LONG STORY SHORT: POETRY PAGE: March 2014

“The spiritual life is equivalent to living the poetry of the world, not facts."

- Thomas Moore
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH

AFTER THE NIGHT

by Charlotte Hamrick

Let’s step down this street right now, washed
bright as our shining faces in the early pre-dawn light.
We’ll welcome the cool air of March
on our skin and breathe in the scent of freshly
baking pistolettes as we meander over cobblestones
worn smooth over time by thousands of footsteps.
We’ll watch the pigeons pecking for errant crumbs in
the banquette cracks suddenly startled by the passing
of a lone musician, coronet in one hand and fried
chicken leg in the other, home-bound in his wrinkled
white shirt, the echoes of last night’s melodies swirling
around his receding image.
Rodrigue blues and Hunter reds will pleasure our eyes
and a heavy spring dew will drip, drip, drip from the
galleries, sparkling like fading moon dust on the fragrant buds of the tea olives.

We’ll step into that coffee shop where steaming mugs of French roast wait for us as the sun rises

over cloudy slate roofs making them shine like

a brand new life.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was first published in The Dead Mule School Of Southern Literature, February 2012.

CHARLOTTE HAMRICK’s work has appeared in several literary journals and is forthcoming in Camroc Press Review, Connotation Press, Blue Fifth Review, and elsewhere. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and a menagerie of furry children where every single day inspires her creativity. You can find her at her website. Contact

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MY MARCH

by Shirley Securro

My March is a combination of winter and spring

One season ends; the other to begin

On spring days I wear sunglasses and sing

People wearing shorts have even been seen

Winter days my boots and I shovel the snow

To sit by the fire and drink my cocoa

The March winds continue to blow

Spring's just around the corner

It's time to open the window

In like a lion or out like a lamb?

When the birds come back again

The rain and the sun shining in

Umbrellas, raindrops, sun, and snow

A kaleidoscope of ways to go

My March!

SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR SACRIFICES OUR HEROES by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact

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SUDDENLY IT'S SPRING

by Susan Marie Davniero

Past the windy sweeping blows

By blankets of drifting snow

Comes a new day to bring

The first day of spring!

Skies that once were darkened

Dawn sunlight will awaken

Gives hope of better tomorrows

Of blue skies and blooming flowers

Green grass as bumblebees spread

Seeds to grow the garden's bed

Listen to the bluebirds sing

Suddenly it’s spring!

SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art, Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog “Susan Marie” is her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact

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STRUGGLE

by Sandra H. Bounds

Peach trees struggle to bloom.

Boughs remain stark and bare

as reluctant Winter

refuses to depart.

The whole Earth waits for Spring.

The whole Earth waits for Spring

to bring to trees the gift

of green, to once again

entice merry jonquils

to dance as robins sing.

SANDRA H. BOUNDS has a Master of Arts in English and has taught in both high school and community college. An active member of the Mississippi Poetry Society, she was its 2005 Poet of the Year, and MPS published a chapbook of her poetry to honor that selection. She has won many awards in the annual contests sponsored by MPS, and she has been published in such journals as ART GULF COAST, THE LYRIC, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, SHARING, THE WELL-TEMPERED SONNET, and WESTWARD QUARTERLY. Contact

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FINDING YOUR WAY WITHOUT A GPS

by Mary Ellen Shaughan

I had an ongoing feud with college math

especially the course where I not only

had to provide the correct answer

but then diagram it on green-lined graph paper.

I could never draw straight lines without a ruler

and for reasons unknown

either then or now

straight edges were not permitted in class.

How to draw a straight line otherwise?

Here’s what I was taught:

place the tip of your pencil on Point A

and with your eyes on Point B

draw from the first point to the second.

How amazing that a lesson learned

in such a dreaded class would guide me

time after time

in navigating the course of my life.

MARY ELLEN SHAUGHAN is a native Iowan who now calls Western Massachusetts home. She has been writing, in one genre or another, since childhood. She admits that she often views life through a kaleidoscope, which results in some unusual observations. Her poetry has appeared in Mid-America Poetry Review; Peregrine: The Journal of Amherst Writers & Artists; Foliate Oak; Long Story Short; Daily Palette/Iowa Writes, and other journals. Contact

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MY TIME TO DANCE

by Jennifer Fenn

The fiddle, harp, and whistles

start to play a Celtic blend.

Wearing my halo, I listen.

It’s my broken neck’s time to mend.

A girl does an Irish step dance

to the music. Is that a reel?

I’d love to get up and try it

but must finish my time to heal.

I smile at how far I’ve come.

Without pills, my pain’s now nil.

My walker I need no longer

during this time to rebuild.

The music changes tempo.

Back at the dancer I glance.

Soon I’ll get my halo off.

It will be my time to dance.

JENNIFER FENN’s work has appeared in fifteen different journals, including Song of the San Joaquin, Faces of the Goddess, Nomad's Choir, Time of Singing, and National Catholic Reporter. It has also won prizes in contests, including the Poetry Matters contest in Georgia. Contact

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MARCH MARCHES ON
by Floriana Hall

Unlike the joy of 'March of the Tin Soldiers' song
Or 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, Hurrah, Hurrah!'
The march of the snowman which started last year
Continues on through the month of March
Joined by his many friends across most of the nation.
They are not like Jolly Old Elves who sit on a shelf
But for a while they help kids enjoy the winter
Along with delightful snow rollers
But they do eventually melt and fade away -
How long they will keep mounting and melting
Is a question there is no definite answer to,
In fact, they do not have to answer to anyone
And come and go as they please
While hints of spring are merely a tease.
So enjoy the sight of the corn cob pipe
The carrot, broomstick and old top hat
Until March winds blow them all away,
Like 'Gone with the Wind'
March marches on for thirty one days
And the rare snowmen of April eventually fade.

FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website

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I AM THE DUSTMAN

by Michael Lee Johnson

I am the dustman,

I am the lazy spirit

in your mind, vulture

of your thoughts

body and I feel it all day

all night-

street sweeper, garbage collector,

villager and dwellers

of city walkways as well

prairie path-

I hang high on the edges

of your lamppost

dim your lights to yellow

gather myself over

days, weeks, months

then travel, voyager

dumped on your cluster

of books, silverware,

antique furniture pieces

of your mind,

my long sleeves stretch out,

pester your books, your glassware, TVs,

stereos, even your iPhones,

until they turn yellow, die.

I do not burn like a warm

red butt cigarette,

I just lie around in gray black colors.

You spend your life

tap dancing on corner smiles

of a moist, four leaf clover.

While you entertain out there,

I am the dustman:

I do not dance; I cover all.

Beg blind out your window,

moon dust I see it all.

I am the dustman.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Itasca, IL poet. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 26 countries, and he edits seven poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book),which is available at Amazon and iUniverse, several chapbooks of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has 69 poetry videos on YouTube. Contact Website Website

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THE MEETING PLACE

by Debbie Hilbish

Every morning,
the bell above the door
tinkles
with a reassuring familiarity
the moment the wooden screen opens.
Diamond patterned linoleum
worn in a trail so defined
one entering for the first time
would need no verbal directions
to the chrome-legged
mica-topped table;
purposefully situated
closest to the countertop
and urn,
(encouraging the waitress to be

diligent in her duties of keeping the mugs
hot and full)
surrounded by red, cracking, taped
plastic chairs
used so long they have taken on the form of

the bodies filling them.

Traditions
lingering like the aromas of bacon and coffee.
The men gather in working jeans,
hats donned like immovable crowns.
And the flow of conversation the paneled walls
have heard for generations begins anew...
Weather, crops, livestock prices, children, wives
fishing, hunting, vehicles, politics, war, laughter, cussing

never gossip.

DEBBIE HILBISH has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. Her first book of poetry was published in 2007, followed by a published chapbook in 2010. Debbie has held poetry readings throughout the southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. She also hosted an eight week author’s fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona from 2008 through 2012. She is presently directing her energy towards working on her first novel. Contact

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SMALL vs BIG

by Changming Yuan

Most of the time

I am so small

As a nerve cell

Embedded in my

Self-consciousness

But sometimes

I grow so big

As the whole

Universe, where

Each of my

Self-cell becomes

A star in a

Distant sky

Or otherwise

CHANGMING YUAN, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China but currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-publishes Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan and operates PP Press. With a PhD in English, Yuan has most recently been interviewed by [PANK] and World Poetry (CFRO100.5FM), and had poetry appear in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 809 other literary journals/anthologies across 28 countries. Contact Blog Facebook

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FINDING SPACE

by Roger Singer

A sympathetic rain washed

the face of the street.

Parked cars, asleep and cold

lined the street.

Buildings with lighted towers

reached into low clouds.

Gray shadows feel lazily over sidewalks.

Umbrellas mushroomed up,

into weaving patterns,

forming a covenant between

head and heaven.

A fair wind lifted fallen newspapers

and hats while shoes splashed

into puddles making the morning city

jagged images.

Traffic moved without form.

ROGER SINGER served as a medical technician at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida for three and a half years during the Vietnam era. While stationed at MacDill, he attended evening classes through the University of Tampa. When discharged, he began studies at the University of South Florida and attained his Associate and Bachelor degrees. In 1977, Dr. Singer attained his chiropractic doctorate from Logan College of Chiropractic in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had over 500 poems published in magazines, on the Internet and in books. His poetry has appeared in Westward Quarterly, Black Book Press, Avocet, SP Quill, The Unrorean, Underground Voices, Language & Culture and The Tipton Poetry Journal. Contact

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RITE OF FAREWELL

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

We choose Indian Break

where the mountains

cup a stream-fed valley

to say a belated farewell.

Evocative of an ancient rite

we try to cauterize

long-seeping spirit-wounds.

We stand in waterfall spray,

let our tears rain

before walking

on separate paths.

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES is a former psychology researcher and writer/editor with poetry widely published in journals, anthologies and Internet magazines. She has a special interest in healing writing, leads a cancer center writing group, and has work in several anthologies on related subjects. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew. Contact

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WINNING THE BATTLE
by Floriana Hall

Surround yourself with a suit of armor

To protect you night and day

From unkind remarks and rudeness

You might encounter on your way.

From the smile or greeting that is not returned,

From any indignity that is not deserved,

From the compassionate phone call that is spurned,

You'll win the battle.

Beware of some cracks in your armor

Where hurt and resentment seep through

If your integrity is questioned

Or your dignity is threatened.

Don't take it personally, or ever dwell,

Just seal up the cracks with forgiveness,

For the secret to winning is treating others well,

You've won the battle!

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RAINBOW DEBUT
by Susan Marie Davniero

Let’s applaud nature’s show
Performance of the Rainbow
Curtains parting of the clouds
Radiant color arch surrounds
Spectrum paints a harmony
As its bow bends symmetry
Curvature archway threads
Drawing bridge spreads
Lace of clouds build a fence
Bordering link of colors’ radiance

Behold God’s masterpiece glow
All the colors of the rainbow

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ALMOST SPRING!
by Shirley Securro

March brings the winds

herald by April showers

Mother Nature's vitamins

for the grass, trees, and flowers

Daylight Savings Time

shooing away the dark

Anxious for visiting, shopping,

and walking in the park!

Almost Spring!

The St. Patrick's Parties

signaling it's almost spring

Shamrocks, bars, beer,

and the wearing of the green

The green bow ties,

green hats and jewelry

at the parties

with lots of revelry!

Almost Spring!

I've opened the windows

and let the fresh air in

It's still April

I know it's going to snow again!

Almost Spring!

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march celebrity poet

Thomas Moore

(1779 – 1852)

nationality: Irish

Thomas Moore, after a painting by Thomas Lawrence
Credit: Public Domain, source

OH, THE SHAMROCK

Through Erin's Isle
To sport awhile
As Love and Valour wander'd,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As emeralds seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valour, "See,
They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning!" --
Says Love, "No, no,
For me they grow,
My fragrant path adorning."
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
And cries, "Oh! do not sever
A type that blends
Three godlike friends,
Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf, etc.

So firmly fond
May last the bond
They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall
One drop of gall
On Wit's celestial feather.
May Love, as twine
His flowers divine,
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em:
May Valour ne'er
His standard rear
Against the cause of Freedom!
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf, etc.

Read the entire poem at:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/oh-the-shamrock/

For the poet’s biography, see:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Moore