LONG STORY SHORT
a Women Writers' Showcase
WHAT WILL THE NEW YEAR BRING?
By Floriana Hall
Somber or festive, quiet or loud,
The old year's illusions fade
Into a new experience
Compared to twelve months past.
Earth will still revolve around the sun,
While births and epitaphs and days
Of happiness and sorrow
Will be spent in between.
Resolutions will be broken,
The world a scene of constant change
Much like morality will struggle
With what is said by politicians.
News of war to bring about peace,
The price a skeleton of armor.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn,
Seasons of bleakness or glory.
Youth may sing a different tune,
Growth and maturity will flourish,
But no one can look into last year's glass
To find answers to fill their cup.
Rich or poor, healthy or not,
Days will fly by instead of standing still
And the baby New Year
Will surely become Father Time.
Floriana Hall, b. 10/2/27, Pgh Pa., graduate of
Cuyahoga Falls High School, Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio,
attended Akron University, married Robert Hall 55
years, five children, nine grandchildren, author/editor
of six nonfiction/inspirational books, SMALL CHANGE,
THE SANDS OF RHYME, DADDY WAS A BAD BOY, OUT
OF THE ORDINARY SHORT STORIES.
Founder/coordinator of the Poet'sNook at Cuyahoga
Falls Library, Editor of The Poet's Nook's two books,
THROUGH OUR EYES, POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL
NORTHEAST OHIO, AND POET'S NOOK POTPOURRI.
Winner of many poetry contests.WHO'S WHO IN US
WRITERS, EDITORS AND POETS, WHO'S WHO IN
INTERNATIONAL POETRY, MARQUIS WHO'S WHO
IN AMERICA. Works compared to Poe and Hawthorne
style by Taj Mahal Review. Check Google and website:
OUR POEM OF THE MONTH
CONSULTATION
By Glenda Walker-Hobbs
I punch the elevator button,
curse it for its sluggishness,
snatch the receiver of the direct taxi line,
snarl “Holy merde” under my breath
as I am forced to listen to the muzak
the cab creeps through traffic, jounces
through ruts and potholes
the red lights mock me
I watch the meter tick, tick click
I jitterbug on ice as I jerk from the cab,
rush through revolving doors of the hospital
discover myself in a perdition of Arctic
institutional sterility
I see the informational signs:
red desk, blue desk, yellow desk
follow the yellow arrows down cracked
cement corridors lit by effulgent bulbs
an adipose man in green scrubs
sleek as an overstuffed partridge,
bolts through a doorway,
his protuberant abdomen matches his double chins;
the incandescence of his gold cobra chain
blinds me like shards of glass stuck in snow
as he snatches charts, bellows two names,
the couple in front of me grunt
they struggle to escape the damp
stickiness of their plastic chairs
I count the seconds as the minute
hand courses around the circumference
of the clock, curse busy specialists who
lack the common courtesy of punctuality,
believe themselves to be gods,
scorn waiting patients, regard them
as clods of dirt to be scrunched
and trodden under their Reeboks
I question my reasons for being here,
conjecture the necessity for this consultation
I wait and curse, curse and wait
Absolution
by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Copyright 2004 by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Like a kindly priest come
to absolve us of our sins,
the new year arrives with arms
spread wide, chill winds wiping clean
our blighted slates of the dozen months
just passed.
January’s a benevolent savior
turning a blind eye to failures and foibles,
holding out a hand
that offers hope.
As frosted breaths drift and
dissipate in a winter night.
so go our trials and transgressions.
We face, innocuous virgins once more,
whatever fate
and our own stupidity hold in store.
The Window of Time
By Leona Coulter
Window of time opens
Again and again
Closing every so often
Welcoming comfort.
Each year brings growth
Old meshes into new
Time renews itself
As life turns into death.
Shards of time
Filter through life
Twisting and turning
In every direction.
Slivers of memories
Floating through time
And fading into dust
Through the cold air
Glasses of happiness
Rise in a toast.
The window of time
Opens once more.
Musing Over a New Calendar
By Carolyn Howard-Johnson
Catch up. Pencil January dates
from last year’s memos. Enter
noted e-mails into computer
files. Transfer birth dates
from this year to next. A tired
task--once anticipated times, now
a rundown of lives lost.
No need to keep Noni’s
Libra date, or Hazel’s
amethyst. I hear myself whimper.
When we moved to Phoenix
my ancient aunt said that climate
was where her friends
went to flake off. She gone
a long, long time ago, peeling
layers like a rich croissant
I prefer to think. Reality
not an option. Grandma Ruthie
lamented growing old means
watching friends die. Those words
only months before she spade
the bitter earth to scatter
Utah’s loam on father’s
grave, he barely 64, too young
to watch grandchildren
marry. I now the same age as he.
So much to write, to see. India’s colors,
Tibet’s heights, Tierra del Fuego’s
stars. They want me. But Mother
alone, rejecting all but her home.
Fiercely. I turn the planner’s page.
I wait for another
December to take its bite
from her life. Or mine.
New Year’s Eve
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
New Year’s Eve—
all schedules off.
You don’t get sports
and game shows on TV.
I may not exile myself
to the back of the house
far from the talking heads,
simpering faces.
The end of whatever
year came before, hope beckons. Yet
wars leave their bloody signs
in countries all over the globe.
Faces blank—or conniving—
fill the screen. Children clutch bellies
empty of food. Women clutch bellies
full of new child.
The New Year slides in
not much different
from the Old Year.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
PWJ Publishing
Former psychology researcher, writer,
editor, lecturer Patricia Wellingham-Jones has
most recently been published in Tiger’s Eye,
Möbius, The Pedestal Magazine, Liberty Hill
Poetry Review, San Gabriel Valley Poetry
Quarterly, Edifice Wrecked and Niederngasse.
Her poems and articles are frequently seen
n Long Story Short. She won the 2003 Reuben
Rose International Poetry Prize (Israel) and
is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.
Destiny’s Flight
© By Gloria Pimentel –
New Year’s Eve,
Golden, bubbling Champagne
In crystal goblets;
Cheers from an anxious crowd
On Times Square, waiting...
For the strike of midnight.
The old year waned away
And I remained behind,
Pockets empty of success,
Peering through
Undressed windows.
Countenance pressed
Against cold glass
I saw—ghost furniture,
Heard gentle music,
Smelled the fragrance
Of lost romance.
Like all fools
I wasted time
Plagued with regret
And futile longings
Looking forward
To the New Year’s birth.
For just one night
I foolishly believed
In new beginnings,
Forgot life’s brevity,
And hoped
For the never ending circle
To change
Into a straight line.
CHOCOLATE: THE EVIL FORCE
By Glenda Walker-Hobbs
There are chocolates in the linen cupboard,
Turkish delight in the closet in the hall,
The rum-soaked cherry centered ones
are the sweetest candies of them all
I’ve hidden naughty nougats
inside the laundry hamper;
if my husband finds them
on me he’ll pose a damper.
There’s marzipan in the kitchen
perched on cabinets so tall.
The only place there is no chocolate
in right inside the wall.
Lurking like an evil force
and concealed within my house,
it affects everything in its path
from human being down to mouse.
I’ll give up cookies, cake and pie,
I’ll even give up buns and bread,
But if I’m forced to surrender chocolate
I’ll place a curse upon your head.
PHONE CALLS
By Glenda Walker-Hobbs
the obscene phone calls start
two weeks after
we arrive in the new town
to work at the schools
when I answer the phone:
dead silence
when my husband answers
his face turns white with rage
as he slams the phone down.
I inquire what’s wrong
he mutters “nothing”
finally confesses oscine
remarks about my figure
“she’s so fat how do you f... her”
as tears stream down my face
he punches his clenched fist
into his open palm
the next day he changes
the number to unlisted
FAT GIRL
By Glenda Walker-Hobbs
I was eager to meet Noel
my fiancé’s father,
tall, shaved head, military demeanor,
I remembered my mother’s advice
“wear dark colours --
prints make you look bigger”
I wore my navy blue two-piece suit
added a plain gold butterfly pin,
had my hair done at the beauty salon,
Noel shook hands cordially,
asked if I’d been to a funeral
I gripped my wine glass,
smiled cordially,
laughed at his jokes
he thought I was just another girl ,
no one to worry about --
his son would never get serious
about a fat girl like me
I made my excuses, left early,
heard Noel mutter through closed doors
“where did you pick her up --
don’t you know fat girls are stupid?”
had he looked at my face
or just my waistline?
I stopped at the corner store,
stocked up on donuts, chocolate bars
in case I got hungry in the middle of the night
I put on sweats, my favourite T-shirt --
the baggy one with the holes in it
I ate one donut ,
it made me feel good ,
helped me forget the humiliation
I sat on the bed, cried,
read Harlequins, cried some more
until the donuts were gone
I started a diet next morning,
skipped breakfast,
by coffee break, starvation set in
I needed a bran muffin, healthy,
not too high in calories
lunch: hard-boiled eggs,
lettuce with vinegar -- no dressing,
melba toast, an apple,
afternoon coffee break, someone brought chocolates
I ate five, snuck back to my desk
while the secretaries joked behind my back,
on the way home, I held my head high,
blinked back the tears
when the kids in the schoolyard called me names
whale, blimp, Fatty Four Eyes
I walked in a different direction,
found a new convenience store
my fiancé apologized for Noel’s remarks,
reassured me of his love,
I hoped this would motivate me
to lose weight
every time I saw chocolate
I thought of Noel’s comments
losing weight was so easy
when we announced our wedding date
Noel gave his son an ultimatum:
“marry her and I disown you”
when forced to retract his words
Noel predicted 5-7 years
before our divorce,
Noel’s death brought freedom
from his “fat people are jolly jokes”
sometimes I wish he were alive
so that I could tell him
he was wrong
Old Photo in an Album
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Looking out of a photo
from a childhood rich
with skating parties and bonfires
our young faces peer
through slow-drifting snow,
too busy catching flakes
on pink tongues to wonder
how the wheel of time turns.
How Bobby won’t survive
bombs and guns in a jungle.
How Ken will cruise in waters
so warm, blue and elegant
no shark would dare open its jaws.
How I, after a life of bending
over patients and microscopes,
will throw that aside to write poems.
Each revolving snowflake
wears a different shape.
RUMOUR HAS IT... (A VILLANELLE)
By Glenda Walker-Hobbs
CBC claims TV makes women fat:
lots of food, no exercise at all
further topics for idle chit chat
keep this new calumny under your hat:
sly rumours like leaves have begun to fall
CBC claims TV makes women fat
will they be forced to give up food? oh drat!
this solution’s refused by one and all,
further topics for idle chit chat
keep this panacea under your hat,
such new details will be sure to enthrall
CBC claims TV makes women fat
newscasters pounce, like a cat after rats,
seeking victims for this latest pratfall
further topics for idle chit chat
this new rationale must be dealt with stat,
acclaimed to the media with loud catcall,
CBC claims TV makes women fat,
further topics for idle chit chat
New Year
By Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Sequined dresses, champagne lips,
glittering parties in the past, we now
sometimes force ourselves
to stay up until midnight.
Watch on TV the horde pack
Times Square, wonder at the allure
of a mob on a cold snowy night
far from bathroom and easy chair.
Usually we’re jolted out of sleep
by drunken shouts, the rattle of gunfire,
horns honking like fallen geese
as the neighborhood celebrates
this change in a time frame.
The Old Guy trundles off his stage, beard
draggling, scythe trailing in dust. Baby New Year
crawls forward, drooling a milky smile.
Parents take a last swallow of wine,
bundle young children for the ride home,
know the real New Year starts in late summer
on the first day of school.
New Year
By Carolyn Howard-Johnson
WEIGH the wind,
Carolyn Howard-Johnson's first novel, This is the Place, has won eight awards. Her second book, Harkening: A Collection of Stories Remembered, is creative nonfiction; it has won three. Her fiction, nonfiction and poems have appeared in national magazines, anthologies and review journals. She speaks on Utah's culture, tolerance and other subjects and has appeared on TV and hundreds of radio stations nationwide. She is an instructor for UCLA Extension's Writers' Program and her next book, THE FRUGAL BOOK PROMOTER: HOW TO DO WHAT YOUR PUBLISHER WON'T is topping bookstore charts as an e-book and is also available in paperback. She was recently awarded Woman of the Year in Arts and Entertainment by the California Legislature. She loves to travel and has studied writing at Cambridge University in the United Kingdom, UK: Herzen University in St. Petersburg, RU; and Charles University in Prague. Her website is: http://carolynhowardjohnson.com/ .
Carolyn Howard-Johnson, Author THE FRUGAL BOOK PROMOTER:HOW TO DO WHAT YOUR PUBLISHER WON'T is now available as an e-book and at a pre-publish discount at
http://ebookad.com/ . The paperback will be released this month at: www.barnesandnoble.com. Learn more at:
Read a recent review at:
