October's child is born for woe,
And life's vicissitudes must know;
But lay on Opal on her breast,
And hope will lull those woes to rest.
POEM OF THE MONTH
BLUE RIBBON
by Sanjeev Chhiber
A blue ribbon floated into my window today
it was marked with green shadows
and was bordered by pale gray
in the center was a dot marked in ink
unsteady wavering
was the hand that held the pen I think
it smelled of lilac and faint vanilla musk
a small floating thread shook in the wind
like dried coconut husk
as you looked even closer
a small hole came through
probably a pin I thought or a metal brooch
it had come from the east the ribbon
it had flown in from the busy road
it seemed like a orphaned waif
with wolves at his throat
the sun went down I looked up to see
the clock had just struck nine
when I broke my reverie
examining the ribbon
was like giving it life
it seemed to glow now lustily
now mocking the neon light
as it grew bolder
it started talking back
I am but a traveler it said
And am proud of every thread
Once I had flown through
a maelstrom full of ice
my soul almost died there
but I survived to fly
I have seen all seasons
All human emotions laid bare
Your life is but a ribbon
Floating flying in dense air
SANJEEV CHHIBER is a 46 year old senior cancer surgeon in New Delhi, who says much too modestly, “I am but an amateur who etches lines on paper and sometimes virtual paper.” Contact Sanjeev.
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CREATIVITY
by Tina Broderick
It skinnies through a crack,
a withered tendriled mist,
jumping from thought to thought,
hanging on by its hairy tale,
calling its cronies to wail, smirk,
and stare with
a thousand blinking eyes.
The stench of its irreverence beguiles
bleeding, cursing, whining, throngs
bedeviled, pleading, grasping.
It plucks the ripe fruit, skins it,
and spits its seeds into the black.
It bellies up to the bar
and drinks until I am drunk, then
leaves on a ray of light.
An exodus of supposition and incredulity,
a turbo charged flight of fancy and whim.
Smoke signals from atop a mountain
screech my indifference
to an ear with broken bones.
TINA BRODERICK is an MFA student at Goddard Collage in Vermont. Her fiction will be published in the fall issue of the Pitkin Review. In her previous life, Tina practiced nursing. Writing is her latest passion. She is the proud mother of three grown children, all artistic, and grandmother to five. She lives in a small town in Western Massachusetts. Contact Tina.
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JEALOUS GODS
by Wendy Vardaman
The dentist reminds me of the stress
fracture on my molar, says it’s a matter
of time before it breaks:
“You’ll bite into something the wrong
way someday,” she prophesies,
like Cassandra nagging
the bored Trojans who just want to get away
from her incessant yakking
without buying expensive crowns
that insurance doesn’t cover.
I first bit into something the wrong
way just after trick-
or-treating as a Greek Goddess, tricked
out in an old blue sheet criss-crossed
with rick-rack
in order to collect
the Tootsie Roll that cracked
my back-tooth in half, moments after
Mother warned me not to have another.
Or even before that, the first
lie I remember: instructed to leave
untouched the last sour apple sucker,
I taunt the neighbor boy, refuse
to share, then claim otherwise
when Mother summons me
inside after watching this backyard
Mystery Play through the kitchen window: “It’s not
the selfishness I’m punishing,
or even the disobedience.
It’s the dishonesty.”
For years I chewed over
her claims to see through walls
and to read my mind, before finally sinking
my teeth into the truth
of how she caught me.
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. Contact Wendy.
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MOONLIGHT CROSSING
by Floriana Hall
Rumor was, a witch haunted the railroad tracks,
A favorite short cut of mine.
White hair sticking out like fingers spread to the count of five,
Standing in the moonlight,
She frightened anyone in her path alive.
Stories grew, her tattered clothing became a legend
Of not just a homeless person
And very few crossed the tracks at midnight.
It was another era
When people felt safer at night than they now do
Even though they hastened their steps
At the sight of shadows made by swaying branches
In the lunar lit dark of night.
Coming home from a dance
On the last bus at one o’clock in the morning
All alone,
After my friend exited the stop before,
Nonchalantly heading for the crossing,
Tossing my flaxen hair in the gentle breeze,
I froze in my tracks.
There she was, the woman of the night
Standing in the center of the tracks
to the left of me.
My heart pounded, full of fright,
My steps faltered, decisions to make –
Could I make it home safely?
Only if I ran as fast as a winning track star.
Taking off like an arrow
Never looking back,
I reached my porch, my door
Slammed it behind me,
Thought “Nevermore will I cross those tracks again
In the darkness, in the night –
I’ll walk around!”
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.
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THINGS I WISH I’D SAID
by Marie Delgado Travis
Has your love for me
been a terrible burden?
So many times,
when I’ve had no where to turn,
I’ve placed my shattered life
in your hands...
And you’ve patiently
and so quietly listened,
trying to sort through the pieces
and make me whole again—
although the shards
must have pierced your heart.
How foolish of me to think
there could be a
more immense love.
And how I wish I’d told you that
—no matter what our future held—
your love made my life
Complete.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning writer. She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Visit her web site: www.mariedelgadotravis.com
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POETIC OUTPUT
by Ashutosh Ghildiyal
I feel like a poem again today
to convert and attest a feeling
an uncertain vibe, a vague flavor
an impression of somatic sensation
While I sit in complete idleness
facing the machine with a screen
full of frivolous nothings
With a blank mind, I probe into
The nothingness full of things
created and collected by myself
in the files and folders of my mind
unorganized yet systemized
I feel like a poem again today
searching through the many drives
of my randomly operating memory
to come upon some data I can use
In the endeavor to innovate upon
already existing, old, used, reused
bits of information, twisting them
for another creative purpose of mine
Still, the program doesn't run good
the bits of raw data don't collate well
the input doesn't give the desired output
leaving me feeling like a poem again
ASHUTOSH GHILDIYAL was born in 1984 in Lucknow, India. He is a salaried professional and a part-time author. He writes short stories, poetry, and essays. His work has been published in both print and online media. He is currently based in Mumbai. Website: http://ashutosh-ghildiyal.blogspot.com . Contact Ashutosh.
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DESERT ICON
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Near toothless gears
rear up from the sand,
poke through prickly-pear paddles,
shove broken teeth at the sky.
A roadrunner
shoots through a rust-circle,
races along the trackless space.
Disappears
over the bones a mile away
of a young man
braving the desert
with no water
but too much faith
in a faulty engine.
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.
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OUR FAMILY TREE
by Callie Reese
Our family tree
Stretches far and wide
When I step back
And look up at it
I'm filled with a sense of pride
Each branch is different
Unique in some way
Growing and changing
With each passing day
Yet we're all tied together
From roots to tips
Lending the strength and support
That only family can give
CALLIE REESE is a published writer from Santa Rosa, California. Having had Cerebral Palsy since birth, Callie has a unique outlook on life and the world. She has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood and took creative writing classes in high school and college. Hershort story “The Feeling” has been published in the magazine “Women’s Voices”. Find out more at www.CallieReese.com Contact Callie.
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SOMETIMES
by Carl Schoelkopf
Sometimes when a bird calls out in the night,
Or the wind flows through the branches,
Or an owl hoots in the distance,
Then I become very quiet and listen.
My spirit drifts back in time,
Back hundreds of years forgotten now.
The birds, the wind and the owls were similar.
My brother of that time listened, too.
Listening, my soul is the bird, wind and owl...
A cloud stream flowing in time.
Strangely changed, carried back.
I ask myself: How can this be?
There is no answer...my brother is silent,
Listening to the bird, the wind and owl.
He does not know me, nor I him.
We are quiet then and now...listening.
CARL SCHOELKOPF was born in Macomb County, Michigan in 1934. His father was a cattleman. Af As a Korean War veteran, the G.I. Bill gave him the opportunity to graduate college at San Diego State. He later did graduate work at Stanford, Sacramento and Chico State Universities.. Upon retiring from his work in law enforcement and education, he began writing poetry, short stories and other work under the pen name, Carlos Sc. He has lived in Shasta County, CA for many years and has written about the area and history of Northern California and Southern Oregon. Carl's blog can be found at http://carlos4117.wordpress.com/. Contact Carl.
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MODERN ALCHEMY
by KB Ballentine
Shards of sunlight pierce leaves
this late afternoon. Light effervesces,
grapples with shadow. Golden oak,
maples russet and ginger spill
in all directions, path erased.
I’m lost.
The feral trail funneled into an orchard
grown wild. Tufts of grass crowd knotted
apple, straight-limbed lime, spiral with spider
webs. But the quince tree, tenacious,
bursts upward, green fruit yellows, flames
the darkling sky.
Fog spools low, white sheets smoothing
the rough-hewn turf. Day fades
as leaves flinch with whippoorwills.
I hunker down to wait the dawn. Crickets
pluck the air, and a mockingbird piccolos
notes to twilight’s sonata.
Crisping wind harvests mossy clues
and owl hoots. Moon not yet risen
above the foothills.
KB BALLENTINE resides in Dayton, Tennessee, and teaches English, theatre arts and creative writing. She has a M.A. in Writing and a M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Poetry. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and publications, including Bent Pin, MO: Writings from the River, Apocalypse and Touchstone. In 2006, she was a finalist for the Joy Harjo Poetry Award and was awarded the Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize in 2006 and 2007. Her first poetry collection, Gathering Stones, was released in 2008, and her next collection, Fragments of Light, will be released June 2009. Visit her web site: www.kbballentine.com
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IMAGES, DREAMS
by Robert Fabre
Images flow from me
like rivulets from a stream
frozen images of a dream
a gasp torn from a scream.
They rise and fall
the waterfalls
of mansions we have seen
that blind and cannot be
that bleed but are not real.
We wish to open wide our eyes
To stretch our eyelid screens
To open them to beams
of visions inklings seeped
through matters deep,
of marsh and mud and blood
and bones of ghosts careened
off the offal.
Witness well that parody
of dreams that once rose
and walked on crutches-- fall
to the deep.
.
ROBERT FABRE is an attorney editor working for a legal publisher in Cleveland, Ohio. He has been writing poetry for over 30 years. His poems often speak of a search for meaning in a secular world, of the border between the profane and the sacred. Recent publications include Illogical Muse, Feelings of the Heart Literary Journal, and Foliate Oak, and the website theshelteredpoet.blogspot.com . Contact Robert.
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THE MOON MY LOVER
by Barnali Saha
I emblazon my unearthly heart
With the jewel of his love
When surreptitiously he comes to me
To despoil me of what I have
As the dew drops tinkling ripple
My gelid lids stare cripple
In the summer of love the world rejoices
Flowers bloom, and the bird voices
The sweet tunes of passion
My soul yearns for the lost obsession
Incarcerated in the abysmal hollow
Days and nights cold and sallow
I hear the blowing breeze, soft murmur, crumbling leaves
The moon light illuminates the mounts and creases
And slowly, silently creeps unseen in to my lonely pyre
To play my bloodless ossuary like a lyre
I feel each stroke, its nimble fingers making bizarre notes
The soundless susurration of the nightly spirit
Garlands of emotions weave in my lost sojourn
I sleep day and night- silent, motionless, and unable to speak
Yellow daffodils nod in the bright morning breeze
While I am entrapped and poisoned by a mystic maze
The waste land underneath in this unknown hell
Dry and thorny sees no magic spell
Like the cold devil I hear you cry
Your tears running down and those flowers dry
I pine to get back to your soft, white arms
And laugh with you and enjoy worldly charms
But alas I lay like one dead nightingale
Your words reach me yet I cannot regale
Beyond the doors of life I wish you peace
While I will forever lay in unreasonable ease
Stuck behind the four walls and guard as a sentinel
Death, my inevitable end took you away
A spirit and a body hath never mate
This is my destiny and your ineluctable fate
Cold and dry the desert turn gray
No hope, no desire bears fruit in May
My relentless spirit howls in the dark
And deathless moonlight reaches the murk
I feel your touch in the moon light white
Striking unearthly notes that one beam light
I still hear your welling eyes speak
The roses dry and meek
The world revolves, seasons come and go
My deathless spirit haunts in this moonlit bough
Seeking you in its touch and unwilling to depart
One mortal moon and one dead soul are torn apart.
BARNALI SAHA is a creative writer from Kolkata, India, currently living in Nashville, TN. Her poems and short stories have appeared in The Statesman, one of India’s oldest newspapers. She also wrote for a woman's magazine, DNA-ME, and several e-magazines and news papers in India. In the U.S., her work has appeared in Many Midnights and Pens on Fire. Barnali recently self-published her first book, FIGMENTS OF IMAGINATION through www.wordclay.com . Contact Barnali.
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OCTOBER CELEBRITY POET
by CARL SANDBURG
American Poet (1878-1967)
“Theme in Yellow” (Excerpt)
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
