A graduate of the University of Alabama, Dana Sieben has been published in different issues of USA Deep South, Long Story Short, Mosaic Minds and Muscadine Lines – A Southern Journal. She is a member of SouthernHumorists.com and a contributing writer to Dew on the Kudzu, a southern web journal. She also writes humor articles for Weight-LossArticles.com and is expecting her short story, Thigh master, Move Over! to be published this month by Guideposts Books in Funnybone Fitness.Contact Dana or check out her blog.
BROWN COUNTY MEET
by Hugh Jones
To drive fat by my
folded map in
search of Self,
hard pulled by such
an ego famished.
Country settings place
me hailing from
me piney porch, the
maidens sanguine seek
a woodsy partner so
I strike that pose!
Oaks mute our breathy
tussles, we the
champs of gaucherie who
ride an Autumn's tinge,
balm for the needy souls.
Hugh: My wife and I live in southern Indiana, although I grew up in Wyoming. We are both grads of Indiana University in Music; I'm a pianist and she teaches Suzuki Method violin. Her day job is as a cleric at IU. Hugh Jones
A native southern Californian, Kristine K. Lowder graduated from Biola University with a double major in Bible and Communication/Print Media. She specializes in creative nonfiction and personal narrative. Her latest release is Akeldama, an historical novel set in first century Palestine. Kristine has published eight books to date and is currently at work on her next title. For more information, visit her site
Carolyn Howard-Johnson is the author of Tracings (Finishing Line Press). It was a the Compulsive Reader's Top Ten Best Reads and was recnetly awarded a silver medal for excellence by the Military Writers' Society of America.
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.
AN ELDERLY JEWISH MAN CONFRONTING ALZHEIMER'S
By Sean Lause
I grow weary of numbers,
tumbling to a shimmering dust.
There is no getting back
except through forgetting.
I have remembered too long
and too much, now I long
to touch the silence
between drops of rain.
Sunlight dances on my eyelids,
the moon escapes the net of faces,
the universe folds
like a sleeping flower,
and all is altered
by the sound of a fly
spinning circles in a glass.
Let the mind return
to rivers
seeking arterial destinations.
I will hide my face
in the soonest wind.
Touch me, touch me,
Rabbi Akiva...
Show me the hiding place
where no one is alone.
AN INNOCENT SKY
By Sylvia Garcia
Bestial children
Run rampant through the night
While parents unshakably ignore
the rat-a-tat-tat of urban thunder
Beneath an innocent sky
Frightened street-dwellers peer
From beneath their makeshift homes
They are smeared with the print
That screamed yesterday's headlines
Beneath an innocent sky
The devil is dancing a jaunty pace
As he presides among the ruin
And delights in the scourge
Made visible by the sun
rising in an innocent sky
Pasty-faced ghosts, anemic
Jam needles in hollow arms
Moonlight dances in the deadpan eyes
As they blink upwards
Towards an innocent sky
Church bells peal a sickly tune
High above a deserted structure
That once held hope for the masses
Before prayer was outlawed
In the land beneath an innocent sky
Sylvia: I am a Liberal Arts/English major who is currently working in the capacity of Executive Assistant to the General Manager of an historic hotel in San Antonio, TX. I have had several poems published and one short story was featured as Story of the Month in July 2006 by LSS. Contact me.
STRAWMAN
By Tyrone Graham
Sly, worldly wise,
the faith that flies
or low lies, shies
from probing eyes
than sacrifice;
would compromise:
principle’s hold
less firm than gold;
would trade future
rewards unsure
for gains concrete;
faced with defeat,
beats quick retreat
one’s self will cheat
of the morrow
for here and now
S held in wind’s way,
shifts where it may:
faith, if in way,
betrays for day.
I’m an Eurasian and have been writing poetry while following a compromise career as an Advertising Copywriter throughout my adult life; my efforts meeting with rather limited success as regards publication in the US and UK.
JANUARY
By Russell Bittner
Let’s dim the lights, then flog the floor,
and show our ghastly guests the door
as we bid fond farewell to gay December.
Then will you take that holly down
and help me deck these halls in brown
to bury whole what we cannot dismember?
If next, with axe, we broach the bin
and strike upon some lode of gin,
can we then seal within this wretched season –
and give ourselves what better serves
the tra-la-la of tinseled nerves
to neutralize the folly of our reason?
Original version (“To a Happier New Year”) published at ALongStoryShort.com (January, 2006);
revised version published at LauraHird.com (June, 2006).
Russell lives and writes on a small island off the East Coast. The island is called ‘Long’ and his borough is called ‘Brooklyn.’ Like Hobbes, he believes that “life is short, brutish and nasty.” He also believes, however, that – like this tiny clod of an island – art is long; and, with Donne, that no man is one, entire of itself – either an island or a work of art. He can be found at his email address.
ATOLL
By Jane Levin
Her life is an atoll.
Tiny islands of dependency
Alluring from afar.
Up close,
a relationship of sand.
She leaves in high tide.
Floating again
on blue diamond crests
Oblivious to the
buoyancy that holds her
Desperately scanning
for the next port.
(Previously published in The Minnesota Women's Press, January 2006.)
I AM BECOMING MORE FORGETFUL
By Jane Levin
I am becoming more forgetful.
When I tell friends, they laugh
telling stories about misplaced keys,
forgotten names.
A few gently ask if chemo did this to me.
My doctor refers me for an MRI.
You don't understand.
You see, for just one moment,
I forgot that I
have
had
may have cancer.
I have become a magician
and I watch in amazement
as the fear drops away.
My delight is audible
as I see the faint
outline of hope materialize.
And as hope takes shape,
I can begin to remember.
(Previously published in Conversations!, December 2005.)
I have been writing poetry for many years and hone my craft at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. My writing reflects my experience as an ovarian cancer survivor, psychologist, and Jewish lesbian. Other than poetry, my passion is organic gardening. I spent the past 3 months as a volunteer on organic farms in New Zealand run by stroppy feminist Kiwis. Contact Jane.
KITE-FLYING AT NIGHT
By Sean Lause
My hand on your hand, in
your hand, cupped in,
feels like another's, your like mine,
letting the string race out
like hourglass sand in reverse,
holding it, letting go, joy ripples
taking our breath skyward
to climb the vibrant stars.
Your nervous hand explores me and I
let you, hesitant, laughing, learning
to honor both touch and release,
the sky and its luminous silence.
The kite quivers at first
a no, then turns, shy, half-
yielding, a yes, begins the dance,
touching an invisible wave
that teases through the trees,
forgetting its fragile link to flesh,
peering at islands we can only dream
below, our backs velvet smooth and slippery,
we trust love inch by inch until
with a last sliver of surrender,
the moon, remembering who we are,
gently lifts us home.
I have published poetry in Poetry International, Poetry Motel, The Minnesota Review, Epicenter, European Judaism, The Blue Collar Review, Arsenic Lobster, The King's English, Shemom, The Edgar Literary Review, Frog Pond and others. I teach Composition, Shakespeare and a course in the Holocaust at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio. I can be reached for comments at: Lause.S@rhodesstate.edu.
OF THE PENIS
By Robert Wooten
Speaking for the rest of us
who've been lugging this thing around
since birth, I think it's safe to say,
though it's always been there,
it's not where we've been going
as, being separate people,
we can't alone serve its purposes.
Witness the paradox--
of not being able to use it as designed
without another's interest, though,
while the proper usage of it
by the body to which it is attached
requires the completed interest
of the body which has that attachment.
This means we can't deny that,
though it isn't where we've been going,
it's already been where we've gone
and bound yet to get there again before we arrive.
It can't be left behind--
or forgotten; that is, its appearance suggests
that our progress is contingent
on the successful completing of its mission.
I earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama (1998) and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University (1994). Numerous periodicals have published my poems. A limited edition chapbook of my poems, Raymond Poems, was published in 1999.
POEM OF THE MONTH
Breath Spray
By Robert Wooten
Raymond wanted breath spray,
but the teacher made him sit
beside the girl with severe burns
on her face because of it--
until he grew ashamed.
Extremely flammable it was
and all the rage in the seventh grade--
along with cinnamon-flavored toothpicks,
Rubik's Cubes and Vans,
monogrammed sweaters and tight jeans.
One would think of an epidemic
of trench mouth by way of explanation
for it. Raymond could not walk
through the halls of his junior high
without it sounding, at each step,
like the moment in the fun house
when the compressed air rises
from the hole in the floor--hopefully, beneath a skirt.
He could think of a reason for using it
simply by following the jeans
with cherries stitched on one back pocket.
Robert: I earned an MFA in poetry at the University of Alabama (1998) and an MA with a creative writing focus at North Carolina State University (1994). Numerous periodicals have published my poems. A limited edition chapbook of my poems, Raymond Poems, was published in 1999.
TOUCH TONGUE
By Tyrone Graham
Being lonely,
yet employing
every agency
for communicating
to achieve
something secondary,
you grieve
being empty.
Go back
to touch
and check
using such
bounteous gifts
to lose
what lifts
and proves
life’s worth.
Touching makes
for truth
that wakes.
THE KEY
By Pavelle Wesser
I’m searching for the golden key
That fits the ancient door.
Long ago, I walked these halls;
fear echoing through my heart.
In my dreams, you came to me,
whispering words pure as fresh snow.
Like clouds that float so far above,
I could not grasp their essence.
Here I waste my days away
within the shadows of frozen fear.
Patterns, imprints, golden thread,
weave a story of someone’s life:
The telltale pitter-patter of a heart
that had no time to break.
Too late – your message came.
The phantoms had become my friends.
Fleeting shadows make no sound,
rise and fall like midnight mist.
I‘ve been searching for the golden key
As you insist I will one day exit
this confusion and gain insight
into what was lost so long ago.
Only then may I remember that I
Once walked by your side within the
shadowed realm of another era,
seeking refuge from a fear
from which you assured me
I would one day emerge.
I have previously published poetry in anthologies such as Voicesnet. I am a program manager for an educational site. I have a husband, two children and two dogs. Contact me with comments.
Dear God
By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
a soul's a breeze
and a world a whim
it makes sense
what
religion's a fence
freedom's indifference
we breed away innocence
closed mind
shut up and die
maybe god will make us blind
wait
there's not enough uncertainty in your mind
once lost
I prayed for a rainy day
I cursed the sun anxiety-gray
I dreamt the sun died
consumed by a cloud along with our eyes
sunshine-suicide
I used to wonder what is a soul
is it like a heart
or empty like a hole
could it be seen in art
or felt as tears rolled
is it fun like words
can it be adjusted
or eaten like flocks
and herds
the more I've read
the less I've learned
we've sinned for ages
and I've turned countless pages
do people really live in stages
minds can't be dissected with tactless tools
we're all idiots
colossal cowards
and hopeless fools
sleepwalkers over puddles of our own drool
it's okay
progress is rude in a way
tomorrow forges on
where the tree lover is dead
and so far gone
technology is life's expense for simple sense
the average man is insignificance
the face no one sees
we're never clear
remember me
or I was never here
not a remnant of a dream
or shard of memory
unseen
a flushed reality
god's stomach rumbles
unheard words mumble
as cookie-cutter people crumble
we're eager to devour
god's mesh which is our flowers
there's bravery in hopeless cowards
ordinary beings with inept powers
there's no relief
death is a thief
we can't escape grief
what do you believe
I'm bloodshot eyes
tobacco stained teeth
art splattered on walls
a phone rings
but no one ever calls
meet Satan
today it's alcohol
mildew decorates the hall
the web could be another way to smother
a nosy neighbor who redefines big brother
a mind reading mother
a probe of certain kind designed to unlock minds
and give vision to the blind
it's positive in a certain sense
but negative too meets at indifference
freedom of the mind is all that's truly left
it's all we've ever had
breathe
go ahead
take another breath before death
imagine a monopoly on minds
big brother charging you to fantasize
life's goal
to manipulate what's behind your eyes
deep in mind
a mine of knowledge stolen caves in
we hope to live again
I fear the end
I'm not self-assured
but I can pretend there's a cure
certainly I'm sure
that wisdom scars are forgiven
blood drained from veins
but I'm still living
the more we advance
the more we derange
the evil strain of convolution stains
is god a witch doctor chanting in my brain
are we characters on a screen
a video game
am I deranged
what's he smoking
you've got to be joking
game over
deposit another token
today god is the sun
and yesterday's Jesus is the ocean
we're insanity in motion
a bloated corpse floating
as sharks start to frenzy
I know you're bored just pretend for me
treading water
I'm my own worst enemy
from burning flesh to divinity
escaping thru open wounds
freed from the burden of reality
life's a joke
a quest
a fleeting memory at best
wisdom could be the ability to sing in drowning distress
I guess
some say the waves are the source
I bleed words
and beat a dead horse
ideas gather
it doesn't matter
I'm getting fatter
the object of ridicule
I mean laughter
I write faster
maybe tomorrow I'll be wiser
life's master
I try to prosper
but dawn comes too soon
shut up fool
night light entombed a simple buffoon
Cliff: I’m a thirty-three-year old writer/poet/rapper/spoken-word artist; I've spent most of my early life in High Point, North Carolina; and my adult life in Jacksonville, Florida. I currently live in a quaint house in the Blue Ridge Mountains where I spend most of my time writing short stories, poems, communicating with online friends, and mingling with laid back hillbilly folk. When funds run low, I do odd jobs to make ends meet. In the past I’ve been employed as a dockworker, a janitor, and a production worker. My father, Uncle, and I plan to have a fully functional campground on the family’s property in Mock Holler, Virginia before the start of the annual Appalachian Trail Days Festival in May 2007. I recently self-published a twenty thousand-word story entitled “A Painter’s Ghost” that is available through Lulu.com. I’ve also completed two poetry manuscripts and I’m currently working on a second novella entitled “Wind Chimes of Happiness.” In addition, I have a full-length novel that will be titled either “Bloody Ridge,” or “The Carousel.” Many of my poems are inspired by melancholy and isolation. My best poems, however, are inspired by my three muses: Eva Soul, Teresa Magario (Zilya), and my childhood crush, Tami Emerson, whom I’ve recently reconnected with. “A Poem for Eva” (LSS, November, 2006) was written after I read the singer’s blog on her website, and realized that she desperately needed to be unmasked and appreciated for the real person behind the smoke and mirrors.
Unison: A Poem for Tami
By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
She walked with a carefree bounce
Smiling in the face of uncertainty
Unaware of tomorrow's transitional misery
A fledgling soul untainted
Never conceiving darkness could consume
Every facet of her being
And one day she was reminded of the child
Who never doubted the promise of bliss
Until she fell prey to cold reality
And went cascading down
Unable to remember the innocent girl
Rolling her ankles with ribbons in her hair
In February, The Oracular Tree plans to market and promote my short novel “A Painter’s Ghost,” which I’m very excited about. You can reach me at: hollowofmockery@aol.com.
and show our ghastly guests the door 
