Ah, distinctly I remember
it was in the bleak December;,
And each separate dying ember
wrought its ghost upon the floor.
EDGAR ALLAN POE, "The Raven" (Excerpt)
STAR-BOUND
by Jessica Barrett
You are the buzzing static of winter,
Storing your white canvas crystallized.
The moment will come back for you,
So you know, to paint the universe.
Enter spring stems re-wiring you in a hurry,
Sprouting summer that adores you most of all,
Swinging you under it branches and
Hoisting you to the stars.
I dreamt you were suspended by every season,
You were scraping the rings off Saturn
With care and a cigarette between your smile
And I didn’t have the heart
To talk you back down.
Happy like Saturday morning;
A little boy in footy pajamas
Watching cartoons over a big bowl
Of sugary cereal and it’s not always
What we imagine, the loose screw;
An old lady playing with her childhood
dollhouse.
At times, it’s a young man
On a solo seesaw at midnight,
Skipping, fearless, home at dawn.
The brilliant rewiring of spring
That flipped it over three and one-half times,
Wheels pointed towards the stars.
JESSICA BARRETT is a 22 year old English/Creative
writing double major at GA State University. She says,
"If I ever write anything that closely parallels the
awesomeness of Charles Wright's 'Clear Night' I will die
happy. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever read." Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SNOW DAY
by Wendy Vardaman
Big wet flakes might turn
into rain
in an hour or two, but for now
it’s snow,
and the woman across
the street has two toddlers
nestled together in an orange plastic
sleigh. When they get to the corner, she lifts
them out, tucks the sled under one arm, extends
her mittened
hands to theirs, then pulls them across four lanes of traffic,
speeding even on a day like
this. My own
orange-loving teenaged son’s
home sick, sixth
school day in a row he’s missed—
the piles
of work mounting by his pale
feet like curbed
snow thrown from the plow-cleared
streets. He lies
there younger than he was
last week, breathing hard with the effort
of making his own eyes open, his own heart beat.
WENDY VARDAMAN has a Ph.D. in English from University of Pennsylvania and currently
lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Her poems, reviews, and interviews have appeared in a variety of
anthologies and journals, including Riffing on Strings, Letters to the World, Poet Lore,
Poemeleon, qarrtsiluni, Main Street Rag, Nerve Cowboy, damselfly, Free Verse, Wisconsin
People & Ideas, Women’s Review of Books, Rain Taxi Review, and Portland Review. She home
schools two of her three children and works at a children’s theater, Young Shakespeare Players.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GINGERBREAD LADY
By Michael Lee Johnson
Gingerbread lady,
no sugar or cinnamon spice,
years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.
Crippled mind movies in then out, like an old sexual adventure,
blurred in an imagination of fingertip thoughts−
who in hell remembers the characters?
There was George her lover near the bridge at the Chicago River
she missed his funeral, her friends were there.
She always made feather light of people dwelling on death.
But black and white she remembers well.
The past is the present; the present is forgotten,
who remembers?
Gingerbread lady.
Sometimes lazy time tea with a twist of lime.
Sometimes drunken time screwdriver twist with clarity.
She walks in scandals sometimes she walks in soft night shoes.
Her live-in maid smirks as Gingerbread lady gums her food,
false teeth forgotten in a custom imprinted cup
with water, vinegar, and ginger.
The maid died. Gingerbread lady looks for a new one.
Years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.
Yesterday, a new maid walked into the nursing home.
Ginger forgot to rise out of bed,
no sugar, or cinnamon toast.
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE TIME OF YEAR
by cm
no one can do it
no one can
replace…
but we have to
this time
when all my senses
vital, alive
the season
the sounds
cucu sanchez
los relampagos
trio los panchos
romantic music
oldies but goodies
the christmas tree
and all it’s
gaudy decorations
smells
of enchiladas
pumpkin, nutmeg
and spice
exaggerated hair bun
in front
como las andrew sisters
bright red lipstick
driving, singing
country songs
on the radio
the minute i get there
the driveway
the porch
the door
you loved jewelry
rings, bracelets, necklaces
dangling bright
your food-stained
apron
the smell of zest
bar soap
your favorite avon perfume
too hard
this time
too hard
dearest mama…
won’t know
how bad
how painful
this time,
until i get there
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE KEY IS…
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
The key is
to get through each day—
best if you can do it smiling
The key is
what turns your heart inside out
opens you to another
The key is
lying under a rock
beside the door
on a window ledge
the magic key that opens the house
lets in warmth and love and color
The key is
to somehow make your way through life
do as little harm as possible
enjoy each breath
each moment
each long sigh
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has a longtime interest in 'healing writing' and the benefits
people gain from writing and reading their work together. Widely published, her chapbooks
include DON’T TURN AWAY: Poems about Breast Cancer, VOICES ON THE LAND, and
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WINTER SOUL
by Alice Shevitz
I shield myself against the angry, cold
winds of winter.
Winds, chilling to my soul blow against
a warmth long gone.
Watching from a distance I feel ice
break my heart.
Broken and shattered pieces fall
into oblivion.
Shards of words once uttered
in darkness
Hide amongst memories lost
to frozen cruelty.
No one hears my plea or
answers me
When I cry just to
feel my voice.
ALICE SHEVITZ is the author of several poems and one short story published by Long Story Short,
some humor, published by The Saturday Evening Post and is a Preferred Author and Rising Star Sponsor
at Writing.com, a website dedicated to and supported by authors worldwide. Learn more at: http://
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE FIRST SNOW
by Floriana Hall
The first snowflakes fall on the ground
Soft and pure without a sound,
Mystical, magical fairyland found
Like a crystal ball swirling round and round.
Each delicate flake different from the rest
Blanketing the earth with nature’s zest
Unblemished white scenery really the best
Putting spring, summer, fall to visual test.
Spider-like lovelies caught in outstretched hands
Evaporate quickly as we walk or stand;
Glorious seasonal garments ever so grand
Carpet the earth of our prosperous land.
Oh, how gracious the gentle flow,
The rapture of the first beautiful snow,
Breathtaking like a precious gem’s glow,
God’s gift for all of us to know.
From GATHERING GRACES. This poem won First Prize on Silentwords.com
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SNOWY DAY
by Marie Delgado Travis
On a snowy day,
I get a strange compulsion
(Fortunately, I don’t
Have the gumption)
To build a snowman
And run far away with him.
We’d wash up on some desert island
Dawdle on a Scottish highland
Dance in Spain or France
Any place we could pronounce
(Not Reykjavik nor Madagascar)
Oh! What if--God forbid--he melted?
On second thought, it’s just not worth it!
I guess I’ll have to stay right here
To keep him bundled safe and cold
Till we grow old together.
Still, on snowy days
I get the strangest notion
To swim with him
Across the ocean ...
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning author. She writes poetry and prose in English and
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ODE TO SKIING
by Cathy Quaglia
Give me the fluff of bottomless powder
and an untouched glistening mountain at dawn
waiting for my lonely winding tracks
and I’ll show you what freedom is.
Show me a challenging trail to conquer
some soft moguls to put me in flight
and I’ll show you what excitement is.
Give me the blistery cold and ominous sky
whistling winds that bend the trees
a few unexpected spills to slow me down
and I’ll tell you what respect for nature is.
Surround me with familiar voices filled with laughter
shared tales of wild ski adventures
and I’ll tell you what friendship is.
Give me the joy of sunshine, a suntanned face
a wine and cheese picnic at the summit
spectacular view of endless mountains
and I’ll tell you what spring skiing is.
Warm me with a little brandy by a blazing fireplace
someone special to share it with
and I’ll tell you what contentment is.
Give me changing shapes of crystal snowflakes
the cool sharp smell of an evergreen forest
glory of an azure sky and a starry night
and I’ll tell you what mystery and enchantment is.
CATHY QUAGLIA is an avid skier and windsurfer living winters in Killington,Vermont and summers in
Haiku, Maui. In 1975, she and her husband, Lee, founded Aspen East Ski Shop and when snowboarding
became popular, Surf the Earth Snowboards. They continue to run their retail and online stores. She was
a certified professional ski instructor and resort real estate broker, and has hosted successful book signing
events at the shop. Cathy worked with Killington artist, Alice Sciore, to combine Cathy’s poem, “Ode to
Skiing”, and a watercolor painting Alice created especially for it, into their Watercolor Words, available as
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE MANGER
by Larry Saebens
Once upon
A winter's night,
In grand affair of God's delight,
An eastern star had come to be
Defiant of its gravity.
It came to rest at Bethlehem
On high above a manger.
A child lay there in swaddling clothes
All knowing of his danger.
Wise men came to praise this child,
Bearing witness to his glory--
Their lives forever altered,
But that's another story.
Yet another man did not agree
With the wisdom of these very three.
Dispatched were soldiers sent to find
And kill this child, who was most divine.
Now this new King would escape this fate
That Herod was to orchestrate.
And thus began our Heavenly Father's plan.
So Love was born this day in that manger far away.
Through time and space,
Amazing Grace
Abides to light
Our way.
LARRY SAEBENS, a Navy veteran, is a field engineer in electronics, currently seeking work.
He is enrolled in the Longridge writers group writing course. Contact Larry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SILENT NIGHT
by Margaret S. Mullins
On Christmas Eve up two flights of stairs,
six men sit on folding chairs in a room
they share, mattresses pushed against the walls,
work boots and tool belts by the door
to the hall. Off work a half day today
and all day tomorrow, they try not to think
of how, in Oaxaca, the brass bands blare
near the nacimiento, how their wives
and the children will join in the ritual,
drinking hot chocolate, eating buñuelos,
then throwing the plates to shatter and form
a festive carpet of terra cotta pieces
on the streets near the plaza teeming
with people forming posadas to ask in vain
at each house for a bed for the babe.
As the Misa de Gallos begins in Oaxaca,
six men pour tequila and pass the pupusas,
settle down noiselessly onto their bedding,
their hearts in small shards all over the floor
of this room in D.C. up two flights of stairs.
MARGARET S. MULLINS splits her time between the quiet of rural Maryland and the rumpus
of downtown Baltimore. She has had work published in Loch Raven Review, Persimmon Tree,
Welter, New Voice News, Prairie Poetry, and Sun, among others. She is the editor of Manorborn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DECEMBER CELEBRITY POET
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
Sonnet XCVII
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
Source: http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1866.html
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
