MOUNTAIN WINDS

HELLO I AM HERE, YES HERE,

I AM A TINY , MINISCULE SPECK OF LIGHT,

THAT HAS TRAVELLED THROUGH TIME AND SPACE

TO ARRIVE AND NESTLE IN YOUR HEART,

ONLY TO BE IGNITED BY A THIRTY FIVE YEAR OLD SPARK                          

THAT WAS LAYING DORMANT AND CWTCHED IN OUR SOULS

THE CARESSING BREEZE FANS THE SPARK

AND A SMALL WHITE WHISPER OF SMOKE RISES

TO A FLARED NOSTRIL,

THE VISION FANNING THE FLAME, A FLAME OF HOPE,

LOVE AND BIRTH ANEW, LIKE SNAKES

WE SHED OLD WRINKLED SKINS AND GROW

NEW FRESH ONES TO WARM OUR BLOOD

MOUNTAIN WINDS COLLECT UNDER

THE WINGS OF RED KITES RISING THEM UPWARDS

TO LOFTIER HEIGHTS TO HAVE THE EYE'S OF THE LORD 

TO SEE THROUGH, AND THE SAME WINDS LIFT OUR HEARTS

IN THE SAME WAY LEAVING THEM BOUYED

AND FLOATING ON THE ETHEREAL THERMS

WHEN ALL DIES DOWN AND IS PEACEFUL

WE WILL TOGETHER COLLECT THE DUST OF THIRTY FIVE YEARS

IN GLASS VESSELS LIKE GOLD AND SPRINKLE IT OVER OUR FUTURE

TIM WILLIAMS
Tim Williams was born and brought up in the coal mining valleys of south Wales and did various jobs over the years mainly in the antiques trade. Has been a singer songwriter for 35 years, 3 years ago tried his hand at poetry as opposed to song lyrics; having a little success started performing his poetry at festivals and gig's around Wales. He has had a few poems published in books and on websites both here in UK, won an award in Milan Italy in 2014 and has had a few published in USA on websites there. He has his first book of poems due out this spring entitled " Are you reading that poetry book your sitting on ". He has a Facebook site Tim Williams Welsh Poet and features on Cosmofunnel an American poetry and writing site.

Three Crows

THREE BLACK CROWS STAND SENTRY

THREE BLACK CROWS MOTIONLESS

WATCHING THE WAVES AT A DISTANCE                 

  

AT A DARK, BLACK, TIDAL DISTANCE

THE WAVES THREATEN THEM AS THEY WATCH

ROLLING IN, THEN ROLLING OUT AGAIN

THREE BLACK CROWS STAND ON THE TIDAL LINE

LOOKING WARILY, WHAT ARE THEY WAITING FOR ?

WOULD YOUR EYE'S HAVE NOTICED THEIR VIGIL ?

I SAW THEM, WHAT ARE THEY PLANNING ?

IS THERE GOOD VICTUALS TO BE HAD ON THE TIDAL LINE  ?

OR IS THIS THEIR MASON DIXON ?

THREE CROWS WAITING DRESSED IN SUNDAY BLACK

IT'S A DARK CLOUDY, RAINY DAY FOR WAITING

IS THERE SOMETHING COMING, SOMETHING DARK ?

SHOULD I BE WAITING, WATCHING WITH THEM ?

SHOULD WE ALL BE WATCHING ?

WHAT IS THE VIGIL FOR ? A BEACH VIGIL

THREE BLACK CROWS ONE ON A BRANCH

JUST OFF THE FLOOR BY ABOUT A LOOK-OUT FOOT

AS IF IT WAS HIS TURN TO BE THE LOOK-OUT

AS IF THEY HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE, HIS TURN ?

I WATCHED UNTIL IT RAINED HEAVILY AND THEN RETREATED

BUT THEY STAYED, I LEFT , BUT THEY STAYED WATCHING

MAYBE THEY'RE STILL THERE, MAYBE NOT

THREE BLACK CROWS MOTIONLESS ON THE ESTUARY WATER-LINE

WATCHING, WHY ?

Tim Williams

Tim Williams was born and brought up in the coal mining valleys of south Wales and did various jobs over the years mainly in the antiques trade. Has been a singer songwriter for 35 years, 3 years ago tried his hand at poetry as opposed to song lyrics; having a little success started performing his poetry at festivals and gig's around Wales. He has had a few poems published in books and on websites both here in UK, won an award in Milan Italy in 2014 and has had a few published in USA on websites there. He has his first book of poems due out this spring entitled " Are you reading that poetry book your sitting on ". He has a Facebook site Tim Williams Welsh Poet and features on Cosmofunnel an American poetry and writing site.

Sometimes You Can Go Back

I sit in a room from the past.

Never thought I 'd find myself here

again nor that I'd be welcomed

at this veterinary office.

He drones on about ear mites, wax

and cat allergies even as his big hands with

familiar arthritic knuckles manipulate her small

body to investigate every fold & cranny. 

Her dilated pupils, outrage.

I realize his face was the last you saw, his laughing

blue eyes, that slightly hooked nose. His voice, the last

you heard urging you to stay. Yes, he was the one you chose

when it came your time to pass. Not me who loved

you with winged desperation, but this man. I remember

the threat of tears in his voice when he phoned to tell

me he had tried everything to save you.  I remember.

So, I bring this kitten now to offer her to his hands.

to the last place you were alive. Power here, 

though many years and several Hells have passed.

I have not heard your purr for over a decade.

He finishes his examination. Holds your great-granddaughter's

neck in his hand like a lily  or a chalice. She stretches her paws,

her pupils shrink.  My blue-eyed Egyptian queen showing me 

that everything will be alright.

Sometimes you can go back.

Rachael Z. Ikins

Rachael Z. Ikins is Social Media Editor & 1st Vice President CNY Chapter, National League of American Penwomen

Www.rachaelikins.com

Www.amazon.com/Complete-Tales-Edge-Woods/dp/1614620083/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1367700497&sr=1_&keywords=rachael+ikins

Www.writerraebeth.wordpress.com

"Ask the Girl Arts....because girls can do anything!"

A Hungry Kitty

by Sandy Hartman 

Look outside
A yellow cat

The neighbors up and left him flat
He's at my door more and more
Where do they come from
Those yellow cats?
Perhaps from weeds
Perchance from trees
Or yellow flowers that make us sneeze

Oh well, ignore him
We just won’t look
He will find another nook
He will have to go

Oh!  Oh!
He won't take "No"
He simply will not go

I’m asking you
What should we do?
Should we stop and think this through?

Oh, no!
Stop indeed!

Look!  Just look!
Is that a skinny rib I see?
Or maybe two or maybe three

Why he’s hungry

Hungry as can be
Yes! without a doubt
Those skinny ribs are poking out
Well, it is quite true
And it simply will not due

Let's feed him peas
And chocolate treats
Or cans of beans and pickled beets

“Oh no!” you say

"That’s not his way?”

OK!
What is better yet?

What will do?

Hmmmmm! 

I know
Let's feed him meat and milk and fish!
Now there’s a proper kitty dish
And look!
I think I see a fishy grin
Right behind those whiskers clean and prim

So, here’s the facts
We will feed him kitty snacks
And tasty bits that please a cat
Soon we'll see that skinny kitty
Becoming plump and nicely fat

But now of course you know

He's ours

Ours to care for
Ours to own

Ours to love and ours to hold

Well now, I hope that suits you!

Because it suits me fine

And I must say. . .

It suits me sweetly so!

c 10/14/09
Sandy Hartman
Kids and kittys.  What enticing subjects to build a poem on both for beginning writers, experienced writers, and those souls who just want to take time out for a bit of fun.  Yet I always try to keep in mind the many other creatures of this Earth who also deserve the attention of the poet's pen.  Diversion for the harried writer might be an ongoing collection of animal haiku. . .for the precise writer, sonnets from the wild. . .lessons from Aesop in rhyme, poetic notes from observation, and the list is endless.  All are a good antidote for the current popular genre of poetry based on self discovery and involvement.  I submit that the selves we are truly cannot survive without our deep understanding and regard for the others of our creation.

If you wish to hear the audio reading and the accompanying photos for A Hungry Kitty, as well as other poems, please go to my site at

www.eonwriter.com

See you there. . .

Sandy is a member of the Jacksonville branch of the National League of American Pen Women

Pay it forward

 
Deena Tunstall      


A wise heart never opens for an insincere suitor.
   Intuition never falters for a fool.
   The mind can wander through a hundred scenarios,
   heart sinking and desperately cruel.
   Love as you wish to be loved,
   think of as you would like to be thought of.
   Feel as you would like to be felt,
   lust the way you wish to be sought of.
   See the way you wish to be seen,
   listen the way you want to be heard.
   Find wonder in all the blessings
   most would find absurd.
   Shrug off the trivialities that anger you,
   your energy can be utilised anywhere.
   Fail to care what others think
   as their minds are always busy elsewhere.
   Encourage happiness,
   like attracts like.
   Don't waste time dwelling,
   over hindsight.

Deena Turnstall's blog is www.deenascribbles.wordpress.com 

Find her on Facebook as well as Twitter @deenascribbles.

A Tuck of Me

Especially written for WGT (This is a first!)

By Christy Birmingham

You tuck me into a file you mark The Maker

And I wonder if you mean to call it The Marker

Because you put spots all over the visions that

I have of everyone else. They don’t compare to you.

You tuck me into your pocket square and you

Tell me to hold tight until you have enough

Money for the ring. You don’t realize how tightly

I hold you in my heart already.

I dance within the folds of the file,

While you choose the daily pocket square, and

We take some time for the circle that appears

As we wrap our arms around one another.

The ring is a far second to your lips on mine.

Christy Birmingham is an author, poet and freelance writer who resides in British Columbia, Canada. To read more of Christy Birmingham's poetry, check out her book "Pathways to Illumination," available exclusively at Redmund Productions. Also, connect with her at her blog Poetic Parfait and on Twitter. 

Poet Shmoet

Statue of Roman poet Ovid in Constanta. Image from WikiCommons.

By Sal Buttaci  

I have never felt comfortable referring to myself as a poet. Instead, I tell folks I write poems. To me, the designation “poet” is something I have always assigned to the master poets down through Literature, those literary giants in whose works we still delight.  Like most, I have quite a few poets whom I consider favorites. I read their poems again and again and they never lose their original appeal. The good feeling I get from reading about their lives and their contributions to Literature never diminishes. In my own dry seasons when I can’t seem to write a poem, those favorite poets of mine extend their poems to me like oases to the thirsty. 

I write poems.  I study the craft of poetry writing. I taught the craft of writing in middle schools, high schools, and colleges for many years. On the average, I write close to a 1,000 poems a year. I’d write more, but I also write fiction, so I try to balance the two as best I can. Still, to my way of thinking, I am not a poet. I write poems.

If it were possible to count the people in the world who write poetry, and may even profess to be poets, the number might reach the total of our national debt. They are everywhere! Many will confess, or even boast, they know nothing about poetry, but simply allow their hearts to direct the pen or the fingers at the keyboard. I’ve heard some brag that they never in their lives read more than the poems assigned in school, let alone a how-to book on the poetry craft. The poems they write come directly from their inner voices that insist on speaking out, mostly about love and the absence of love.  Some carry business cards with “POET” under their names as if one day someone who holds their card will find it necessary to phone them in a crisis and request a poem be written the way one calls a plumber to repair a leaky faucet. Wanted: Poet. Submit Resumé. And the wage? Surely less than minimum, if at all!

I had a friend in Brooklyn who wasn’t happy unless he threw Yiddish words and expressions into everything he said. He got them from his grandmother, a Russian Jew who had immigrated to America at the turn of the 20^th Century. We were both in the fourth grade at different schools. Nat went to P.S. 55 and I went to Most Holy Trinity School, but we both lived in a predominantly Hasidic Jewish community with only a smattering of the Irish and even fewer Italians. 

Nat loved pulling pranks. I tried to be the good angel on his shoulder, explaining why taking air out of Mr. Finkle’s tires wasn’t very nice. Nat would wave his hand in the air and say, “Finkle Shminkle! What do I care!” Or the time he walked backwards into the Rainbow Theater at the same time the crowd was walking out, so he could avoid paying the quarter admission and have money to buy popcorn and soda. 

“Nat,” I said, horrified at his deceit, “go back and pay the quarter. The Rainbow ain’t free!” Again, Nat would wave his hand and say, “Rainbow Shmainbow, they got lots of quarters. They don’t need mine!”

Who knows what became of my old friend Nat. We moved away. I never even got the chance to tell my friends since my father made the decision to move and the following day the Mayflower van came and hauled our belongings to Flushing Avenue. I often imagine Nat saying to himself or out loud to our circle of buddies, “Sal, Shmal, who needs him!”

I know if I had just once confided in him my new fascination with writing poems back then in 1950, he’d laugh me off with “poet shmoet” and suggest we play stickball on Melrose Avenue or walk to Johnson Ave. and check out the shop that sold used horror comics for a nickel.

So in lieu of Nat, let me say it instead.  “Poet Shmoet!”  Who needs a title to write poetry? Who needs a label to feel validated?  I am sure if I were to ask my poetry heroes like Lorca and Vallejo, Cohen and Daly, Shakespeare and Marlowe, Coleridge and Dante, Marinoni and Quasimodo, “How does it feel to be a famous poet?” they would smile and say, “A poet? Hey, I just write poems.”

                                                        #

Add caption

Salvatore Buttaci is a retired teacher and professor whose work has appeared in The Writer, The New York Times, The Christian Science Monitor, and elsewhere here and abroad. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award.

His recent flash collection, 200 Shorts, published by All Things That Matter Press, is  available at http://www.amazon.com/200-Shorts-ebook/dp/B004YWKI8O/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369920397&sr=1-2&keywords=200+Shorts

England’s Chester University added  200 Shorts to their Flash Fiction Special Collection at Seaborne Library in 2011. http://www.chester.ac.uk/flash.magazine/bibliography%20%20

Buttaci lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.   

salvatorebuttaci@yahoo.com

 

(WWII) A Grandfathers Story

By Dawn Torrens

An ambush took them by surprise,

Comrades falling all around,

A soldier finds sanctuary in a hollow tree,

The only one left he now realized.

The enemy makes camp all around he did see,

While the lone soldier remains still and dares not breathe,

Silent he remains until the arrival of sunrise,

Greeted by the sight of fallen comrades laid out before his eyes.

No enemy insight just the lingering smell of death,

He searches the dead for his childhood friend.

Only to find him spread out on the land,

This war will never steal my last breath.

As he walks undefeated through desolate land,

The sound of guns not too far behind.

His mission he knows is not yet accomplished,

Until he reaches his longed for homeland.

Dedicated to my Grandfather 1923-2012 

As a great lover of war history, after listening to many stories by my grandfather who fought in World War II, I decided to write and dedicate this poem for him. 

My grandfather was a fascinating man. Many years ago when I was just a young girl he told me a fascinating story. This story never left me and I wondered at his courage and strength to survive a night in a hollow log while the Germans slept all around him. This poem tells of his story.

I am a true believer that the reading of books and poetry alike is akin to an incredible journey for the mind. As an author and poet, I have written five books with a sixth on the way. Through my writing journey I have learned many things, one of which is this, without failure there can be no success. Simply put, if we never fail at anything how can we possibly grow. 

I am a devoted mother living in Birmingham England and blessed to be married to a very supportive husband.

D.G. Torrens is the author of five books which she has written over the past three years with a toddler in tow! Her latest release, Tears of Endurance, is an intense romantic drama that will stir up all your emotions for sure. 

Her other books include Amelia's Story

Heart and Mind ,

and Broken Wings.

The author is also a member of RABMAD, "Read a book make a difference," a group of like-minded authors who donate a percentage of their sales to their chosen charity. 

Visit her website, My Books and I, her author fan page Facebook page, and her Amazon Author page.

Daughter of My People

By Sandy Hartman            

Who are you?  asks Creation

What is your fate among your people?

What is the mark of all your kind?

To this eternal question I answer

I am the daughter of a willful people

Of a nation that struggles always

To find its better side

It dreams that all its citizens are equal

All must be free      

Worthy of its knowledge

Worthy of opportunity  

Protected by its laws

Deserving

Under laws equal to all

  

On this, I have considered well

In my world I stand my ground

I am free to come and go

Free to learn and judge with wisdom

I draw my circle close                       

The choices made are mine

I turn chin high to claim my truth

I walk my way in pride

I am a World Child

Daughter of this rare and wondrous age

A time that comes to some

But not to everyone       no, not to everyone

The good and the right

The wrong and the strife from every ancestor

Sing to me and make me bold

The dark strength of Earth 

Courses my veins and builds my bones

I breathe the dreams of sunshine and sky

The dust and the rain and winds that blow

Divinity echoes within my Soul

Yet in my heart are chains that still abide

I hear the cry of sisters lost in histories gone

Restless ghosts that never will be known

Innocent Souls forgotten, their stories never told

Their dreams enslaved, their freedoms bound

Trapped in fortune’s chance

Necessity and unforgiving circumstance

Dignity denied

Mistreated, abused, injured, raped

Heaped in unjust shame, given no escape

Helpless, hidden, bargained away       

Used for profit, sold

Betrayed, enslaved

Forsaken

Even now too many women smother

In heritage that leaves them mute

Denied the learning of their people

Denied justice

Their freedom shackled

Hopes shattered

Living without honor

Half of All Creation’s children

Robbed of half the sky

I am the daughter of a willful age

A precious breath of freedom  

That shines for me, but not for everyone  

No, not for everyone

What people can be proud 

Of women pressed against their will?

Kept captive by their custom

Forced to struggle all alone

What savage fists dare clinch in pride

Before the face of The Divine

What wayward power’s protection

Will defend the vicious tongues 

Of shameful stiff-necked fools

Who excuse their brutish acts as Heaven’s Holy Rule

Who choose to shrug their shoulders in indifference

As they say  

“We simply follow custom.  This is what we do”

What woman’s words will speak for them

Who come before Creation in the certainty of Judgment

If they dare defend their ruthless slights

And self-promoting righteous might

As they did in life

When they stood against their fellow Souls

And chose to judge them less than worthy

Fools who dared to set the knots and twist the ties

That ensnared those precious lives

Lives beloved of Creation

Other Souls

Who were half of Divinity’s infinite design.

Copyright   5/13 

Sandy Hartman

This poem along with a full set of photos and several slide shows and my audio appear on Sandy Hartman’s site, www.eonwriter.com

"We poets can help in the global struggles so many face."