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Divide
By Heather Reed
It is so that this night
Brings unto me a sigh
My tongue that is tied
And a mind but a stir
Tangled and twisted
But not giving up
These times are trying
Into this night I divide
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Gas Station Carnations
By
Shari O’Brien
He brings me gas station
carnations—
A pair ,red and white,
pinched
By January’s frost—
Half-confession of his
offense.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry
since
Hell hasn’t frozen over yet
Though he’s susceptible as a
snowball
Near the furnace I’ve been
stoking
With my rage.
The spindly, so-called
bouquet sits
On the kitchen counter in
the makeshift vase
An old chipped drinking
glass becomes.
With a thin smile, I meet
his eyes,
Granting an empty pardon for
the sin
He knows I’ll never quite
forget.
Quick Fluff
By
Shari O’Brien
“Write poetry,” I reply
when my Gucci-booted friend
inquires
what I do in my free time;
from the way her waxed brows
arch
into a pair of question
marks,
I know she finds me quaint.
“I wouldn’t want to think
that hard,” she protests.
I figure she’s the kind
who’d ask
If Sylvia Plath is chic
before buying her collection
And then putting it in the
dryer on quick fluff
With static-free sheet.
Earthquake
By
Shari O’Brien
Beneath the feet of children
It crumbles like a piece of
cake,
The jaws of earth opening
wide,
Devouring concrete, brick,
and stone
And all that slithers,
pounces, treads
Here on solid ground.
Forgive me while I wonder
If You’re snoring on Your
throne,
Clouds for earplugs, the
angels
Having pulled down Heaven’s
blinds.
Beast
By Heather Reed
The beast has eyes like that
of a lighthouse beacon
Bright and seeking
To bring the loved ones in
****
Kissed By The Northern
Wind
By M.J. Longstreth
Softly blows the wind
through the treetops.
Softly blows the wind
through the pines.
There’s a chill felt in the
air,
The first hint of fall is
there,
On a morning kissed by the
northern wind.
There’s a peace in the air
in the dawning.
There’s quietness in the
morning light.
The eastern sky’s on fire
As the sun makes its
appearing
On a morning kissed by the
northern wind.
The steam is slowly rising
from my coffee.
And my dogs, they lie silent
at my feet.
And I sing my song of praise
To the one who makes
mornings,
Yes, a morning kissed by the
northern wind.
Indulge
By Heather Reed
To indulge in such feelings
Does intoxicate my heart
Being worried that such
feelings will diminish
Is dizzying to the point
where the substance is unknown
My recollection of the
aftermath
Of such a leap taken by my
heart
Is a blank record
Covered in evenly spread
dust
Dull in color
And lately I haven’t a clue
Because I am blinded by the
fine print
As to where my destiny
brings me
like a feather drifting upon
open wind
out in open space
I am flush
When I indulge in my own
personal rave
Evenly torn between what I
have let diminish
And what awaits in my quest
for destiny
Done
By Peter Layton
Hurt songs constrict the
throat.
And I have so many held
there.
You are young and I am
holding you by the hand.
We are in a gold grassy
field near where we live.
You, your mother, your
sisters, and me.
There is an ample blue sky
and metal fencing.
There is no early marker or
foreteller that
Heartbreak will deal us all
blows.
That you will not be here
that you will not be here
Oh that’s right, I almost
forgot, the seers say that You
Are here with us
In spirit
Cleanse
By Peter Layton
I am going to put all my
Teddy Bears in an ark.
Soft as smoke from distant
fires.
You wake up, you go to bed.
We never truly know what’s
going to happen.
Every person born is a star.
There is an extremely far
away heat furnace.
Drinks of calcified helium
and hydrogen.
But all the way to earth it
appears they are gentle as the glint off a diamond ring.
I put you on this planet.
It is so less so now
Do you hover around me
during my hurt days?
The false bottom having
fallen out of me?
Laying on a Peaceful Dock
By M.J. Longstreth
Night time.
The stars overhead stand a
silent vigil,
Watching me,
A lonely boy far from home.
Like a fish out of water,
I don’t know what to do with
my life.
But somehow,
With the water dancing
against this shore,
I feel as though this is my
home.
The light on the opposite
shore blink happily at me,
As a fisherman rows by.
The wind whispering through
the pines,
And the deep, guttural sound
of an outboard motor
Blend in perfectly.
So beautiful tonight,
Even Beethoven could not
have dreamed its sound.
Rarely now, however, do
people enjoy the night,
For fear of insects,
If not criminals.
But there is beauty in the
night,
Out there.
What I want to hear
By Robert Cooperman
My mother surprises me:
Wanting to watch a movie
About a labor strike.
“I grew up Union,”
she defiantly eyes me.
How little I know
about this woman I love,
who would have me believe
her life didn’t begin
until I was born.
But maybe she knows
That’s what I want to hear.
Her muttered threats
At a TV snitch
To get the strikers killed
Shock me into seeing her
Glow with memories
She rarely mentions:
Ignoring bosses
Who called her a Commie,
Handing out flyers
On a dozen
New York corners,
Racing to meet my father,
Wild to change the world
All by themselves,
Even as it melted away
In their red-blooded
embrace.
Casualties of War
By Morgan Hunter
Who are the real casualties of war? Those who
have fallen motionless in the line of duty, never to breathe the
breath of life again? Or those who live to return home to a
world they no longer know? A world that was once a simple and
carefree existence, but is now filled with the nightmares of war
that will never end. A war that will live in their minds
forever. Forcing them to live daily with the images of a bygone
time much too painful to remember. And what of those who once
called me brother, son, husband or simply friend? They too must
witness this shell of decay. A shell that looks so much like
someone they once knew, but it is someone they will never know
again. This someone has been changed forever by a war they felt
honor bound to defend. Many believe that death would have been
much easier, so much kinder. For in death the nightmares of war
would have finally ended and some peace could have been found at
least. But in living they are forced to replay the nightmares
again and again, with no hope that the nightmares will ever end.
Foreign Travels
By Erica Garrett
As I gaze across the meadows, neatly separated
by century old stone fences, I wonder how anything on earth
could have been created with such breathless beauty Its mere
landscape hinting at a stroke from an artists brush. The sea
rolling in like an old friend stopping by to say hello. Its
people refusing to be hurried by the modern world outside. And I
suddenly realize that I have been transported back in time. To a
bygone era that has refused to move ahead. A place filled with
such peaceful serenity, even the most troubled heart would be at
peace. This is a world I’ve dreamed of often. A world untouched
by clutter and chaos I so often see today. A world so much
slower, so much simpler than anything I’ve ever known. A world I
could lose myself in forever.....or could I? This world I have
dreamed of often is not in reality the paradise I once thought
it would be. It is in reality a world I find much too
inconvenient, much too confining, a struggle from day to day. It
is a world made up of few choices. A world where you learn to
live with little, always wanting so much more. A world absent
from simple pleasures I’ve grown to love......ice cream cones on
a hot afternoon, drives in the country with no particular place
in mind, cheeseburgers that taste like real beef, soda pop in a
glass full of crushed ice. Simple pleasures I’d always taken for
granted, but now so desperately miss. I hadn’t
realized how much I would miss my homeland.
With its endless choices and unlimited opportunities.
Opportunities that within themselves offer their own special
kind of paradise. I have often dreamed of this simple life,
never realizing that in reality it would be much less pleasant
than the dream itself. It is a place I will always treasure and
may visit often, but a place I will never choose to live. I have
come to realize that I am much to accustom to another way of
life. A life I never learned to appreciate until I attempted to
live the simple life of my dreams. A dream I found much more
pleasant in my mind, than it ever was in reality.
Clouded Vision
By Sheila Garrett
I will love you forever he said, as visions of
another came to mind. And the endless cycle of half truths and
lies continued. The constant pain would have been almost
unbearable if your heart hadn’t been numbed to the pain so long
ago. Numbed by a reality that was unbearable to face. Your mind
refused to believe that the one you loved could be the enemy.
The one who inflicted such endless pain. Who plotted and schemed
and lied to have his every way. Who would have sold your very
soul for all his wants. All the while hiding behind a mask of
smiles and hugs and endless gifts. Possessing a heart as dark
and black as a starless night. His endearing words meant only as
calculated lines to win your heart. You had spent your life
believing he never meant you harm. That he was simply a spoiled,
misguided boy who needed love. But you were the only one who had
been misguided. The only one who had tried to believe the lies.
Tried to believe that deep within the heart you thought he had,
he treasured yours. It was only when the lies became too
obvious. The pain again too unbearable. Did you lift the veil of
numbness to view a reality you had so long ago denied. A reality
where you would always be a pawn in his nurturing game of
self-indulgence. A self- indulgence that would never allow you
to be a part of his life. A life where he would always be in
love with another.............himself.
   
By Billie
Jeanne James
Smithtown
My old hometown
Hillside steep
Valley deep
Stretching
woodland
there on either
hand
Flowering grassy
meadow wide
Rolling
riverside
Through an old
friend tried and true
Or a stranger
just passing through
A friendly smile
always welcomes you
Smithtown
Town of meek
pride, charm and grace
Town of vision,
spirit strong, welcoming fond embrace
A most pleasant
PEACEful place
Therein to
dwell, to call home
No matter where
I may roam
Across the
ocean, sandy shore, through crowded city or
countryside
though I may
travel far and wide
Tread upon
foreign shore
Smithtown
My old hometown
therein my heart
ever near
Ever dear
Therein my heart
forevermore
Starched
By Diane
Wilbon-Parks
Spring pokes us
deliberately,
shoving us into
long sleeve pants
that are short
legged,
and button-less
blouses
that teaches us
how to yield.
Time falls down
a tube of lipstick,
and stubborn,
old men can't be fixed.
Most important
thing is learning how to cook.
Wars bring out
the beauty of appreciation.
Grace and mercy
can be found in potato salad
Too Many Visions
by
Celine Rose Mariotti
A
funny thing happened in church today.
A
man stood up and said he saw Jesus,
Then
a woman stood up and said she saw the
Blessed Mother,
Another man stood up and said he saw the
Holy Spirit,
Another young girl leaped up and said
she saw St. Anthony.
How
could this be? Thought another man.
Where do they see Jesus and the Blessed
Mother?
Why
them not me? Thought the man.
These visions and apparitions,
are
they for real? Are people losing their
sanity?
Do
they no longer know reality?
Surely we have to believe,
And
we have to have our faith,
But
there is a fine line,
Between religion and insanity.
Once
a person crosses over that line,
They
are no longer believing,
They
are now deceiving.
They
are a mockery,
And
everything they say is fallacy.
So
whenever someone says they had a vision,
Just
tell them you don't subscribe,
You
just do what you think is right.
You don't see or hear
from any divinity,
But you know there is
a Greater Entity,
Someone up there, who
is all knowing,
But for us down on
Earth,
Just say a prayer and
keep on moving!
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Insomnia XXVII
By Brady Rhoades
The old problem: You’re not
prepared to die, you can’t sleep, you’re anchored here.
Walking helps. You seem to
be of some importance outdoors.
A village of leaves riots,
you’re roundly condemned by the birds.
Ponzischemes in the black
rooms. Exotic, symbolic shadows.
Oh gravity. These are the
nights you think of the sorrowful Jesus.
At Gethsemane,
He fell on His face. Father, let this cup pass from me.
No no, no other way. You
must be sacrificed. Forget pride. Weep.
Forget long life. Learn to
be kind.
Insomnia XI
By Brady Rhoades
An explanation for this
stovepipe hat, the bike ride to the river to see the hopeless,
commonly known as the homeless, who look up with jigsaw grins
and cups of malt liquor.
Abraham Lincoln couldn’t
sleep. He’d sit at the White House window,
In the mottled shade of the
leaves,
Writing on the tragedies of
his time,
Or walk the halls in his
deep-in-thought, sad and sexless way,
Or, on moonless nights, ride
a horse to the fires on the banks of the Potomac.
A circumstance more
calamitous than my own.
Bloody feet, blinded eyes.
Hail fellow well met! From the troops.
Last night on earth.
Canteens, singing
*****
Ode to the Quahog
By Pearl Mary Wilshaw
Thriving along the fringe
Of a mighty ocean, well
Traveled on foot for ages,
Place to place, the calm
Transports itself with
Efficient motion, then
Burrows down near a
Low tide mark, with grace.
Enclosed within bivalves
Tightened ligament-fast, this
Mollusk possessed of
Vessels, gills and heart
Obtains oxygen or food from water
Passed through tiny siphons
Nourishing every part. When
broken, drilled,
rubbed from shell to bead,
burnished, hand –strung trinkets or
woven belts, Indian made wampum was
bartered for treaty and trade.
Apostles of Neptune who
Worship the hard shelled gem,
Applaud fine braves…
The first to feast on them.
Lost Souls
By Celine
Rose Mariotti
God gave us the
green earth,
The stars in the
sky,
And the deep
blue sea.
but when he
created the world
there were some
out there
He left to
wander.
He left a hole
in their heart
and problems to
ponder.
He left them
confused,
some are even
abused,
He left them
hungry,
He gave them no
money.
God gave us the
power,
to try to
reconcile,
to find some
kind of love.
To put the
pieces back together
He gave us the
wisdom,
if some would
try to use it.
He gave us love,
if only we see
it.
God left us to
our own devices
But He will
always be there in a crisis,
just look up in
heaven and you will see,
just look in
your heart and believe.
A Russian Bakery: Brooklyn, New York
By Robert Cooperman
It’s a display window lunges at us
With cakes shaped like orges,
Bloated cream-crusted monstrosities
As inviting as witches’ familiars,
This last week of October.
Once inside, odors intoxicate
More heavenly than French perfumes.
The clerk’s accent drips
With the honey of St. Petersburg,
Her lipstick and nails vivid
As her every American dream come true.
Her smile could swallow my wife and me,
Wandering these Bay Ridge streets
While my brother and sister-in-law sleep,
Missing the final glory of fall
On the Halloween colored leaves.
We’re entranced by crusty loaves,
The melting sweet challahs
She points to, this lovely assistant
To a great stage magician.
How can we refuse?
Our arms loaded ,mouths stuffed
With chunks of rye and golden braids
Of Sabbath breads lighter than rainbows,
We lurch back into the street,
A toll cake in a box:
A hex sign to keep away bad luck
And real monsters, smelling sweeter
Than a Vermont forest yielding
Up its sap-treasure for syrup.
The Nest
By Kelly Ann Malone
*****
I watched as she searched our jungle for strands of
shelter.
Sifting through layers of soiled tin foil and old
newspapers,
oblivious to the headlines.
I witnessed her lift pieces of jagged Styrofoam and
pull vigorously at
Ragged twine.
One by one she carried bits of discarded modern
civilization up to her perch.
She slowly began to weave a cosmopolitan bowl of neo
materials.
When finished it resembled a Dali abstract adorned
with twigs,
paperclips and insolvent pieces of a lottery ticket.
I sensed the pride she had taken in her art as she
gently nudged the
pampered eggs into the belly of her masterpiece.
A few weeks later, I returned. As I sat beneath the
tranquil tree gazing
upward, I watched as she sweetly fed her hatchlings
a feast of earthworms
and Doritos then tenderly put them to bed.
The Raging
Storm
By Marie
Minter
I see my love,
at rest now
calm as the
ocean on a calm day.
Yet yesterday I
heard the ocean roaring,
the sound of its
cruel voice unmerciful,
violent waves
lashing at my being,
the wind too
strong, blocking my escape.
Finally the
storm spent, subsiding,
the ocean again
still and serene
cannot erase the
terror and the pain.
Now I know I
cannot brave another storm,
determined I
walked quickly toward my freedom.
When Lorelei’s
compelling voice beckons to me,
luring with the
sweet sound of love undying.
I pause for one
wavering moment to listen,
but hear only
the sound of the raging storm.
Summer Morning at Friendship
By M.J. Longstreth
The sun is slowly rising,
An angry orange ball,
Burning off the early morning dew.
The locusts are a buzzing,
And a mourning dove’s in tune.
It’s going to be a scorcher of a day.
Far off across the valley,
A crow, he is cawing,
Calling out a greeting to his mates.
A buzzard’s slowly drifting
Out across the sky.
It’s going to be a scorcher of a day.
The sweat is quickly forming,
It’s running across my brow.
Stinging as it runs into my eyes.
It’s only eight o’clock,
But it feels just like an oven.
It’s going to be a scorcher of a day.
Cooked
By Shari O’Brien
When it first begins to fall,
We might guess its snow,
Oddly brown, or its August,
Dust the wind has sown
Though more diaphanous than we’ve seen
Before. Ignorant, we won’t suspect
It’s ash ‘til brick and glass melt down
And flesh is broiled from bone,
And fallout cooks this good green star
Humanity called home.
mama’s anthem
By Lolita Stewart-White
Mama sipped wine
Listened to her ‘you did me wrong’anthem
She played for daddy who had disappeared
With the family’s money
She cranked the music up loud
Stepped onto the dance floor
A drunken disco diva
Singing, ‘I will survive’
She coaxed me and baby brother behind her
Made us back up singers
In her make-believe world
Where she was a bonafide star
We happily harmonized her rebellion
Put gladys and the pips to shame
With sizzling soulful steps
Performed to perfection
But our rhythm was quickly lost
When daddy barreled in
The fighting began
And mama’s anthem abruptly ended
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Spirit of 76
By Lolita Stewart-White
there we stood
brown children in the school’s bicentennial parade
i
dressed as betsy ross
little black girl with pretty curls
that sparkled with patriotic spirit
alongside of me was my friend Robert
who would be killed before he was eighteen
by white police officers for a crime
he didn’t commit
but he was alive in nineteen seventy-six
a
dark skinned uncle sam
perched beneath a tall red, white & blue hat
pressed against his afro
as he marched rhythmically with me
happily holding the American flag
behind us, nappy-headed statues of liberty,
Indians and pilgrims closely followed
All of us celebrated the country
We’d studied with our teachers
A
country we’d soon discover was ambivalent about us
Yet we marched that day
Step by step hand in hand naively
To the spirited sound of our youth
Half
By Shari O’Brien
A
pair of lovers pass me hand in hand,
Two Mallard ducks glide on a tranquil pond,
A
playful cloud caresses a half-moon
As I walk through coupled world alone,
Still waiting for my heart to lose its mind,
Still hoping maybe soon it will forget
Just how wide gray eyes lit up my life,
Like flipping on a light switch in the dark,
And how your voice cracked at the break of day
When we’d stayed awake all night to share our dreams,
And how we felt when I was still a half
Of a pair of lovers, walking hand in hand.
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