Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Fragment 8”
Source: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/
POEM OF THE MONTH
TWIN OAKS TAVERN
by Doug Draime
(Based on THE POSTMAN ALWAYS
RINGS TWICE by James Cain)
1.
Banking them in from
three corners. He
never made a shot
that old blind Tom
the piano player couldn’t
have made. Easy pickins,
oo easy. The rain was falling
and pounding against the
windows. But he knew her
her eyes never left his body. Her
movements were like silk
over a ripe red apple.
2.
He was giving her his knife to
cut the bag open. The light
from the bar was casting a
neon shadow on her face. The
cop didn’t notice a thing.
She smiled that half smile of
hers. Years of boredom, years of
dead pointless conversation about
the prices of produce in Santa
Barbara, or the cook that worked
there three years ago. Life had
no meaning. How could death
mean any less?
3.
Often she was like a little girl,
innocent and smiling, playing
in the sand. Up there above was
only sky. He thought of God for the
first time in years. He told her
what he was thinking. She just
turned her face away and
said they were both like gypsies
and beach bums. Stealing
a man’s wife, then murdering
him, nevertheless, made a
man think of God.
4.
The car was their refuge and their
machine of death. Her eye was purple
and black. Her clothes were
ripped half off. Convincing to a
whiskey drinking cop. How many times
did the car roll over?. Oh, these tedious,
tormenting questions. Smoking
a cigarette and watching from
the shadows. The hands never
stopping sweating.
5.
When she died everything went
black. The guy in number 7 is in
for murdering his brother and
sister. Can you believe it? Many don’t
want a last meal. Father McConnell
says prayers help. Morning and
again the four walls, the bars,
the stink of the toilet. “Hey! sound
your horn. The road is all
yours.” Then suddenly the crash.
And he tried to stop the bleeding.
Kissing her. Crying. He will never
orget her screams. They will be the
last thing he hears, as the gas pellets fall.
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. Contact Doug.
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MOUNTAIN STREAM
by Amit Shankar Saha
Like dancing feet descending down
I saw the swift stream slip softly
Through caverns down to that down-town
Where children were laughing in glee
To see their paper-boats set sail
Oarless among ripples and waves
As all of them flow down the dale
Below - below the icy caves.
And then from the book of Nature I read
And all of a sudden I came to know
That nowhere my effort with oars has led
So on my voyage oarless I must go
And remember what Lucretius once said,
"No single things abide, but all things flow."
AMIT SHANKAR SAHA was born and bred in Calcutta. He is currently pursuing PhD research work in English Literature at Calcutta University. His interests lie in academic research and creative writing. His works have appeared in e-journals like Cerebration, DesiLit Magazine, Muse India, Boloji, Pens On Fire, etc. He also blogs at www.amitss6.blogspot.com and www.amitss6.sulekha.com . Contact Amit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
INSIDE OF A DAYDREAM
by Randy Boone
Who knows how life might look
from the inside of a daydream,
blanketed by the perfect
and the beautiful,
nourished by eternal hopes
and endless possibilities,
comforted by all the perfect love
that one is able to imagine.
From the inside of a daydream,
one could know
the splendor of a billion truths
and swim in oceans of ideas
that never spill their way
into artifacts or words.
On the inside of a daydream,
the world could be an ideal place,
an Eden never lost,
a mappable Utopia,
so long as one never dares
to peer out.
RANDY BOONE hails from Hellertown, Pennsylvania. He teaches writing and literature courses at Northampton Community College’s Monroe Campus and can often be found lurking about thrift stores and coffee shops. He has published a poetry chapbook and his work has recently published in Ya’Sou Ezine, Feelings of the Heart, Spout, Glimpse, and The Lehigh Valley Literary Review, among many others. Contact Randy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
REGRET
by Tina Broderick
Regret
sleeps like a dog at the foot of the bed,
waits behind the bathroom mirror,
hides in the jelly of the spine and
reeks of yesterday and old running shoes.
Pens anointed with sacred tears sign declarations
promising promises,
using invisible ink on dried flesh stretched thin
over a skeleton of illusion.
TINA BRODERICK is an MFA student at Goddard Collage in Vermont. Her fiction has been 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I LOVE BONE
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
I love bone
the solid heft of it
holding a tall human in place
The frame supporting organs
tucked sweetly inside
I love finding white chunks
in a corner pasture
surreal shapes
Jigsaw pieces that once
belonged to a cow
I love the bone earrings
my son gave me
carved into bears
with black African beads
when ivory was banned
from world markets
I love tiny cat bones
digging sharp angles
as they settle for a nap
behind my knee
I love my own bones
even their new swelling
arthritis invading
hidden joints and creases
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 End-Cycle: Poems about Caregiving. Contact: Patricia.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE BABY WHISPERER
by Floriana Hall
A newborn baby? How wonderful!
A tiny, precious bundle of joy
To cuddle, comfort and enjoy,
A gift to carry on the generations.
A crying baby? How normal!
Responding to pain or discomfort
Or hunger or needs of any sort
Though not remembering it later.
A calm baby? How sweet and contented!
Hearing whispers of loving words or songs
Feeling warmth in arms where babies belong
Looking around at the surrounding world.
A smiling baby? How gratifying!
Noticing color, movement, objects
Recognizing others with happy effects,
Healthy, alive with glee.
A sleeping baby? How relaxing!
To dream of rainbows in the sky
To grow while time seems to fly
Hearing whispers of love and lullabies.
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WESTWARD HOME
by Bill Collins
With little more than whispers
Once tepid verbs now flame
Roused by Occidental tones
And incremental aim
A covert glimpse at fingers
Where once Lakota bide
Mien displays a blue-grey gaze
Alas the princess pine
Shyly printed dresses
Direct the hot dry breeze
Trek the Teton trail-way
‘Till reddish brown her knees
Return to me in present
Annul the dream-like state
Last not least, meander east
Recur here where I wait
Singer, songwriter and musician, BILL COLLINS has recently added poetry to his
extensive resume. Bill has written lyrics for many popular songs, and penned the
children’s book, BOB’S FIRST CHRISTMAS. Currently, Mr. Collins is the Music
Examiner for Examiner.com, a popular internet news site. Contact Bill.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE SEARCH
by Ashutosh Ghildiyal
Searched in vain
I have
Grappled after the unknown
I have
With the memories of yesterday
Projected the images of tomorrow
I have
Sought to seek
The object of my own fancy
Crafted out of my own wish
I have
Dangled in front of me
Many a tantalizing carrot
I have
With promises of another life
Deceived myself endlessly
In hope of arriving at the unknown
Destination of my own knowledge
I have
Been blind to the ever near
Sought after the far away
Till the seeker and the sought
The thinker and the thought
Vanished into thin air.
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:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IMPRESSION
by Marie Delgado Travis
If I were a painting,
I'd strive to be a huge
Watercolor mural.
Lush gardens,
Ornate bridges.
Lotus flowers bathing in
See-through lakes and
Ever-dancing sunlight.
Giverny.
I'd be gobs and swirls of
Thick, wet paint in
Mad primary colors.
Starry Night.
Restless sunflowers.
Arles.
Under God's bold blue
Impressionistic sky
There are no limitations!
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning author. She writes poetry and prose
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FREE CHOICE
by Cathy Porter
i’m trying to build a poem
for the future
one that respects
free choice
and coffee
one strong enough
to acknowledge weakness
honest enough to
show face
one that honors struggle
and relies on itself
one that never lets fear
make a decision
one that cares for the soul
and strengthens the spirit
one that knows its foundations
with enough visibility
to see past what is known
one that never lets
the time between
day and night
come between
free choice
free coffee
freedom
CATHY PORTER’s poetry has appeared in Barbaric Yawp, Plainsongs, Chaffin Journal,
Pennine Ink (England), and other journals. She has two chapbooks available, and is
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OLDER SISTER
by ayaz daryl nielsen
You, the first from our hearth to leave.
Speak. We pause as your disconcerting silences end.
Our presence counts, involved, enthused as we listen
to your crackling reverences and edgy implications
knowing, in our own unfolding, we shall soon follow.
AYAZ DARYL NIELSEN is a poet/father/husband/veteran and a hospice nurse. He is
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
QUEEN OF THE STORM
by Michael Kirchoff
Caught in abyss of rainy days—
We watch windows like television screens
Glowing in the evening spectacle.
Lighting sparkles like torn construction paper
And rain drips like honey,
Coating the ground in its sweet liquor.
A woman cloaked in gold
Leads a gray-coated Great Dane
Down the automobile river
A gust of wind—
Her hood puffs up like a parachute,
Then rests on her spine.
The Great Dane seems more horse than dog
And the woman, shining in her raincoat
Is the queen of the storm.
MICHAEL KIRCHOFF is a student at St. Joseph's College in Patchogue, NY, who hopes to become an English Professor one day. He says, “I’ve written stories casually my whole life, but lately it's become a semi-serious hobby.” Contact Michael.
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NOVEMBER CELEBRITY POET
HERMAN MELVILLE
American (1819-1891)
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
