions

Suddenly to well over, my stifled sobs

Unnoticed by hundreds of others paying

Their quiet respects on this somber day,

As a pale sun illumines tidy, close-cropped

Grass in Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy.

I collect myself and glance at a cross

Behind yours, its inscription reading simply,

"Here Lies In Honored Glory

A Comrade In Arms

Known Only To God."

How great was your courage,

How near-impossible your task,

How valiant your final moments.

To you and your fallen comrades: Hail!

Your valor in war so profound,

Our pledge, Never Again, so shallow.

BILL ROBERTS wonders how his Oklahoma grandmother could have created 22 children, while he and wife of fifty years, haven’t created a single. Poetry is his salvation, his works having appeared in over 150 online and small-press journals over the past 13 years. If he could rewind his clock, he would have been a ballet dancer, opera singer or dog trainer, but concedes he has zero talent in any of these endeavors. He lives much too close to the edge of Broomfield, CO. Contact him.

COLORS

by Tony Iovino

The red of the wind sculpted rocks

We gaped at in awe at sunset

That summer in Sedona.

The orange of the Cott's soda

my brother and I sipped through bendy straws

On Nana's redwood deck.

The yellow of the beach chairs

We toted across the yielding sand

Those lazy Cape Cod getaway days.

The green of the dew laden fairways

My Dad and I walked freely

After hours in the car waiting for a tee time.

The blue of the Pennsylvania summer sky,

We sweat beneath with the kids

Tracing soldiers' steps at Gettysburg.

The violet of our lilac bush,

You and I holding hands

Engulfed in that sickingly sweet scent you love so much.

These are the colors of my rainbow.

TONY IOVINO is the founder of the Summer Gazebo Readings, an outdoor series featuring readings by poets and authors each Monday from June to August. The group raises funds to send underprivileged kids to a summer camp operated by the New York State Kiwanis. A native Long Islander, he received his B.A. in History and Economics from the University of Richmond and his J.D. from St. John's University School of Law. He is the lead litigation partner in an eight-person general practice firm. His essays and reviews have appeared in USA Today magazine (Journal of the Society for the Advancement of Education, not the newspaper) and assorted on-line blogs. His poetry has appeared in Poetry Cemetery (Aug. 2008), and he has been a featured reader for the Poets Performance Association. Contact him.

DREAM FROM A THATCHED HUT

by Roberta Feins

Tonight, the sky resembles

a cup of blue Hsing-tin ware

with an evening rim

of peach blossom glaze.

Oh, if we could only afford

to slice this porcelain above the hills,

hire a wagon and oxen team,

tip it over, drag it to Chang-an.

A Mandarin in a 7th order cloud opal robe

would pay us well for this moment.

ROBERTA FEINS lives in Seattle and works as a computer consultant. She received her MFA in poetry from New England College in 2007. Her poems have been published in Tea Party, Floating Bridge Review, The Lyric, Junctures and The Antioch Review. She edits the e-zine Switched On Gutenberg: http://www.switched-ongutenberg.org/

CHARLEY PLAYS A TUNE

by Michael Lee Johnson

Crippled with arthritis

and Alzheimer's,

in a dark rented room,

Charley plays

melancholic melodies

on a dust filled

harmonica he

found abandoned

on a playground of sand

years ago by a handful of children

playing on monkey bars.

He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,

relieving himself takes forever; he feeds the cat when

he doesn't forget where the food is stashed.

He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market

and the skeleton bones of the fish show through.

He lies on his back riddled with pain,

pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;

praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads

Charley blows tunes out his

celestial instrument

notes float through the open window

touch the nose of summer clouds.

Charley overtakes himself with grief

and is ecstatically alone.

Charley plays a solo tune.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The LOST AMERICAN: From Exile to Freedom, http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. 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, Austria, 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 and flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission. Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/ Contact Michael.

Poem of the Month

WHEN SUMMER WOULD WAKE

by Susan Joyner-Strompf

When summer would wake,

Would her dress still be adorned

In leafy, velvet corduroy

Slow to shed arduous slumber

From inertia beneath frozen time

Would her dance be steps of

A clumsy Ballerina,

Out of practice from a twirl ~

Would she fall,

Eyes stunned,

That grace could escape

So willingly, with not even

So much as a warning,

Leaving silhouettes in wounded air

in an unforgiving world . . .

When summer would wake,

Would she sing out like hoarse Songbirds

Voices cracking with splintered song

For having been silent music

Far too long . . .

Would her gemstone hues

Forget to glitter like diamond jewels

And be more a beacon in the darkness

Signaling out in a brilliant,

Yet deafened, emptiness?

When summer would wake,

Would she be as invisible as the wind,

Though fragrant it be, so sweet

In a breeze that touches gently,

Yet ever briefly,

And would she be

Lonely as the Winter . . .

SUSAN JOYNER-STUMPF says that, as an abused child, writing literally became her Savior. In her own words, "There, I was transported to another world where I was free from harm's way; clear from the cruelty that followed me on a daily basis. I chose to live in the embrace of Poetry." Contact Susan.

BIOPSY

by Marie Delgado Travis

The doctor's words

popped from his lips like

Bazooka Bubble Gum

slowly expanding

Then bounced

up and down

the walls

of his office

A pink Spaldeen,

briefly lodging

in my throat.

Benign... Benignnnnn.

The most beautiful word

in the English language.

"Be nine," said he

and I agreed.

Tag, you're it,

pick up sticks.

Nine again--

Going on ten.

Whew!

MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning writer. She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Visit her web site at www.mariedelgadotravis.com

INFINITE WISDOM

by cm

i come

from a small space

smaller than this

corners

ceilings

walls

some of those…breathers

out there

don’t get it

outside, the living

think of me,

as different

not better,

different

as if

my choices

cramped spaces

constant silence,

strange

as if

i should be regarded

in whispered tones

“the poor fool, has no life,”

they’re saying

i smile

lock myself in

turn off the lights

and listen to them

breathing

CHARLES MARIANO is a contributor to CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE LATINO SOUL. He was born and raised in the Central Valley town of Merced, California and currently lives in Sacramento, California. In his own words, he’s "reclusive, elusive, and otherwise quiet." Contact him.

PRECIOUS CARGO

by Floriana Hall

Be careful what you do today

Drive only in a responsible way

Never have road rage or talk on the phone

When children are with you,

You are not alone --

Precious cargo!

When someone cuts in front of you

On the expressway or at the zoo,

Control your temper, count to ten

Let no one hear your offensive trend

Be composed wherever you go

Someone is listening –

Precious cargo!

Be careful what you say today

Speak only in a respectful way

Of course, you may joke or kid around

Laughter keeps family homeward bound

Practice ethics and morals at work or at play

Do your best to brighten the day

Precious cargo!

Be careful how you act today

When stressful situations come your way

Take a deep breath, exhale

Like a magic wand, that never fails.

Relax, think happy thoughts, don’t dwell

For others you must stay rested and well

Precious cargo!

Be careful every day in every way,

Watch your step, avoid the fray

These words are meant to help bring peace

So bickering, retaliation and wars will cease

And freedom will be here to stay,

Awaken to a whole new epoch

Precious cargo!

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 four books, VOICES IN VERSE, THROUGH OUR EYES, POET’S NOOK POTPOURRI and TOUCHING THE HEARTS OF GENERATIONS. She has won many poetry contests and is 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..

IT'S RAINING IN OREGON

by Doug Draime

It’s raining in Oregon.

Here in this room her books

sit on the shelves,

books she read and

cherished.

Her death was like

a dense dark fog, that one

morning I woke up and

looked into.

I dream of her as she never was.

I dream of her doing things she never did.

It’s raining in Oregon.

Here in this room photographs

she took hang on the walls.

Photographs of stark Indiana farms and

cobblestone streets and the architecture of

downtown Los Angeles.

Her death was like

the sudden shattering of delicate crystal,

the slivers still puncturing my boots

and cutting into my flesh

I dream of her not too often to keep me sane.

I dream of her running down small country roads.

It’s raining in Oregon.

Here in this room her memory stirs and captures

me again:

far away from out little house in Echo Park.

Her death was like

the shooting of a bird, whose feathers keep reappearing

in soft breeze.

I dream of her walking through vacant houses, on desert plateaus

I dream of her sitting in a field of tulips.

I dream of her

I dream of her.

DOUG DRAIME emerged as a presence in the underground literary movement in the late 1960's in Los Angeles. His most recent books are TRANSMISSIONS FROM THE UNDERGROUND (d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t/ press) and FARRAGO SOUP (Coatlism Press). His diverse range of writing, including poems, short stories, and plays continue to appear in publications worldwide. He was awarded PEN grants in 1987 and 1991. He currently lives in the foothills of Oregon with his wife, Carol. Contact Doug.

SUNDAY SERENE

by Donna Carbone

Late morning we awaken

Blanketed in arms

Hearts sounding love’s sonata

The beat rhythmic calm

Stirring sounds awaken

Rustle

Perk

Arise

Sunshine through a jeweler’s glass

Diamond dotted lake

Ducklings ripple the mirror surface

As breakfast we partake

Silent conversation

A look

A touch

A smile

The day progresses slowly

Enriched by memories made

Hold tight each precious moment

As sunlight gradually fades

Now the morning is no more

The day too is long gone

Your breath, my blanket warm, I fall

Asleep within your arms

Married for thirty three years and the mother of the two grown children, DONNA CARBONE began writing at the age of ten. She is presently working on a semi-biographical work of fiction entitled "Private Hell" and writing/developing a potential series for cable television. Her poems, "Down the Dark Hole" and "Pecking Order" have been published on A Long Story Short. With her son, Michael, a writer living in Los Angeles, she is planning a series of books in the magical realism genre. "Each day inspires me... what I see, hear and experience. If it lingers in my consciousness, I write about it." Contact Donna.: