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PAINTING by SALVATORE BUTTACI (1996)
An old Italian proverb tells us “If you fall and you get up, you never truly fell.” There is much truth to that. After all, in our lives we have found ourselves both down and up. It goes with the territory; it’s part of the human condition.
When I think about falling, what comes to mind is Jesus on the road to Calvary where he fell, not once, not twice, but three times! On his bone-raw shoulders, nearly skinless after a long-enduring horrific scourging that would have killed the strongest of men, he bore the crossbeam that weighed more than 66 lbs and he carried it a distance of 1.24 miles.
Some will argue, “If he was truly God, that should not have been so difficult for him,” but what some fail to consider is that, being God, he could and did subject himself to an immeasurable agony so that his sacrifice for the sins of the world would be acceptable to his Heavenly Father. To atone for the sins of the once living, those living in the time of Christ, and all those who would populate the future earth, Jesus became the sacrificial lamb. Why? Because God is Love! Because no human being could have expiated the sins against God except a Person of God Himself. He alone could have washed clean the world’s sins so that our lives might have meaning and the next life of Heaven could be opened to us. It was no small sacrifice.
The Passion and Death of Jesus is the ultimate love story, a never-ending love story we celebrate each year, culminating in his resurrection from the dead. He falls and rises again. He dies and returns from the dead.
These things I have spoken to you in figurative language; an hour is coming when I will no longer speak to you in figurative language, but will tell you plainly of the Father. In that day you will ask in My name, and I do not say to you that I will request of the Father on your behalf; for the Father Himself loves you, because you have loved Me and have believed that I came forth from the Father. I came forth from the Father and have come into the world; I am leaving the world again and going to the Father.
--John 16:25-28
We all have our little crosses to bear in this life. It is not a perfect world. Nothing lasts here. We suffer disappointments, pain, and sorrow. We sin by how we act and how we fail to act. Too much with the world, we can so easily lose our perspective and embrace the false idols of money, ambition, self-centeredness, instead of linking our true destiny with the God Who loves us. Yes, we fall many many times in the course of our journey, but if we struggle to our feet, if we stand up again, we have not truly fallen. And the good news is so refreshing: If we pray, if we put ourselves in the palm of God’s hand, if we trust the love He showers upon us every life moment, we will not have to rely solely on ourselves to stand up each time we fall. The words of God reassure us, “"I Will Never Leave You Nor Forsake You" --Joshua 1:5. Jesus tells us in Matthew 28:20, "I am with you always even unto the end of the world.”
#
Salvatore Buttaci’s work has appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, A Word with You Press, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. He was also one of the winners in the 2011 Franklin-Christoph Fine Writing Instrument Poetry Contest.
His collection of flash fiction, 200 Shorts, is the new follow-up to his collection of 164 short-fiction stories, Flashing My Shorts. Both published by All Things That Matter Press are available in book and Kindle editions at http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet
His new book If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems:
Buttaci lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.
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Paintings by Salvatore Buttaci
Poetry is the language of the heart. What better way to praise the love Jesus has for, and showers upon, each and every one of us than by singing heart songs in his honor and glory!
The first poem I selected, “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” was written by Isaac Watts and published in 1707. The second called “Oh Dear Sir” was originally written in Sicilian by the poet Federico Messana which I translated into English. The remainder of the poems are my own, written in recent years.
When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
by Isaac Watts
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
#
Oh Dear Sir
(A poem in Sicilian by Federico Messana
Translated by Salvatore Buttaci)
While Jesus ascended the cross
Flanked by those two thieves,
Mary, disconsolate, unable to speak,
Filled with fear followed along in that procession.
She watched the other Marys so bewildered
And searched old friends at their doors
In hope somehow someone could save
Her Son who raced now towards His death.
Then she saw the door of a blacksmith shop,
Still open, despite the late hour,
And knew that if the forge showed flame,
The blacksmith was at work on works of torture.
"O dear Sir, what are you doing at this late hour?"
the disconsolate Mary said.
"Leave these instruments of torture.
There’s time. I think your day is done."
"I am making a lance and three sharp nails,
and my heart is pierced, dear woman!”
"O dear Sir, put an end to your labor and
I will pay you double if you do."
"But if I don’t do this now, saintly mother,
they will put me in the place of your Son!
The cross is ready now; the crowd cries out;
They want His blood and agony!"
"O my beloved Son, Son adored,
my heart is filled with pain;
I cannot bear to see You nailed to that cross.
You are my Son and my love!"
#
© Federico Messana
GOOD FRIDAY
(A Haibut)
I stand beneath the Cross upon which the Nazarene hangs lifeless. In front of me, on their knees, His mother Mary, his faithful disciple John of Zebedee, and Mary Magdalean, raise their arms in prayer. The sky is mourning-black, trafficked by dark clouds and hardly any birds fly there. Except for a howling wind approaching, silence reigns. From the height of that cross blood still trickles down from His wounds into a crimson puddle below. I have no more tears to weep. Then I see that bird above His thorned head.
Oh, robin red breast,
perched on the cross of Jesus,
His blood marks you blessed.
#
© 2008 Salvatore Buttaci
My Fondest Prayer
(Dreaming when Dawn’s left hand was in the sky)
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
"Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.
--Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
I tell myself each day, “Those stories I had
HEARD in childhood are true. That a man,
A God-Man, truly came from heaven, heeded the
VOICE of his Creator Father who placed
WITHIN his heart and soul a divine love for
THE creatures who go on sinning, who choose the
TAVERN, not the church, to spend their time, who
CRY against heaven in brazen blasphemy.
AWAKE, you who sleep! I offer you today
MY fondest prayer: That you will see how
LITTLE worth this life we lead and join the
ONES who have taken up His cross
AND hear his command, “Come Follow Me.”
FILL your hearts with hope. Treat your soul to
THE eternity he promised all of us. Drink from the
CUP of his loving kindness.
BEFORE time runs out and you are forced to face
LIFE’S journey beyond this finite world of
LIQUOR and drugs and material things that end,
IN what time remains, will you repent, give your soul
ITS eternal place in God’s heaven? Take the
CUP and drink from it. Turn your back on what may
BE condemning you now forever. And
DRY your eyes. Jesus truly loves you.
#
© 2008 Salvatore Buttaci
Through Your Eyes
I stumble and fall
but You always rescue me
Your love is my strength
When I walk away
you draw me into your sight
and memorize me
through your eyes, my Lord,
I look out from Your high Cross
and see salvation
#
© 2009 Salvatore Buttaci
No Greater Love
When God the Father sent His only Son
To be born of flesh and die on the cross,
He could have refused. It was not a done
Deal, but Jesus agreed to pay the cost
Of expiating man’s sins. He would die
A most ignoble death so we could live
Eternally. No human could have tried
To sacrifice what only God could give
To atone for sin––Himself! A God born
Of a woman so that our sin against
God in Eden would let us all be saved.
He gave Himself to ridicule and scorn,
But it does not end at Jesus’ grave.
On Easter Sunday He rolled back the stone.
No greater love the world has ever known!
#
© 2009 Salvatore Buttaci
What Will I Do with This Man Jesus?
I will fall to my knees and bow my head
And listen to all the words He said
Until His hand on my shoulder bids me to rise
And I slowly look into the pools of His eyes
Shining like starlight from heaven above:
That’s what I’ll do with this man that I love.
I will ask forgiveness for wrongs I have done,
For all the pain I caused this Good Son.
When flesh and spirit drove me to sin,
I distanced myself so far from Him
But living in darkness was hard to endure
And my trembling soul yearned to be pure.
What will I do with this Man Who redeemed me?
Cast aside pride and be all that I can be.
What will I do to make life a pleasure?
Do all that I can to earn life’s true treasure.
I’ll follow His footsteps now and hereafter
Delight in the joy of my soul’s sweet laughter.
What will I do with Lord Jesus my King?
I will gladly–yes, gladly!–give everything!
#
© 2004 Salvatore Buttaci
His Father’s Work
He watched intently while his foster father
Transformed planks of wood into tables and dressers,
The plane gliding under a cautious hand,
Sweat dribbling down Joseph’s forehead, into his eyes,
Then spattering onto the sawdust like sudden raindrops
When Jesus was a boy.
Neighbors knew they could rely on Joseph’s carpentry,
For it was common knowledge throughout Nazareth
That this man, descended from the House of David,
Truly had been divinely inspired in his craft.
They marveled how he touched the wood so lovingly
When Jesus was a boy.
As sundown tinted orange all the village roofs,
Laborers and vendors marked the closing day,
Took up their tools and wares until the sun returned,
But his foster father under moonlight sanded wood
Till it felt splinterlessly smooth to his fingers
When Jesus was a boy.
These were lessons the carpenter taught his young son
So that when he reached the rightful age he would know
The joy he himself felt when he hefted wood,
When he sawed or hammered, when he rounded edges
Once sharp and shapeless into works of crafted art
When Jesus was a boy.
Nazarenes spoke of Joseph as one would a saint.
No one questioned his goodness or the love he felt
For Mary and Jesus. When he died, all Nazareth
Mourned his passing. He would have been proud to know
His son had learned well the craft he had taught him
When Jesus was a boy.
At thirty Jesus put down the last wood of his trade
And began his mission to save mankind from sin.
He walked away from carpentry to victory,
Went on to be about his father’s business
Healing the sick, forgiving the repentant
But never did he for a moment forget Joseph–
Those selfless hours his foster father spent working
To glorify the Creator in every wood
Those two hands gently touched. He did not forget
The sacrifices he had made without complaint
When Jesus was a boy.
Three years he preached to the very same crowds
Who on that Friday jeered him as he stumbled
Towards his death. Once again he had taken up the wood,
Once more held in bloody hands the unformed heavy plank
Upon which he’d die and rise again, the Savior,
Wooden staff in hand, and they’d marvel
how truly he was God. Neighbors would say, “We knew Jesus
When he was just a boy.”
#
(C)2004 Salvatore Buttaci
Good Friday
One Good Friday a Dying Man turned
to another dying man and promised him,
"This day you will be with me in Paradise."
With a little compassion and kindness,
despite the pain,
that good thief stole Paradise.
In a poem by my father he wrote:
"We all carry our cross
from time to time."
I know well the good souls of my parents.
They will forever keep good their word
and never forget us.
And so for this I will carry on my shoulders
(willingly) the heavy wood (but not heavy enough)
of sadness, suffering, and separation.
I do it all so one day I may walk again with them.
Once again in the Light of Jesus I will live
in the house of my father and my mother.
#
(C) 2000 Salvatore Buttaci
Salvatore Buttaci’s work has appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, A Word with You Press, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. He was also one of the winners in the 2011 Franklin-Christoph Fine Writing Instrument Poetry Contest.
His collection of flash fiction, 200 Shorts, is the new follow-up to his collection of 164 short-fiction stories, Flashing My Shorts. Both published by All Things That Matter Press are available in book and Kindle editions at http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet
His new book If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems:
Buttaci lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.
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My late brother Alphonse (1995) My older brother Alphonse and I (1943)
REMEMBERING MY BROTHER AL
10/22/32-03/10/10
DAYS BEFORE
you told me days before
your final battle
that whether you lived or died
you could not lose.
in my head I thought.
how brave you are, my brother!
but from my mouth words said,
I know you are going to make it.
what did Papa express
in his final days?
hey, nobody lives here forever.
now again the proof is in the dying.
another soul winged its way
to God’s Crystal City.
the rest of us remain behind
to live a life once more changing.
you told me days before
you exhaled this life
that whether you lived or died
you could not lose.
now on this side of forever
we thank God for His mercy.
we bide our time and
we remember you always.
#
BROWN PENNY
This shiny penny is the fare I paid
to reach back in time and visit those days
I had left in the care of those once here.
Only a penny to see happy faces!
Only in heaven where my soul races
to spend some quality timelessness
among family and friends. To see once again
my father so healthy, not like back then;
my sisters and brothers in heavenly joy!
A copper, a shiny brown penny,
to carry me somehow to the land of plenty
where around sweet Jesus buttemble the many.
Lose yourself, brown penny, on heaven's floor;
so I won't have to leave here anymore.
#
TWO YEARS LATER
I still am tempted now and then
to phone my brother
as if the lines led from this life
to Crystal City in the next
but I stop myself from dialing
I don't know the number
I wonder what the dial tone
so insistently wants to say
#
Of course, I miss my big brother. He was always the one the rest of us looked up to. This was true, even more so, in later years when the two of us became quite close. We collaborated on gospel and country songs, we twice went to Italy and Sicily together, and we shared lots of laughs and heartaches.
My faith in God's promises reassures me Al and I will meet again in a better place than this. Until then, I'll keep writing poems and stories, be as good a man as I can, and thank God He gave me such wonderful parents, siblings, and my wife Sharon.
I have been blessed.
--Salvatore Buttaci, author of 200 Shorts & Flashing My Shorts at
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MR. GLAMOUR, Richard Godwin
Designer goods, beautiful women, wealthy men, a lifestyle preyed on by a serial killer.
A killer who is watching everyone, including the police.
Latest headlines?
No, an outline of my second novel, Mr. Glamour.
My debut novel Apostle Rising was published in paperback by Black Jackal Books last year. It was about a serial killer crucifying politicians, and sold extremely well, received excellent reviews, and sold foreign rights to the largest publisher in Hungary.
Now Black Jackal Books have published Mr. Glamour, and I’d like to tell you a bit about it. The settings are exotic, and the pages drip with wealth. The story’s told in my usual style, and my readers will know what that means. I have been told I write with a blend of lyricism and graphic description. I like to explore what motivates people and I certainly do so with the leading characters in Mr. Glamour.
The two central cops, DCI Jackson Flare and Inspector Steele, are unusual and strong in their own ways, as reviewers are already picking up. At the beginning of the novel Steele hates working with Flare for personal reasons. She doesn’t by the end, and the investigation takes them both on a journey which changes them and their opinions of one another.
Let me give you the setting if you are tempted to read Mr. Glamour.
Something dark is preying on the glitz of the glamour set. There is a lot about designer goods and lifestyles in Mr. Glamour. The killer knows all about design, he knows what brands mean to his victims. He is branding their skins. And he has the police stumped.
As Flare and Steele investigate the killings, they enter an exclusive world with its own rules and quickly realise the man they are looking for is playing a game with them, a game they cannot interpret. The killer is targeting an exclusive group of people he seems to know a lot about.
The police investigation isn’t helped by the fact that Flare and Steele have troubled lives. Harlan White, a pimp who got on the wrong side of Flare, is planning to have him killed. And Steele has secrets. She leads a double life. She is an interesting woman who pushes her sexual boundaries in private. She travels a journey into her own past and rescues herself. And in a strange way she is helped by the killer she is looking for. And Flare has some revelations in store.
As they try to catch a predator who has climbed inside their heads, they find themselves up
against a wall of secrecy. The investigation drives Flare and Steele to acts of darkness. And the killer is watching everyone.
Then there is the sub plot.
Contrasting this lifestyle is the suburban existence of Gertrude Miller, who acts out strange rituals, trapped in a sterile marriage to husband Ben. She cleans compulsively and seems to be hiding something from him, obsessed that she is being followed. As she slips into a psychosis, characters from the glamorous set stray into Gertrude’s world, so the two plots dovetail neatly with one another.
And when Flare and Steele make an arrest they discover there is far more to this glamorous world than they realised. There is a series of shocks at the end of the novel as a set of fireworks go off. Watch out for the highly dramatic ending.
It is already picking up some great reviews.
Advance Praise for Mr. Glamour
“Richard Godwin knows how his characters dress, what they drink and what they drive. He knows how they live--- and how they die. Here's hoping no one recognized themselves in Godwin's cold canvas. Combines the fun of a good story with the joy of witty, vivid writing.”
--Heywood Gould, author of The Serial Killer's Daughter.
“Smart, scary, suspenseful enough for me to keep the light on until 3AM on a Sunday night, Richard Godwin once more proves to fans of crime fiction the world over with Mr. Glamour, that he is not only one of the best contemporary writers of the procedural cop thriller around today, he is a master storyteller.”
--Vincent Zandri, author of Scream Catcher.
“Richard Godwin’s top-of-the-line psychological police procedural driven by its heady pace, steely dialogue, and unsparing vision transfixes the reader from page one.”
--Ed Lynskey, author of Skin In The Game.
“Mr. Glamour is a striking effort from one of the most daring crime writers in the business. It is the noirest of noir...and hellishly addictive.”
--Mike Stafford, BookGeeks Magazine.
“This first rate detective thriller will have you gripped from the start. Richard Godwin is an author not to be missed.”
--Sheila Quigley, author of Thorn In My Side.
“Mr Glamour is, in every sense of the word, the real McCoy: genuine hard boiled detective fiction. Lean, gritty, and tough, it’s a journey into the heart of darkness ... you won’t soon forget. Connoisseurs of Nouveau Noir will have to add Richard Godwin to the list of writers to watch!”
--C E Lawrence, author of Silent Kills.
“Involving and compellingly sinister, Richard Godwin’s Mr. Glamour portrays cops and criminals, the mad and the driven in a novel of psychological noir. Read it while snuggling with your stuffed teddy bear for comfort.”
-- Gary Phillips, author of Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers
“This is one outstanding novel written by one amazing author.”
--Fran Lewis Review.
I think Mr. Glamour will appeal to mystery and crime aficionados, to readers interested in psychological profiling and designer lifestyles, to thriller and noir fans, and to anyone who enjoys a fast paced narrative with strong characters.
at all good retailers online and in stores in April. If you Google it you should see a range of options come up.
And you can find out more about me at my website and my stories here
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THE WORD PLACE
2012 Winter Issue
ANN M. DE VENEZIA
Alone
missing you
al ready
be fore
you leave
the blink
of me
the wave
of you
on my own
without you
none else
to other
one not two
one not three
or four
A LONE.
Artistic Limitations
Yesterday, I copied Hopper's empty streets
hazy light and red brick buildings
Today Bonheur's ox carts and sheep
a horse fair at the square
Heavy aroma of oil draws me to Van Gogh
I see potato eaters returned from field
a bedroom splashed in fiery color
prepared for Gauguin's coming
Tomorrow I will mimic Michelangelo’s ceiling
lying flat on my back, paint speckling my hair
arms stretched to embrace the universe
lost in my own creations.
Ann M. DeVenezia has published three poetry collections: Grave Rubbings, Riding My Tricycle, and Telling Abuse. Her poems appear in Caduceus, Lips, Louisiana Literature, Italian Americana, Poet Lore, Paterson Literary Review, and the Red River, Tar River, Connecticut River Reviews, as well as at Fib Review, Shot Glass Journal, and The Word Place, among others. She and her husband Richard reside in northern New Jersey.
CLAIRE STUART
Icy Morning
The sky is bright but
sun is still behind the hill,
illuminating but not yet melting
the clinging ice that made spun-glass sculptures
out of fence wires, twigs and weed stems
thrusting through the drifts.
On patches of bare ground,
ice crystals arranged themselves
along blades of dead grass,
covering them in fuzzy white geometric patterns.
Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.)
Now I know the ailment's name
that explains this desperate craving,
this crazed hunger for the trace of golden rays
that drives us both.
The dog paces unhappily and
stops to peer out the window at frosty grass,
spies a sunbeam on the floor,
sighs and flops on the sunlit spot of carpet.
I curl before the windows on the unheated porch,
basking, bundled in a heavy lap robe,
face to the thin January sun.
I imagine myself a TB patient in an old Russian novel
rolled out to the sanatorium's solarium,
dying young, dreaming of an old love.
I learn a Russian word,"
chichotka" – consumption.
I say it again, "chichotka.
"I like the way it rolls off my tongue.
Claire Stuart is a columnist for the Martinsbug Journal and the WV Observer as well as writer and editor for the Shepherdstown Good News Paper. She occasionally strays into poetry.
DEBBY FORTE
Contemplating the Prodigal Son
Come back just once more from your famous bad dream
canvass the living from the dead
breathe life into this pallet
flesh out muted faces from base shades
black lamp, burnt sienna, tiger's eye
pour out your tragedy into folds of redemption
let Rembrandt speak
paint by numbers only he can see
inside the lines as only he can do
let me see your herder's stained pigment
wanderlust broken shoes
let me imagine
how you brought only your penniless name
and tendered reconciliation under gaze of kith and kin
upon a father's broad acceptance
and let it steady in his knowing hands
how he calmed a brother's riotous rage
spawning love without condition
and how these fledgling lights
were lit by pulse of one
Earth Mother
The veil of your song
is swayed by breath of longing
and bitter swells of memory
still warm upon my face
as returning birds of spring
sun drenched in giddy promise
will perch again in dogwood snow
and sing in fearless pitch of a life unspent
the shroud of childhood lifts to first moments of you
the unlined face that soothed
unbroken voice that cooed
in snug tightness of beginnings
before unfurling endings
under Constellation Cancer's feathery wing of stars
you bloomed me with the things you loved
history, comedy, tragedy, poetry
an earthling mother who still clings.
I am in love with words. They act like a tonic. They offer solace and refuge and sometimes, if we are lucky, a little bit of magic. I have been most recently published in River Poets Journal and Goldfinch.
DORIS DI SAVINO
A Fever of Words
I shall die of this fever,
this fever of words, this fever that
burns my midnight brain,
that, like the Thane,
doth murder sleep;
this fever of words that shakes me
in my restless bed; that finds me
searching through the night to find
the words, the magic words,
to cool this fever,
this fever of words
I cannot cure.
There are Many Wounded
There are many wounded
who never fought a war,
who never saw a battle,
yet battle scars they bore.
Their quiet courage, day by day,
no orator has praised.
For them no shining medals,
no statues will be raised.
Salute
these walking wounded, Friends,
these heroes passing by;
and know that but for Time and
Chance, they might be you and I.
Their quiet courage, day by day,
no orator has praised.
For them no shining medals,
no statues will be raised.
Salute
these walking wounded, Friends,
these heroes passing by;
and know that but for Time and
Chance, they might be you and I.
Doris DiSavino been writing ever since someone put a pencil in her hand. She has been an newspaper arts reviewer and written radio commercials and promos. Poetry is her avocation, reading it her continuing joy.
ELISSA GORDON
How to Plant a Tribute Garden
Forget a formal plan and serious intent.
Seek a graceful stalk that recalls her silhouette.
Draw on colors from her home,
borrow from favorite parks and gardens
in travels of your own.
Don’t wear gloves! (roses aside),
feel the earth, smell the soil.
With each seed and seedling envision planting her energy .
Keep a favorite photo of the beloved nearby;
you don’t have to go solely from memory.
Put on a pretty dress go to your local garden center,
stroll, laugh, linger among all colors and fragrance,
the flamboyant, the muted, and the dusky.
Flirt with the young men buying plants for their mothers.
Hand them a fuchsia and say,
She will love this--it blooms .over and over, all spring and summer
Return home, arrange, rearrange and plant,
taking in the dewy blooms, the tender air.
Reminisce out loud, gesture toward the place next to you,
empty like Elijah’s chair.
Sigh with longing and nostalgia at the closing of this day
You’ll have to deadhead those flowers in two weeks
you can almost hear her say.
Elissa Gordon's poetry mines a childhood spent between New York and New England, interwoven with her New Jersey life and passion for travel. A frequent open mic reader, she has appeared in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow, The Stillwater Review, Windmills (Australia) and online at Shot Glass Journal and Short, Fast and Deadly.
HARRIS TOBIAS
Missing
How will I be when my candle has burned
All the linen and towels are used
The scraps of the lesson, so little was learned
And the teacher so cruelly abused
There never was more than a petulant draft
To show where the furnace had been
And everyone smiled while nobody laughed
At the end of the curious scene
I can't be contented with yesterday's laughter
Nor yesterday's soup in tomorrow's tureen
For I know the feeling of love that I'm after
I just don't know where Harris has been
Mood
Mood doesn't stomp into a room in heavy shoes
At least not always
Usually she tip-toes in on silent feet
Which is pretty funny considering her size
While a muted trumpet plays the blues
My sweet mood fades
Her tutu reveals her massive thighs
She does a little pas de deux
And when she's through
I can see my spirits change before my eyes
Mood's a fickle mistress when she tries
To lift me up in her ballets
Some days she drops me on my face
Then does a little somersault in place
And stomps off stage and cries
As if the whole thing was my fault
I swear I don’t care what she says
I’ll dance her tune and listen to her lies
Harris Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of The Greer Agency, A Felony of Birds, and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and many other publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The Poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/
INGRID BRILES
Winter - Dead Things
Dead things,
No flowers,
No warmth,
So little light,
Achy joints,
Saggy wrinkled skin,
Deep sighs,
Too many regrets,
Then tiny hands pat my cheek,
"Granny, it's morning. Are you awake yet?
"Winter, when dead things rest
Rejuvenating for summer's soft touch..
Ingrid Briles, born almost 67 years ago in Nevada City, CA. Grew up through Pennsylvania, the Carolinas, West Virginia and now Texas. Deeply in love with babies named Emily and Micah. Published in a couple large venues, and many small free publications. Fan of Sal Buttaci!
KENNETH WEENE
He must have been a poet
He must have been a poet, that old man
who lived downstairs and muttered his words
in a language I could not understand.
At night I heard him screaming at his wife,
who never complained or answered back
only cooked pungent food that wafted up
the back stairs to tempt me while I ate bland
meals and lived a quiet, mannered life.
When he died, I learned he’d been a soldier,
a wounded hero at Verdun, which meant
little to a boy of twelve whose dull life
centered on his parents, who always lied
and told him life was easy if he tried
to follow the simple rules they laid down:
there were no dreams or seasoning allowed
The old lady having died, her rose bushes went to wild.
Yellow, pink and red: once carefully mulched and trimmed;
now untamed, unfed or watered, and yet determined.
In turn, and one by one, they blossom.
Tiny, close-tied buds appear at the top of straggling, thorny branches.
Over days they unfurl, waiting for that peculiar moment
when life courses through each petal and calls attention.
For days, luscious and inviting, each flower pulses with the sun
and sweetly talks to bees and hummingbirds come to visit.
Rich smell of love and sex deepens its invitation until
at last, full open, she awaits with no last hope of virtue;
ah, but such longing expectation.
Once, turning darkly, the petals laughing on the wind
strew the walkway with bursts of color.
Then, only the stalk remains, mourning death and wondering
if life will ever come again.
Ken Weene a New Englander, a novelist and a poet, enjoys the sheer pleasure of creating pictures with words. You can learn more about him at http://www.authorkenweene.com
LAURIE CORZETT
Winter Light
Sun sparkling in snow melt
on a rooftop
birds drink and scatter
bare branches wave in the breeze
Where is the meaning in this picture?
Sparkling eyes roam
eager for adventure
Feel the hidden joys of change
frigid ice to flowing water
Contemplation merges into life
Oblique bands dapple into twilight
Far away forests call
Peace floats softly
in trailing star shine
Holidays
You out there
with nothing
What do you honor, celebrate?
Is there a special twinkling
star that brings solace,
tempers your misery
for just this night?
As twilight covers cold crusts
of road, is your shiver of
anticipation, of joyful
revelries commencing;
do you glow and receive
warm regard, embrace of
glorious good will?
Do you feel whole, holy,
a creature of benevolent grace?
How do you face the dark,
the cold, without hope
when better days, special days,
holidays belong to a story
you no longer live?
Laurie Corzett/libramoon
seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com -- Issue #21: Threshold Revelations invites you to take in trance lucence.
MICHAEL D. RUSSELL
Last Train to Babylon
Tell me folks, are you ready to roll?
Are you gonna be with me, climbing on
'Cause I'm harking the ride of a lifetime
It’s the last train to Babylon!
All the prime exhibits are sure to be
Exposed, like real-life afterbirth
Quivering, jelly filled but fading
You'll pro'bly ask: what was this life worth?
Purchase your ticket, for the train to ride
It's truly a trip point five, as it's said
There won't be anywhere left to hide
Once you're aboard - you turn in your head
And if you catch that most special of trains
You'll think the price is simply a steal
Just don't get tagged by a wink from the Devil
He may surmise that you've sealed the deal!
Know Everything
In the jungle of my mind, living twisting glowing wires
Protoplasmic hard drive find, it's the place where I'll transpire
Pulsing stream through senses fed, by a hunger deeper grows
Every moment must have lead, to the visions of this show
I just want to know: everything
Universe expansion's bright, folding deeper time and space
Drinking Photon's drops of light, vanishing without a trace
Changing soul of living form, Relativity's tight smile
Music's math is where I'm born, never error only trial
I just want to know: everything
Flashing memories unbound, exponential IQ shine
Jumping species into sound, further treasure there to mine
probability's best chance, fusion far beneath the core
Endless data's dizzy dance, I am begging give me more
I just want to know: everything
With psyche and soul searingly formed in the crucible of the late 60's-early 70's, Michael began writing in high school, and after launching his career as a RN he moved to the Mecca of S.F., where exposure to a fusion of hippie and New Age culture continued his transformation. Retired now, after 25 years of nursing, he resides in Oregon, where he has recently finished his first solo book:(look for it on Amazon soon) entitled Love and Other Surrealities. He's also struggling to forge together a volume of his deceased brother's 65 plus collected paintings and his 40 plus unpublished poems.
RICHARD GODWIN
Green Avenues
Within the wall
The napalm wall
Lie solemn promises
To Keep
Such things that bring peace in the
Quiet hour
Where lost lovers
Touch your face
But it’s cold there
And now only the urchins fetch
Nourishment from the trees
That travel idly down the coast
In avenues of green
And dreaming
Where your hope falls to the sea
And the joys of summer
Last only an hour and we trek back to the lodging we found
And sit and wait for tea
Lost Contours
Where will you find me when I am gone
and you lose your hands within the quiet folds of your dress
as it reminds you of all those clothes
you wore as a young woman and hated
Did they try to humiliate you by making you wear them
as if they would alter you piece by piece
and did you think to transform the men
you know you wanted to find you beneath the pleats that bore decay
Or was it that you lost your face and
the contours of you beneath the person you became
and that the clothes were all that mattered in the end
as if they held the shape of you
The imprint you wanted to make
was not left in the memories of the crowds you passed
at the exhibition of your life
they watched you from afar like spectators at a show
It was not there in the close engagements you needed
or the hungry touch of lovers who left you cold
it is there only in your clothes
the rags and velvets you let fall now
As you stand and look at yourself
naked and alone with only the mirror your silent ungiving spectator
you see the lines have changed and time has done
his doing
And beyond the glass you clutch at your face and touch it
Seeking yourself
Knowing that they cast you away
As you have shed your clothes
Richard Godwin is the highly acclaimed author of crime novel Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians, and which has sold foreign rights in Europe and received excellent reviews. His next novel Mr. Glamour will be released by Black Jackal Books on 12th April 2012. He is a widely published author who has 14 works to his name and you can find out more about him here http://richardgodwin.net
SALVATORE BUTTACI
Moonlighting
When the authorities found him that morning,
unconscious on a brittle bed of autumn leaves,
he was stretched out naked, blood-spattered,
in the backyard of one of his neighbors.
He knew where he had been all night,
stalking city streets in search of prey
to keep himself sated and strong.
He knew well the dangers of being a werewolf,
how the hideous sight of him inspired fear
and gunfire, something deep down he wished for.
He knew this was no life: this horrid double life
of man and wolf that he could not shake away.
To the police he could not explain
how he had come to this.
He was by day an attorney, one of the best;
he was a ferocious werewolf by night.
The Underlying Message
(To John Henry Newman: 1801-1890)
your poems tell me life goes on
that in every breath of wind
shadows of the spoken word
darken abandoned streets
and no one truly dies.
your poems cry out on every line
that God created us
to live forever
and that we are so much more
than this finite world we live in.
your poems are meant to give hope
to those who mistakenly
put their stock in the wrong world
when they ought best be planning
how to spend eternity
Salvatore Buttaci has been seeing his work in publications here and abroad since 1957. For a list of his current books click on http://tinyurl.com/89pwp9m
He lives in “Almost-heaven” West Virginia with his wife Sharon.
TWYLA SWIGER VINCENT
My Dad’s Alzheimer's
Life, Upside Down
My Dad called my house today.
I answered and said “Hello”.
Dad said, “I’m so lonesome,
Can’t you come and visit me?”
I said, “Dad, it’s 1AM it’s too late.“
My Dad called my house again.
I answered and said, “Hello.”
Dad said, “I’m so lonesome,
Can’t you come and visit me?”
I said, “Dad, it’s 3AM, it’s too late.“
My Dad called my house once more,
I answered and said, “Hello.”
Dad said, “I don’t know where I am,
Can’t you come and rescue me?”
I said, “Dad, I’ll be there as soon as I can.“
My Dad knows who I am.
He knows to call me for help.
Dad said, “I’m so glad to see you,
When you’re here, I know my name.”
I said, “I love you, Dad, I’ll always come.”
Twyla Swiger Vincent is resident of WV, retired RN, Health Educator Published-wrote for 4 years-2 newspapers, & Grit, BBW, Appalachian Journal, & 3 medical magazines,Wild Sweet Notes, etc. Short stories, poems.
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ANN M. DE VENEZIA
Alone
missing you
al ready
be fore
you leave
the blink
of me
the wave
of you
on my own
without you
none else
to other
one not two
one not three
or four
A LONE.
Artistic Limitations
Yesterday, I copied Hopper's empty streets
hazy light and red brick buildings
Today Bonheur's ox carts and sheep
a horse fair at the square
Heavy aroma of oil draws me to Van Gogh
I see potato eaters returned from field
a bedroom splashed in fiery color
prepared for Gauguin's coming
Tomorrow I will mimic Michelangelo’s ceiling
lying flat on my back, paint speckling my hair
arms stretched to embrace the universe
lost in my own creations.
Ann M. DeVenezia has published three poetry collections: Grave Rubbings, Riding My Tricycle, and Telling Abuse. Her poems appear in Caduceus, Lips, Louisiana Literature, Italian Americana, Poet Lore, Paterson Literary Review, and the Red River, Tar River, Connecticut River Reviews, as well as at Fib Review, Shot Glass Journal, and The Word Place, among others. She and her husband Richard reside in northern New Jersey.
CLAIRE STUART
Icy Morning
The sky is bright but
sun is still behind the hill,
illuminating but not yet melting
the clinging ice that made spun-glass sculptures
out of fence wires, twigs and weed stems
thrusting through the drifts.
On patches of bare ground,
ice crystals arranged themselves
along blades of dead grass,
covering them in fuzzy white geometric patterns.
Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.)
Now I know the ailment's name
that explains this desperate craving,
this crazed hunger for the trace of golden rays
that drives us both.
The dog paces unhappily and
stops to peer out the window at frosty grass,
spies a sunbeam on the floor,
sighs and flops on the sunlit spot of carpet.
I curl before the windows on the unheated porch,
basking, bundled in a heavy lap robe,
face to the thin January sun.
I imagine myself a TB patient in an old Russian novel
rolled out to the sanatorium's solarium,
dying young, dreaming of an old love.
I learn a Russian word,"
chichotka" – consumption.
I say it again, "chichotka.
"I like the way it rolls off my tongue.
Claire Stuart is a columnist for the Martinsburg Journal and the WV Observer as well as writer and editor for the Shepherdstown Good News Paper. She occasionally strays into poetry.
DEBBY FORTE
Contemplating the Prodigal Son
Come back just once more from your famous bad dream
canvass the living from the dead
breathe life into this pallet
flesh out muted faces from base shades
black lamp, burnt sienna, tiger's eye
pour out your tragedy into folds of redemption
let Rembrandt speak
paint by numbers only he can see
inside the lines as only he can do
let me see your herder's stained pigment
wanderlust broken shoes
let me imagine
how you brought only your penniless name
and tendered reconciliation under gaze of kith and kin
upon a father's broad acceptance
and let it steady in his knowing hands
how he calmed a brother's riotous rage
spawning love without condition
and how these fledgling lights
were lit by pulse of one
Earth Mother
The veil of your song
is swayed by breath of longing
and bitter swells of memory
still warm upon my face
as returning birds of spring
sun drenched in giddy promise
will perch again in dogwood snow
and sing in fearless pitch of a life unspent
the shroud of childhood lifts to first moments of you
the unlined face that soothed
unbroken voice that cooed
in snug tightness of beginnings
before unfurling endings
under Constellation Cancer's feathery wing of stars
you bloomed me with the things you loved
history, comedy, tragedy, poetry
an earthling mother who still clings.
I am in love with words. They act like a tonic. They offer solace and refuge and sometimes, if we are lucky, a little bit of magic. I have been most recently published in River Poets Journal and Goldfinch.
DORIS DISAVINO
A Fever of Words
I shall die of this fever,
this fever of words, this fever that
burns my midnight brain,
that, like the Thane,
doth murder sleep;
this fever of words that shakes me
in my restless bed; that finds me
searching through the night to find
the words, the magic words,
to cool this fever,
this fever of words
I cannot cure.
There are Many Wounded
There are many wounded
who never fought a war,
who never saw a battle,
yet battle scars they bore.
Their quiet courage, day by day,
no orator has praised.
For them no shining medals,
no statues will be raised.
Salute
these walking wounded, Friends,
these heroes passing by;
and know that but for Time and
Chance, they might be you and I.
Their quiet courage, day by day,
no orator has praised.
For them no shining medals,
no statues will be raised.
Salute
these walking wounded, Friends,
these heroes passing by;
and know that but for Time and
Chance, they might be you and I.
Doris DiSavino has been writing ever since someone put a pencil in her hand. She has been a newspaper arts reviewer and written radio commercials and promos. Poetry is her avocation, reading it, her continuing joy.
ELISSA GORDON
How to Plant a Tribute Garden
Forget a formal plan and serious intent.
Seek a graceful stalk that recalls her silhouette.
Draw on colors from her home,
borrow from favorite parks and gardens
in travels of your own.
Don’t wear gloves! (roses aside),
feel the earth, smell the soil.
With each seed and seedling envision planting her energy .
Keep a favorite photo of the beloved nearby;
you don’t have to go solely from memory.
Put on a pretty dress go to your local garden center,
stroll, laugh, linger among all colors and fragrance,
the flamboyant, the muted, and the dusky.
Flirt with the young men buying plants for their mothers.
Hand them a fuchsia and say,
She will love this--it blooms .over and over, all spring and summer
Return home, arrange, rearrange and plant,
taking in the dewy blooms, the tender air.
Reminisce out loud, gesture toward the place next to you,
empty like Elijah’s chair.
Sigh with longing and nostalgia at the closing of this day
You’ll have to deadhead those flowers in two weeks
you can almost hear her say.
Elissa Gordon's poetry mines a childhood spent between New York and New England, interwoven with her New Jersey life and passion for travel. A frequent open mic reader, she has appeared in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow, The Stillwater Review, Windmills (Australia) and online at Shot Glass Journal and Short, Fast and Deadly.
HARRIS TOBIAS
Missing
How will I be when my candle has burned
All the linen and towels are used
The scraps of the lesson, so little was learned
And the teacher so cruelly abused
There never was more than a petulant draft
To show where the furnace had been
And everyone smiled while nobody laughed
At the end of the curious scene
I can't be contented with yesterday's laughter
Nor yesterday's soup in tomorrow's tureen
For I know the feeling of love that I'm after
I just don't know where Harris has been
Mood
Mood doesn't stomp into a room in heavy shoes
At least not always
Usually she tip-toes in on silent feet
Which is pretty funny considering her size
While a muted trumpet plays the blues
My sweet mood fades
Her tutu reveals her massive thighs
She does a little pas de deux
And when she's through
I can see my spirits change before my eyes
Mood's a fickle mistress when she tries
To lift me up in her ballets
Some days she drops me on my face
Then does a little somersault in place
And stomps off stage and cries
As if the whole thing was my fault
I swear I don’t care what she says
I’ll dance her tune and listen to her lies
Harris Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of The Greer Agency , A Felony of Birds, and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and many other publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The Poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/
INGRID BRILES
Winter - Dead Things
Dead things,
No flowers,
No warmth,
So little light,
Achy joints,
Saggy wrinkled skin,
Deep sighs,
Too many regrets,
Then tiny hands pat my cheek,
"Granny, it's morning. Are you awake yet?
"Winter, when dead things rest
Rejuvenating for summer's soft touch.
Ingrid Briles, born almost 67 years ago in Nevada City, CA. Grew up through Pennsylvania, the Carolinas, West Virginia and now Texas. Deeply in love with babies named Emily and Micah. Published in a couple large venues, and many small free publications. Fan of Sal Buttaci!
KENNETH WEENE
He must have been a poet
He must have been a poet, that old man
who lived downstairs and muttered his words
in a language I could not understand.
At night I heard him screaming at his wife,
who never complained or answered back
only cooked pungent food that wafted up
the back stairs to tempt me while I ate bland
meals and lived a quiet, mannered life.
When he died, I learned he’d been a soldier,
a wounded hero at Verdun, which meant
little to a boy of twelve whose dull life
centered on his parents, who always lied
and told him life was easy if he tried
to follow the simple rules they laid down:
there were no dreams or seasoning allowed
The old lady having died, her rose bushes went to wild.
Yellow, pink and red: once carefully mulched and trimmed;
now untamed, unfed or watered, and yet determined.
In turn, and one by one, they blossom.
Tiny, close-tied buds appear at the top of straggling, thorny branches.
Over days they unfurl, waiting for that peculiar moment
when life courses through each petal and calls attention.
For days, luscious and inviting, each flower pulses with the sun
and sweetly talks to bees and hummingbirds come to visit.
Rich smell of love and sex deepens its invitation until
at last, full open, she awaits with no last hope of virtue;
ah, but such longing expectation.
Once, turning darkly, the petals laughing on the wind
strew the walkway with bursts of color.
Then, only the stalk remains, mourning death and wondering
if life will ever come again.
Ken Weene a New Englander, a novelist and a poet, enjoys the sheer pleasure of creating pictures with words. You can learn more about him at http://www.authorkenweene.com
LAURIE CORZETT
Winter Light
Sun sparkling in snow melt
on a rooftop
birds drink and scatter
bare branches wave in the breeze
Where is the meaning in this picture?
Sparkling eyes roam
eager for adventure
Feel the hidden joys of change
frigid ice to flowing water
Contemplation merges into life
Oblique bands dapple into twilight
Far away forests call
Peace floats softly
in trailing star shine
Holidays
You out there
with nothing
What do you honor, celebrate?
Is there a special twinkling
star that brings solace,
tempers your misery
for just this night?
As twilight covers cold crusts
of road, is your shiver of
anticipation, of joyful
revelries commencing;
do you glow and receive
warm regard, embrace of
glorious good will?
Do you feel whole, holy,
a creature of benevolent grace?
How do you face the dark,
the cold, without hope
when better days, special days,
holidays belong to a story
you no longer live?
Laurie Corzett / libramoon
seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions Visionary Art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com -- Issue #21: Threshold Revelations invites you to take in trance lucence.
MICHAEL D. RUSSELL
Last Train to Babylon
Tell me folks, are you ready to roll?
Are you gonna be with me, climbing on
'Cause I'm harking the ride of a lifetime
It’s the last train to Babylon!
All the prime exhibits are sure to be
Exposed, like real-life afterbirth
Quivering, jelly filled but fading
You'll pro'bly ask: what was this life worth?
Purchase your ticket, for the train to ride
It's truly a trip point five, as it's said
There won't be anywhere left to hide
Once you're aboard - you turn in your head
And if you catch that most special of trains
You'll think the price is simply a steal
Just don't get tagged by a wink from the Devil
He may surmise that you've sealed the deal!
Know Everything
In the jungle of my mind, living twisting glowing wires
Protoplasmic hard drive find, it's the place where I'll transpire
Pulsing stream through senses fed, by a hunger deeper grows
Every moment must have lead, to the visions of this show
I just want to know: everything
Universe expansion's bright, folding deeper time and space
Drinking Photon's drops of light, vanishing without a trace
Changing soul of living form, Relativity's tight smile
Music's math is where I'm born, never error only trial
I just want to know: everything
Flashing memories unbound, exponential IQ shine
Jumping species into sound, further treasure there to mine
probability's best chance, fusion far beneath the core
Endless data's dizzy dance, I am begging give me more
I just want to know: everything
With psyche and soul searingly formed in the crucible of the late 60's-early 70's, Michael began writing in high school, and after launching his career as a RN he moved to the Mecca of S.F., where exposure to a fusion of hippie and New Age culture continued his transformation. Retired now, after 25 years of nursing, he resides in Oregon, where he has recently finished his first solo book:(look for it on Amazon soon) entitled Love and Other Surrealities. He's also struggling to forge together a volume of his deceased brother's 65 plus collected paintings and his 40 plus unpublished poems.
RICHARD GODWIN
Green Avenues
Within the wall
The napalm wall
Lie solemn promises
To Keep
Such things that bring peace in the
Quiet hour
Where lost lovers
Touch your face
But it’s cold there
And now only the urchins fetch
Nourishment from the trees
That travel idly down the coast
In avenues of green
And dreaming
Where your hope falls to the sea
And the joys of summer
Last only an hour and we trek back to the lodging we found
And sit and wait for tea
Lost Contours
Where will you find me when I am gone
and you lose your hands within the quiet folds of your dress
as it reminds you of all those clothes
you wore as a young woman and hated
Did they try to humiliate you by making you wear them
as if they would alter you piece by piece
and did you think to transform the men
you know you wanted to find you beneath the pleats that bore decay
Or was it that you lost your face and
the contours of you beneath the person you became
and that the clothes were all that mattered in the end
as if they held the shape of you
The imprint you wanted to make
was not left in the memories of the crowds you passed
at the exhibition of your life
they watched you from afar like spectators at a show
It was not there in the close engagements you needed
or the hungry touch of lovers who left you cold
it is there only in your clothes
the rags and velvets you let fall now
As you stand and look at yourself
naked and alone with only the mirror your silent ungiving spectator
you see the lines have changed and time has done
his doing
And beyond the glass you clutch at your face and touch it
Seeking yourself
Knowing that they cast you away
As you have shed your clothes
Richard Godwin is the highly acclaimed author of crime novel Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians, and which has sold foreign rights in Europe and received excellent reviews. His next novel Mr. Glamour will be released by Black Jackal Books on 12th April 2012. He is a widely published author who has 14 works to his name and you can find out more about him here http://richardgodwin.net
SALVATORE BUTTACI
Moonlighting
When the authorities found him that morning,
unconscious on a brittle bed of autumn leaves,
he was stretched out naked, blood-spattered,
in the backyard of one of his neighbors.
He knew where he had been all night,
stalking city streets in search of prey
to keep himself sated and strong.
He knew well the dangers of being a werewolf,
how the hideous sight of him inspired fear
and gunfire, something deep down he wished for.
He knew this was no life: this horrid double life
of man and wolf that he could not shake away.
To the police he could not explain
how he had come to this.
He was by day an attorney, one of the best;
he was a ferocious werewolf by night.
The Underlying Message
(To John Henry Newman: 1801-1890)
your poems tell me life goes on
that in every breath of wind
shadows of the spoken word
darken abandoned streets
and no one truly dies.
your poems cry out on every line
that God created us
to live forever
and that we are so much more
than this finite world we live in.
your poems are meant to give hope
to those who mistakenly
put their stock in the wrong world
when they ought best be planning
how to spend eternity
TWYLA SWIGER VINCENT
My Dad’s Alzheimer's
Life, Upside Down
My Dad called my house today.
I answered and said “Hello”.
Dad said, “I’m so lonesome,
Can’t you come and visit me?”
I said, “Dad, it’s 1 AM it’s too late.“
My Dad called my house again.
I answered and said, “Hello.”
Dad said, “I’m so lonesome,
Can’t you come and visit me?”
I said, “Dad, it’s 3AM, it’s too late.“
My Dad called my house once more,
I answered and said, “Hello.”
Dad said, “I don’t know where I am,
Can’t you come and rescue me?”
I said, “Dad, I’ll be there as soon as I can.“
My Dad knows who I am.
He knows to call me for help.
Dad said, “I’m so glad to see you,
When you’re here, I know my name.”
I said, “I love you, Dad, I’ll always come."
Twyla Swiger Vincent is resident of WV, retired RN, Health Educator Published-wrote for 4 years-2 newspapers, & Grit, BBW, Appalachian Journal, & 3 medical magazines,Wild Sweet Notes, etc. Short stories, poems
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WINTER 2012 ISSUE of THE WORD PLACE
Dear Poets,
invites you to submit poems for consideration in the Winter 2012 Issue:
Submit 3-5 unpublished poems (24-line limit per poem) + a brief bio (up to 3 lines)
Poems need not be about winter!
Deadline: January 27, 2012
In the e-mail's subject line, type: WORD PLACE POEMS
-- Salvatore Buttaci
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HAIKU ON CHRISTMAS DAY
against His mother’s cheek
the breath of Baby Jesus
cools a heart on fire
the baby’s hand clasps
Joseph’s index finger--
New-found courage
Sweet Infant Jesus
cooing at the stable beasts,
Welcome to our world
twinkle, little star,
a king lies on a straw bed--
light up the Heavens
Jesus is born
nature heaves a welcome sigh--
even snow rejoices
despite the cold wind
love warms the heart of Mary--
she can hardly speak
The infant’s first breath
gives all Earth a life of hope--
He's come to save us
cries in the stable--
Infant King and newborn lamb
proclaim beginnings
beneath beaming star,
proud beasts keep company
an infant in a manger
#
Salvatore Buttaci’s new book, If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems (Cyber-Wit Publications) is available at
http://www.amazon.com/roosters-dont-crow-still-morning/dp/8182532698/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1321825150&sr=1-1-catcorr
Buttaci is the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. His poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences.
A former English instructor at a local community college and middle-school teacher in New Jersey, he retired in 2007 to commit himself to full-time writing.
Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts, published by All Things That Matter Press, are available in book and Kindle editions at
http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet
He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.
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Sal Buttaci visits Santa Claus At Wal-Mart's in Princeton, WV: 2011
Do they still believe as we did when I was a boy? While it is sadly true that a bad economy, a war in Afghanistan, and the ever-present fear of terrorism hang over us like a giant black pall, this is still the season to be jolly, especially for the young. Parents need to lay aside the reality of the times and, for their children’s sake, embrace the fantasy of the bearded fat man in red who delivers gifts to the nice, and even to the naughty, children on Christmas Eve. It is more important to play the There-Is-a-Santa game than it is to overwhelm the young with expensive high-tech toys “from Mom and Dad.”
I had a very good childhood. Thinking back on it, what stands out so clearly are those Christmases when I would go to bed at night and allow myself to be swept away with sugar-plum dreams of Santa Claus coming down the chimney, leaving gifts for my parents, my sisters and me. It did not matter that back in the late 1940s our cold-water flat in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, had no chimney, and Mama kept the apartment door securely locked with a chain and a side bolt. Santa could only enter by levitating three flights up, jimmy open the window, and cram his huge self inside. But we kids knew Santa would find a way.
In the second grade at Most Holy Trinity School, one of my classmates, Ernest Somebody, laughed when I mentioned Santa. “You kiddin’ me?” he asked. “That’s for babies. Ain’t no Santa Claus, ya baby!” But when I went home that day, a week before Christmas vacation, and told my parents what Ernest had said, Papa shook his head and put his hand on my shoulder. “What does that kid know? He’s the one Sister Alma Rita has to punish at least once a day, right? You think he’s gonna know if Santa is real or not?” How could I argue with my father’s logic. Ernest spent quite a few time-outs in the cloak room. Even in there we’d hear him humming, trying his best to keep himself the center of attention, much to our laughter and Sister’s annoyance. No, Papa was right. Ernest knew as much about Santa Claus as he knew about keeping his mouth shut.
That same year, before Christmas vacation began, my sister Joanie and I saw Mama half in, half out of the closet, throwing coats over a tall corrugated box. “Ma,” one of us said, and Mama jumped like a thief caught in the act. “Go play!” she said. “Keep away from this closet. I covered your comic books for when school closes. Then you can go in and get them and read them all.” Like good obedient kids, we stayed away from the closet.
Were our comic books there or was that where our parents had stored all the gifts? Who knew!
Today parents seem to try so hard to surpass the value of the previous Christmas when it comes to buying their children gifts. Sometimes those very gifts they worked extra hours to buy are not even appreciated. One of my students back in the 80’s told me he got a computer for Christmas. “Wow!” I said. “You lucky guy!” But he shrugged his shoulders and said with a sneer, “It wasn’t the one I wanted. It’s too slow.”
Did I ever tell you the story of my 1949 Christmas? A month before the big day Papa and I were in Woolworth’s Five and Dime Store when I noticed a Daisy rifle display. I was eight years old at the time and I knew without a doubt only that rifle could make me happy. “Papa, can Santa bring me a Daisy rifle?” He knitted his dark eyebrows. “Santa Claus is very poor this year,” he explained. “If he brings you that rifle, he won’t have any toys for your sisters. Maybe next year.” Well, I was too young to realize I’d been taken in by a guilt trip, so I said, “Aw, Pa,” several times until he yanked me away from the Daisy rifle table where customers were passing by and loading them into their carts.
Papa was a baker who worked nights at LiCausi’s Bakery on Johnson Avenue. He’d come home at about eight o’clock in the morning and go to sleep. What I did not know was that my father slept hardly a couple of hours a day since our trip to Woolworth’s. He was spending time shaping some wood into a hand-made rifle! Each morning a little more, until finally he was done.
That Christmas Eve we all attended midnight Mass. When we arrived home after the cold five-block walk, Papa lit the Christmas tree and we saw buttembled under it all the presents Santa Claus had delivered. Anna, Joanie, and I began searching for the tags with our names on it, all of them “from Santa.” Then, behind the tree, leaning against the window, a tall narrow package wrapped in red paper seemed to call my name. It’s the Daisy! I thought. Poor as Santa was, he came through for me. My own Daisy.
I tore away the wrapping. The cardboard box it was in was held together with scotch tape and string. It did not say “Daisy.” It did not say anything. Frantically I pulled it all away so I could uncover my present.
It was not a Daisy rifle. It was a wooden imitation with its long dowels for barrels, an unmoving trigger, all of it painted dark brown. My heart sank. It was not what I wanted nor expected. Maybe I even let myself cry in my disappointment, but Papa was suddenly beside me, holding the makeshift rifle, admiring the craftsmanship, aiming it one-eyed like the hunter he once was. “Santa did the best he could, Sal,” he said. “No, he did better! Poor and busy as he is, still he took the time to make you your own rifle.”
When I was ten and had lost that link with the fantasy of Santa, I felt so bad about that rifle, which I had kept. In fact, I had kept it for so many years and then in one of our residential moves, I had forgotten it behind. But never have I forgotten the love for me that my father had built into that rifle.
Let all children, regardless of creed, believe there is a Santa Claus! Let even non-Christians delight in this joyful season. It is for all children, a kind of rite of passage that in adulthood will be remembered with fondness.
As a Christian the holiday is a double pleasure for me. First and foremost, it celebrates the birth of Jesus, the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity, sent to Earth to die for the sins of humanity. It marks the day God walked among men and women so that one day men and women might walk in God’s Kingdom. Non-Christians cannot appreciate nor share my overwhelming joy of Christ’s birth, but in a secular sense, they can still enjoy Christmas. They can still provide their children with Santa Claus memories to last them a lifetime.
#
Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widely. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. His poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times,
U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences.
A former English instructor at a local community college and middle-school teacher in New Jersey, he retired in 2007 to commit himself to full-time writing.
Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts are available in book and Kindle editions at
http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet
His new book, published by Cyber-wit Publications, is scheduled for Christmas Day release: If Roosters Don't Crow, It Is Still Morning.
http://www.amazon.com/roosters-dont-crow-still-morning/dp/8182532698/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1321825150&sr=1-1-catcorr
He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.
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RANDY K. WALLACE
Just Who Is Randy K. Wallace Anyway?
Randy woke up this morning in Vanderhoof, British Columbia, happy to be living—quite literally. We don’t have many days on this earth and Randy appreciates that fact more than many because he is a survivor of a rare kind of brain bleed—a subarachnoid .
Although there are scars, a titanium plate and some lasting mental challenges, Randy leans on his degree in education, his past work with children, and his knowledge that a good story can change outlooks and lives. Having survived may, to large degree, fuel his drive, but his past work with children infuses his writing. Randy’s stories encourage readers and leave them wanting more.
Randy has had two books in print, his most recent, #9 Grundpark Road. The main character is a young boy named Daniel Sterling, who, like all of us, struggles with his own particular challenges. Daniel refuses to let his disadvantaged beginnings prevent him from reaching his goals. This uplifting, page turner will make you feel like you are capable of more, too.
Check Randy out at any of these other places:
#9 Grundpark Road
http://www.amazon.com/Grundpark-Road-Randy-K-Wallace/dp/0984651780/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320610302&sr=1-1
http://www.allthingsthatmatterpress.com
www.randykwallace.com
justajot.blogspot.com
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JESSE S. HANSON
Just who is Jesse S. Hanson, anyway?
~musings on a spiritual identity~
Asked by my publisher to write a piece about who I am, for our in-house blog tour, I experienced mixed feelings. It was naturally enlivening because I saw a chance to introspect and perhaps learn something about myself. Strangely, on the other hand, I felt somehow vulnerable—the private, the guarded part of me felt that way. You see, I knew that the general theme of my description had to be spirituality, and speaking of one's self as a spiritual being, a spiritual seeker, strikes me as risky business. There's a lot of room for self-aggrandizement in any forum in which an artist speaks of himself. Having always been taught that true spirituality is for the humble…
Ironically, the flip side of the pride vs. humility issue is the fact that a great percentage of the population is entirely cynical, as regards spirituality and those people have a tendency to view people like myself, as rather self-deluded or otherwise deluded dreamers.
Nevertheless, and at the least, Jesse S. Hanson is a person who has a great deal of interest in spirituality. It is the backdrop, the undercurrent, of all my writing, and it has become my most true identity. My piece here has taken the form of a mini memoir, because it seems to be the only way to explain such an identification. I have had, through no merit of my own, the greatest fortune throughout my life, to be inspired by and to spend time in the company of certain profound beings Who have highly—I would say fully—realized their potential as human beings. I must say I am not one of them.
Truly speaking, there are so many other ways I have attempted to identify myself. I was born into a devout Lutheran family in the agricultural, sparsely populated, southeast corner of North Dakota. There, I found identity in the freedom of the open land, roaming the countryside on the backs of horses, then later as a high school wrestler, a singer and songwriter of sorts. More generally, I think I viewed myself in relation to my family, friends, and girlfriends. In the background was my loosely committed relationship with God, through Jesus.
My college years also proved to be an exercise in identity swapping. Before I could even get serious about any kind of academic pursuits, I was exposed to elements of the prevalent counter culture. Soon I saw myself as more of a Bob Dylan, Neil Young wannabe than as a student. Here my relationship with Jesus was eventually challenged,
though not entirely broken. I bounced from one major to another, switched schools altogether and, by the middle of my second year, dropped out.
I went back and lived in my little hometown for a couple of years. Once there, somehow, a few young people created a kind of identity for me. I became some kind of false counter culture celebrity to a certain group. They'd come up to my apartment and we'd listen to albums, watch Star Trek and smoke pot. I was fortunate that that particular identity didn't land me in jail. Anyway, having lost all recognition of myself, after a while I got depressed and, on the advice of my family pastor, admitted myself (more like: turned myself in) into the nine-week "drug" program at the state hospital. In the admission process, I was told it was not really a "drug" program, as there were not even any junkies in North Dakota. Apparently, they called it the drug program to distinguish it and to physically separate its residents from the much larger program for alcoholics and criminals who had managed to avoid real prison. It was designed for kids, boys and girls both, who needed to get their lives back on track. Some had been busted for misdemeanors—dope dealing, shoplifting, etc.—which were often related to a variety of substance abuses—gas and glue sniffing, etc. There were a few cases of heavier type crimes, such as car theft and certain acts of violence. In any case, immediately after my admission process, I was put on a locked ward with the alcoholics and the aforementioned criminals. But it was only for a week, to make sure I was drug free and then I was brought to the slightly more liberal drug ward.
I learned a lot there: not only did I learn that the majority of the staff members were using drugs, while rehabilitating us, but I became aware of residents who got sent to prison from that floor for such crimes as smoking a joint or having a drink of contraband alcohol. I know snitching was encouraged; I don't know if it was rewarded or not. This was the also the place where I first learned about spirituality. One of the counselors, Daryl, was an initiate of a Master from India: Kirpal Singh. This kind, humble, and honest counselor began to hold "spirituality meetings" in the general activities room. These non-mandatory meetings were attended by almost all the residents (it was something to do). Interestingly the soft-spoken counselor somehow held the attention of the whole group. We were quite fascinated by this person's anecdotes concerning his remarkable Master.
At one point, a really wild character was brought onto the floor. Short and stocky, long dark wavy hair, wild eyes, and a very fierce demeanor. I admitted to the girl next to me that that fellow made me kind of nervous. "Just don't let him know it," she advised me. I heard rumors about it taking six or seven aides to subdue him in the solitary confinement area where he had just come from. Later, I became good friends with the wild man, Mark, and it turned out that he was already involved with this Kirpal Singh and was planning to get initiated at some point in the future. He said that when he was in solitary, Daryl was the only person who came to visit him. This is notable because the hospital was in Mark's hometown.
Well, we were some mixed up kids, I suppose, but we weren't crazy. That was yet to come in my life. Upon leaving the hospital, I decided to move to Seattle, Washington. Mark had an apartment there, in the University District, and offered to share it with me. In Seattle, I worked a variety of jobs to make a living as I took to my new identity as a street musician/song writer/spiritual seeker. At least I thought I was a spiritual seeker. To attempt to make a long story short, during the years I spent in Seattle, things went from
good to better to worse to really bad. Eventually, after falling in with some strange company and repeatedly experiencing the schizophrenic glories of LSD I lost it. I began to hallucinate when I wasn't on the stuff. When I shut my eyes it was a non-stop scrolling of horror, like an old-time movie reel running down my field of inner vision. That lasted for a period of a week or two, I believe. I didn't sleep. I buttume that exacerbated my condition. I'd been in some tight spots before, while hitchhiking, being drunk and vulnerable, etc. but I figured this might truly be my undoing.
It wasn't to be. During this time and the time leading up to it, in my desperation, I'd also taken my spiritual seeking to a new level of sincerity. I'd begun to read everything I could find about spiritual experience, including The Bible, The Bhagavad Gita, The Koran, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Varieties of Religious Experience. Modern things also—Autobiography of a Yogi, Be Here Now, The Lazy Man's guide to Enlightenment, and so forth. Most of these books frightened me further. Only Kirpal Singh's books gave me hope and encouragement. But Kirpal had left His body recently. I was stranded. One day, my friend, Mark came by; it was a long time ago now that we had lived together, but we were still friends and He was left in the lurch by Master Kirpal's passing also. There had been a magazine, published in English, for the disciples of Kirpal and it was still being printed after He left. This issue contained a very short, two or three-paragraph article, with the title, "A Possibility". It was about a man from the Rajasthan Desert of Northern India. Someone had reported that this man had shown up at Master Kirpal's funeral and when he spoke of Kirpal his eyes turned into Master Kirpal's eyes. That was the gist of it. Upon reading this little article, I felt, somehow, very moved. When I shut my eyes, no hallucinations.
That was the beginning of my identity with spirituality and it was the beginning of a long relationship with Ajaib Singh. Many more wonderful and mystifying experiences have been a part of my existence from that time forward. Mostly, these things are quite personal. The personal nature of a relationship with a God realized person makes it, for me, unsavory to speak of it openly. I've done so, very briefly, on this occasion, in the hope that some people will come to understand that my fiction is based upon reality, as I know and experience it. But my genre of choice as a writer, whether it's songs, poetry, or prose, is fiction. In fact, my perception of prose is that it is another form of poetry—that one shouldn't tell a story but that the story should unfold for the reader, as life unfolds for us without explanation or commentary. I have set myself a kind of personal mission to help expand the role of spiritual fiction in literature.
In terms of writers dealing with spirituality, my style, although contemporary— even experimental—in form, is rather old fashioned, in message. There’s a lot of fluff out there, from self-made gurus and spiritual guides, etc. My book, shows spirituality as a gift from God. In But the idea is that the only kind of person who can reach the poor souls in this institution has to be one of them. An allegory, you see: even as the great spiritual benefactors throughout history have come as one of us, though they are in truth, much more.
Since my meeting with Ajaib, I've lived in quite a variety of locations, been through two devastating divorces, fathered children (now grown), had many occupational and artistic identities, and remarried, finally, in my fifties to the woman who is seemingly my soul mate. Master Ajaib left the body several years back and I was again devastated. But recently I have been so fortunate as to once again come into the company of the Master, in the form of Master , of Italy, a devoted disciple of Kirpal and Ajaib.
My novel is published with My folk-rock band, for which I am the songwriter and guitarist, has two CD's: The Lovers of Kali Yuga and Primitive Spirit. I am working on a new novel and have aspirations to publish a collection of my poetry and song lyrics. I have had short works and poetry published in a few magazines, including Reach Poetry, Dawntreader, Sz Poetry, etc.
the book in paper back:
the book on Kindle:
Those interested in learning more about Song of George, as well as my other work and interests, can find me on my blog at: http://jesseshanson.wordpress.com
and on Goodreads at:
http://goodreads.com/author/show/3960918.jesse_s_hanson
You may also contact me directly by email at: dragonssong100ml@yahoo.com
Thank you so much for your time,
dass, Jesse
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Nicolas Sansone
Just Who Is Nicolas Sansone Anyway?
Spawned in the cornfields of rural Illinois in 1984, he grew up with a wholesome face and an uncouth mind. A love of physical challenges and lush landscapes inspired him to join a volunteer wildfire squad in 2003, and it was here that he was put on the search and rescue team for the Columbia Space Shuttle, which had broken up over Texas on re-entry that February. During his month working on the Columbia mission, Nick was perplexed by the daily absurdities that came of working for a secretive, hierarchical government organization under adverse conditions in the middle of nowhere. This brought about paranoia, which in turn brought about his first novel, Shooting Angels, now available from All Things That Matter Press.
Shooting Angels is the heavily fictionalized story of a team of wildland firefighters who go to east Texas to investigate a fallen Space Shuttle. As the crew endures physical and emotional hardship, however, they soon realize that the crash was no accident: it was the result of a cosmic conspiracy, involving NASA, Mr. and Mrs. God, and a foul-mouthed, disembodied head which has taken up its residence in the cellar of an elderly rancher. Shooting Angels races from the jungles of Texas to the dark corners of undiscovered space to the smoggy streets of Central Heaven, where people, no longer cowed by the threat of mortality, are free to give in to their most detestable urges. Part science fiction, part adventure, part humor, and part philosophy, Shooting Angels is an action-driven exploration of the relationship between science, religion, and the human imagination.
Currently, Nick lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, where he is a writing instructor at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst. When not writing or selling his time to the halls of academia for a pitiable wage, he is going for long-distance runs, traveling internationally, catching up on the news, or looking for dates. (He prefers the strong, silent, immensely wealthy type.) His next novel, The Calamari Kleptocracy, is forthcoming from All Things That Matter Press.
For more information about Nick’s fiction, please visit his website: http://nicksansone.yolasite.com/
To purchase a print copy of Shooting Angels, go here: http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-Angels-Nicolas-Sansone/dp/0984098488/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1317814951&sr=8-1
And for a Kindle edition, go here: http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-Angels-ebook/dp/B004FN1VBK/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&qid=1317814951&sr=8-1
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