Former psychology researcher, writer, editor, lecturer Patricia Wellingham-Jones has most recently been published in Rattlesnake Review, Möbius, The Pedestal Magazine, Liberty Hill Poetry Review, Edgz, Ibbetson Street Press, HazMat Review. Her poems and articles are frequently seen in Long Story Short. She won the 2003 Reuben Rose International Poetry Prize (Israel) and is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Contact her at pwj@wellinghamjones.com
PUTTING DOWN THE PEN
by Sandra Miller
It's like decompressing, you know?
The bends.
Coming back up from the bottom,
re-entering the real world.
Yet
Part of my mind remains
buried in the story
out of reach,
fretting for people who don't exist
and things that didn't happen.
It's like decompressing
The bends.
I am preoccupied,
far from here.
My husband says "what's wrong?"
It's like decompressing, you know,
The bends.
Sandra Miller is an author whose poetry has previously won the Grand Prize in the FictionAddiction.NET poetry contest. She writes fantasy fiction and articles for writers. Her website is www.sandra-miller.com
***
VIEW OF THE FIRE
by John Grey
Is that old love conflagration
or merely time flames?
Is the memory torched
or the moxie?
Does this hurt? Does it clear?
Is it like leaving only hotter?
Or maybe it's staying
with a reddish orange tinge?
It's so huge, so powerful,
you have to run to it,
or run from it.
Look at those trees explode.
See how these solid things capitulate.
Think how safe it is
to watch it from a distance.
Or how proud of the
heat around the collar
a man would feel
if he were out there in his martyrdom,
freeing himself
outward from his core.
The lakes are bubbles.
The sky is smoke.
The world darkens, brightens,
in the same breath.
Some days, it's a purifying,
a scouring, a razing,
so new lives can prosper.
Other days, it sizzles eye-lashes clean away
and they never grow back.
NOTES TO GOD
By Kathleen Bracher
You know my thoughts
You see my heart
You understand my feelings.
I fought
You won
I cried
You dried
My eyes.
I was black
You made me white.
I ran fast
You caught up
I didn't want Your way
You led me anyway
You know my thoughts
You see my heart
You understand my feelings.
Even then, You love me.
I am a freelance writer living in Germany. When I'm not writing, I am assisting in my parent's church and ministry for the U.S. Military stationed here. My web page address is www.writingadventuresnow.blogspot.com. Contact Kathleen.
***
THANKSGIVING TRADITIONS
by Floriana Hall
Lord, we thank you for this opportunity
To gather as one in a community,
This branch of our family tree.
Thankful to live in a land that is free
To enjoy this bountiful feast.
As Pilgrims of old
Tradition foretold,
We sit at this table,
Young and old who are able,
Roots that are nourished,
Limbs that have flourished
With love and appreciation,
We pray for continuity
Through future generations.
***
TALKING TURKEY
by Floriana Hall
Let's watch the turkey trot,
Last move the poor bird's got
Year 1519, Spanish found a lot
In Meso-American Indians pot.
Pilgrim women prepared the feast
In 1621, perhaps another beast,
Some kind of fowl, at least
While men's skills in weapons increased.
Games are still played today
While women slave away,
Tradition they still obey
Food, football filled holiday.
Bring on the cranberry sauce,
Spuds, sweet potatoes and squash,
Breaking wishbones could be a loss,
But talking turkey, still the boss.
After all is said and done,
Thanksgiving Day's so much fun,
I'll end this with one more pun,
The stuffing can't be outdone.
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.
***
WHAT DO YOU WISH?
by Kathleen Weisgerber
a little one bounces before
his blazing birthday cake
and blows a mighty puff...
a woman lifts a lash
from her lover's face,
whispers a breeze
and watches it waft
from her fingertip...
a young girl
pauses before a fountain
and drops a coin...
To wish.
I have poetry and short stories published in small presses such as Tickled by Thunder, The New Author's Journal, The Writer's Post Journal's LBF Books, St. Xavier University's literary magazine Opus, and a promise of intent to publish in Penwomanship.
POEM OF THE MONTH
COURTESY ABSURD
by Barbara Shine
Kneeling in the crisp December grass,
the young man reached toward her,
offering a bundle of torn nylon,
remnants of panties and hose.
"Here," he said,
returning only the least
of what he had ripped
from her that night.
Frowning over dark hooded eyes,
he must have known
that her security was forever lost
and self-assurance shredded.
Yet, good habits overrode shock,
and she said, "thank you,"
taking her clothes from his hand
as if he'd given her a pencil or a rose.
Barbara Shine is a freelance writer and creativity workshop leader in Virginia's rural Northern Neck. She volunteers with organizations seeking to end sexual and domestic violence. e-mail: barbarashine@rivnet.net
THE HELM OF MADNESS
by Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
you're the vision that I'm lost without
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
jousting at immaculate skies
your eyes like vivid stars illuminate my darkest dreams
bedazzling the night sifting what seems
your face
a vermilion dream
so ethereal
so divine
time is out
nothing is in
where to begin
I'm a coward much to my chagrin
with each glance I cower
and don't know how to begin
I'm a fiend
a drunkard
a fool for your bitchery
mired in misery
eccentric
and utterly blue
there's nothing I can do
It's futile
I love you
you're so lovely
and I'm a fiend or something
traveling thru shades of doubt
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
only empty recollections season that room
roaming whatever mind
whatever realm
nothing's sacred beneath the helm
***
MORNING’S WAKING
by Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
at morning's waking
sidewalks moved toward the sky
another prophecy in the making
restless limbs wouldn't sleep or die
the nightmare soared
each vision had a profit professing savior
and a world for the taking
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.
LOVE BECOMES YOU IN THE FALL
by Russell Bittner
We’re easily teased by seasons and their vigor,
whose pique would leave us scratching in delight.
But with the itch of ink and blood receding,
the scab of reason leads us back to night.
The mood, I think, is done for frantic pleading,
and so, I ask, why stay or stop at all?
The truth, my darling, let’s accept:
that love – the heady pace of it – becomes you in the fall.
The spring requires no imagination,
while summer hangs indifferent in the breeze.
And if, in winter, you throw off the covers
– since quilts (all unpaid lovers) can’t quite please –
that leaves one season ripe for rumination.
Would you deny us just to skew it all?
A wrong, my dear, let’s now redress,
for love – the curious grace of it – becomes you in the fall.
A slipshod youth enamored of provocation
despises ocean, laughs at simple sand.
And so, the weightless end is sheer amusement:
to wander out to sea or die on land.
But with the years come fears of isolation.
Would you eschew us to escape it all?
The dread, my darling, let’s admit:
that love – the weathered face of it – becomes you in the fall.
Till now, you’ve never wanted for affection –
as ties restored the earthly to “delight”
and bliss rekindled animal addiction
to that sweet pain that pulled you left and right
into the arms of odd and sordid lovers.
Would you now drop us to pursue it all?
Your sin (enchanting!) let’s confess:
that love – the ardent chase of it – still haunts you in the fall.
NARCISSUS UNDONE
by Russell Bittner
You would now trade, a voice cries up,
your moon-bright night for me?
Not yet, I say, I still crave light
to find the one loved me.
Is she not gone? that voice now brays
like rasps on irony.
She came; she looked; we reflected.
Then cooed in symmetry.
Such love should know a sticking point!
voice says in mockery,
till well’s rank cant falls back to earth
in thrall to gravity.
She bade me sing, I call within,
a hymn to Coventry.
So I obliged and rained like bombs
in hard-shelled mimicry.
And now you try to cobble words?
voice cackles captiously.
As if with tea and tepid prose
you might win sympathy?
A man, I say, should not be shrill –
it sullies sonnetry;
but may, instead, let iambs rage
in reciprocity.
— If now she came, could you hold back,
like dikes detaining sea?
— She cannot come. She never was,
nor is, nor yet shall be.
Russell lives in Brooklyn, New York. His poems have been published on paper by: The American Dissident; The Blind Man’s Rainbow; The Lyric; The Barbaric Yawp; the International Journal of Erotica; and Wicked Hollow. Another poem will appear in the fall (2005) at N.O.L.A. Spleen.
On-line, his poetry can be found at: Quintessence-encouraginggreatwriting; ken*again; SpillwayReview; Erotica Readers and Writers; EdificeWrecked; GirlsWithInsurance; ThievesJargon; SalomeMagazine; LauraHird; MadHattersReview; and DropDeadDublin. Additional poems will appear in Sept. at SouthernHum, JustusRoux and OpiumMagazine; and sometime in the fall at PlumBiscuit (a journal of the New York Writers Guild); at 3 a.m.; and at Zygote in my Coffee.
Russell completed his first novel, Trompe-l’oeil, in September of 2004 and his second, Girl from Baku, in June of 2005. Both are going through agents faster than a greyhound goes through giblets.
Your smile speaks louder than the snap of his whip: Indiana Jones, eat
your heart out. There's no such thing as a perfect cipher, a scramble of
letters beyond mortal understanding, denser than the overgrown undergrowth of an optometrist's eye chart, the stumblefoot thicket of a slavic surname. Whatever the code; a human genome sequence misfire, the piston pop of desire or just an unintelligible Hebrew scrawl, you'll crack it.
GRANDFATHER TIMMINS
By John Grey
He has not shifted his position for a long time now.
He has not stirred a limb. nor fluttered an eye,
nor flicked one of the hairs that curtain his wrinkled forehead.
His gaze has been fixed on that far wall
for as long as there's been a wall it seems.
Our footsteps do not rouse him.
A barrier has arisen between him and
the creaking floorboards, the carefree close of doors.
between his left hand with its still ticking watch,
and the ones for whom time is merely inconvenience
and seldom glanced at.
His meditation gathers all the years he's lived
and ties them in a sack ofblankness.
He sleeps without the trial by conscience,
without the fits and starts of gastric pain.
He sleeps without need of breath,
or twitches or snores or mutterings.
And now his body, with nothing to do,
is joining forces with the family ghosts.
It's peeling away from him even as I write this.
Still, he does not look at his watch.
How long he will be dead he cannot know.
My latest book is "What Else Is There" from Main Street Rag. I have been published recently in Hubbub, South Carolina Review, Louisiana Literature and the Journal Of The American Medical Association.
HOMING PIGEON
by G. A. Scheinoha
Let her arms
be a home,
not a prison;
a place
where you'll
gladly
return when
beaten down
by the world.
If you ever
feel she's
thrown
down bars
or drawn
a perimeter
around
you,
remember:
she too
knows why
the caged bird
sings and
at the first
warbled notes,
she'll release you.
G.A. Scheinoha has had a wide range of interests, chess, collecting beer cans, professional wrestling, listening to squeals (police calls on scanners), jazz and learning more about his ethnic heritage (Czech and German) since he was a young man. But writing is the one constant in his life, what he always returns to.
When not working a day job as a vacuum packer in warehouse, he looks after an aged parent and in the late hours, pursues a third, more public life as an author of prose poems, plays, short stories, columns and verse.
He has had work published in newspapers, newsletters and magazines in the United States, Canada, England and Australia.
His most recent accomplishment is becoming an e-poet, with poems and stories appearing on such websites as CHILDREN, CHURCHES & DADDIES, DOWN IN THE DIRT, LONG STORY SHORT and 3 CUP MORNING.
INTANGIBLE
by Will K. Lawrence
Tears boil inside my head
yet they do not subside.
The instigator is truth
from which I can not but wish to hide.
I sit across from a lady
as beautiful as one could be
with hair shining like gold
and eyes of the blackest sea.
She speaks to a peasant next to her
with a voice that sets frowns
upon the competition
of ones lost and never found.
Beauty brings my sorrow,
burns my sight,
drains my strength,
and kills my appetite.
I want to sleep;
and wake-- I never will
if a love so beautiful
leaves me born so still.
A graduate of the Southampton College MFA Writing Program, my publishing credits include fiction and poetry in several literary journals such as Barbaric Yawp, Proteus, and The Windmill. My non-fiction has also appeared in several national newspapers. I live on Long Island where I write, teach, and spend time with my wife and our pet rabbit Tootsie.
SEEKING SELF
by Linda R. Cook
Eyes cast low, tiny feet, tiny steps
Silk kimono rustles, softly swishes.
Eyes dismiss, duties have been met.
Freedom given, do as she wishes.
Tiny feet, tiny steps take her home
Doors close, quiet surrounds
Her time and hers alone.
By no other duty bound.
Shut away, peace within,
Trials fade and life begins.
Canvas beckons, colors call
Fingertips tingle, anticipate
Texture, design, purpose, all.
Eye and hand do not hesitate.
Brush strokes, feather light
Blended to magically appear,
Visions fill her with delight
Eager and sure, exempt of fear.
Head held high, eyes bold
Strength and patience hold.
Tomorrow eyes cast low
Tiny feet, tiny steps repeat.
Hidden smile, secrets to know
Biding time till brushes speak.
Linda R. Cook
This poem was written for a Long Story Short School of Writing class - You, Me and Poetry with Floriana Hall. Floriana presents a painting each month and her students must write a poem. Linda R. Cook has not written poetry before, yet wrote the winning poem for the month. Congratulations, Linda.
Linda Cook writes from her home in the Northwest corner of California where she shares home with her husband of 38 years. She is the mother of two adult sons. The three men in her life are a constant source of joy and laughter and provide her with endless writing material.
In the past year, Linda has begun to seriously pursue her love of writing. In 2005, she had a nonfiction article published through Alive, A Magazine for Vibrant Christians. She also received Honorable Mention for a women's issues contest through Long Story Short and recently placed third for a personal memoir contest through Byline Magazine.
whose pique would leave us scratching in delight.
