Poem by C.E. Hart.

My vacation flew by

Feeling weak all week
I came back with the flu

I lay pillows behind my head
on my bed
and laze the days away

It doesn’t matter
whether the weather
is rainy or not
because I lay in a daze
and dream of days
filled with sunshine

Spurious sol beams shimmer
and surround my soul

Suddenly
my flu blues are erased
by blue skies

My nose knows it’s autumn
but
it senses the scents of summer
in a sense

I am fain
to feign summer warmth
because
I’d rather be wrapped
in rapt dreams
than mourning
this cold and drizzling morning

 
 
C.E. Hart, a closet writer for several decades, is now knocking on doors, pushing send buttons, and flying paper airplanes into publishers open windows. She writes poetry, memoirs, and short stories, and is currently working on three novels. Her southern upbringing often gives her work a nostalgic flavor; but that’s not to say she doesn’t have a fun quirky side as well. Visit C.E. Hart (aka Nic) on her new author blog http://cehart.blogspot.com and on her quad-authored writing blog http://www.wenchwriters.blogspot.com.
 

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We are faithful companions
to the unfaithful stars…

I am faithful to Chance:
He made one mother
look away
and the other
he kept by my side.

I am faithful to Lady Luck:
She kept me strong
when the other babies didn’t make it.
She kept me healthy
when the other kids were coughing.
She kept me safe
when the other teens were stolen.

I am faithful to Fate.
Her will is solid.
She united me with them,

I pledge my allegiance to you,
Stars.
I will be your faithful companion
to your unreliable promise of

life.
 
Poem by Sylvia Rosen.
 
Sylvia is an online writer who writes article reviews on the latest business technologies, home security services and health trends. In her downtime, Sylvia enjoys reading the latest mystery novel and writing poetry.
 
 

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Bio: My pen-name is Rowen Mahogany and I’m from Honduras. I love reading and writing. My favorite literature genre is definitely magic-fiction. I’m a big fan of the Harry Potter Series, Narnia Series, and the Twilight Saga.

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If you want editors to notice (and publish) your poetry, here are some ways you can get a competitive edge.

Avoid one-word titles. Or at least be sure your one-word title is amazing and unique. Titles like “Inspiration,” “Passion,” or “Remember” are easy to overlook because they don’t pack a punch.

Reject clichés. They say there are no new ideas, but you’ve got to write in a fresh, new way. To know if your writing is truly innovative, you’ve got to keep an eye on what other poets are up to. Read contemporary poetry. Lots of it. That’s the only way you’ll know where you stand in relation to your peers.

Short and sweet. Poems that are one page long seem to be the most popular among editors (who are often pressed for space in their literary magazines). Also, watch your margins. A poem that is too wide may not fit on the pages of literary journals.

Nix the rhyme. Rhyming poetry is difficult to publish. For that reason, we can’t even work with poets who primarily focus on rhyme. If you want to rhyme, please do. There are plenty of venues online and even a few print journals for rhyming poets. Just know that at many magazines, rhyme is not favored.

Build a strong bio. The better your bio, the more likely you’ll be well-received. Don’t be discouraged if you have no credentials. Start small and work your way up. If you get too frustrated doing it on your own, find an author’s submission service that can help.

Submit three to five poems per submission. Also, don’t submit more than ten pages total (5-8 pages is best). You don’t want to skimp or overwhelm editors with too many or too few poems.

Ronnie Smith is President of Writer’s Relief. Ronnie tells us “Writer’s Relief (est. 1994) is a highly recommended author’s submission service. We act as specialized advisors and industry-specific personal assistants to help creative writers navigate the ins and outs of publishing. Along with strategically targeting submissions to the best-suited markets, we provide professional manuscript preparation, formatting, proofreading, market research, and tracking. We are endorsed by many in the writing community, and our clients include established authors, celebrated poets, tenured professors, editors, and promising new writers.

Visit http://www.WritersRelief.com to learn how we can help you submit your creative writing to agents and editors. Our FREE Writers’ Newsflash offers useful articles and fun contests for writers of all levels. See you there!”

Enjoy that? You can read more from Ronnie at The Cuckleburr Times here.

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The Old Man and The Oak

There was an old man who lived in a wood
He wore his old boots and a cloak with no hood
His favorite thing was to rest by a tree
“We have lots in common,” he said,”you and me.”
“We’re both old and rugged, and own many years,
With lives full of happiness, loss and tears.”
The oak tree he lay on seemed to understand
He was very old, and so was the man
On the old oak did the man pass away
The place he was happiest, day after day.

- by Tyler Bagwell (age 11), July 4 2008.

We’re always happy to showcase the work of talented young writers like Tyler. Our visitors are of course free to leave a comment below on the piece and we greatly encourage that! – Kay.

Editor’s Note: To safeguard youngsters, their writings are posted by the admin and direct contact details are never shared. Any requests to make direct contact are to be sent via our Contact Us page to the admin. These will be passed along to the parents or guardians that gave permission for the work to be published. Thanks for understanding that the safety of our young writers is of paramount concern to us. )

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Hunkering down I pass under low ceilings
Turning sideways down the narrow aisle.
I wait as the woman in front of me rams and jams
Her last carry-on bag into the overhead compartment.
Moving on, I find my seat, halfway back on the port side.
“Ask for a window and they give you a wing,”
I chuckle to myself as I place my jacket overhead.

Taking my seat and buckling the belt
Cool air hisses through the vent above me;
A bit stale and smelling slightly of disinfectant.
The cabin is quiet yet noisy at the same time
Each sound amplified in the silence.
Electric motors whir from the bulkheads and floor
On again, off again from their secret places.
Muffled voices, almost whispers, can be heard:
Speaking to cell phones or the seat next to them.
The occasional cough or baby’s squeal breaks the silence.
The aircraft rocks now and then, to and fro
Thrown baggage moving the giant avian beast.

A change of pressure in my ears tells me the cabin is sealed
I open my mouth to find relief and look out the window.
“What a strange place for a hearse,” I think,
Sitting there on the tarmac with its back door open.
A shiny, gray casket is slid onto a wheeled bier
The handlers slow and deliberate in their movements.
It dawns on me that someone is making a last trip home
As they slowly move under the belly of the aircraft.
A final thud and the last compartment is closed.

Closed…. the word is ringing in my head now.

Closed…. many chapters in many lives have just closed.

My mind wanders in curiosity for a moment or two
At my brothers and sisters here with me today.
How many of them are leaving home for the first time?
Who, like the one in the cargo hold,
Is going home for good?
Some are just passing through, I guess.
Births, deaths, graduations and failures
Marriages, divorces, running to something or from it
New jobs, lost jobs, new loves, lost loves
Or just knocking about seeing new country.
All gathered briefly in this microcosm of humanity
In a common place with a common goal:
Simply to leave here and get there.

We begin to move away from the terminal
Headed for the runway and the sky.
I half listen to the spiel of the flight attendant
As she tells us all the things we will never need to know.
The sudden thrust of the engines hurls us down the runway
One final bump, as the wheels leave the ground, and we are airborne.
Cities, towns and countryside pass far below us.
As we ascend to cruising altitude,I descend into sleep.
My thoughts return to her as I drift away.

The sudden jolt of the wheels touching down
Startle me out of my slumber as I struggle to quickly place myself.
The roar of reversed engines slows the aircraft down.
We leave the runway and taxi toward the terminal.
Coming to a stop at the gate, people begin to shuffle about
Gathering their belongings for departure.
A hearse is backed into place on the tarmac
Its cargo somberly loaded before it drives away.
“Last one on, first one off,” I grin to myself
Looking at the crowded aisle before me.
“Maybe being dead ain’t so bad.”

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Mike Lawson is a freelance writer and entrepreneur. He is working on a novel and writes poetry as well. Learn more about his professional writing services at: Bluegrass Solutions.

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I am Captain of my ship,
the majestic ‘Destiny’.

Nautically she’s well equipped
and crewed for any sea.

She is well – turned by a rudder
designed by predilection.

A keel as strong as mighty oaks,
it was my own infliction.

Her mast against all winds won’t shudder.
(Truth, ’tis a contradiction!)

With sails as her canvas cloak,
the ‘Destiny’ traverses.

And, although I safe harbor seek,
at times there are reverses.

But, despite maelstroms and heavy seas,
I navigate undaunted.

I am the Captain of my ship.
Take heed – I flaunt it!

Major Dennis Copson is a retired US Marine and lives in Oceanside, CA where he is the Director of Sales and Marketing for Nature’s Big Bud Worm Castings and a freelance writer available for assignment. More information is available on his website at www.naturesbigbud.com and www.gogreenaid.com.

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My lover picked me roses
From her garden last Sunday morn,
Red blossoms in seductive poses
Nestled coyly amongst the thorns.

She vased them in a crimson arrangement
Displayed by the window in the sun.
Then I watched in naive estrangement
As my illusions came undone.

As those roses, I’d sung of love, heart crazed.
But I sang alone, remember?
What had been a raging blaze
Soon became a smoldering ember.

Red roses too soon wilt and die
Without love as their lullaby




Major Dennis Copson is a retired US Marine and lives in Oceanside, CA where he is the Director of Sales and Marketing for Nature’s Big Bud Worm Castings and a freelance writer available for assignment. More information is available on his website at www.naturesbigbud.com and www.gogreenaid.com.

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6. Gratitude vs Complaining

Her squirms of protest accompany
the morning alarm. Stumbling to the
community wash she takes on
Thumbs and Butternut, tenants
that send dogs scurrying into the
street, hitting themselves with
newspapers to discourage pursuit.

She once asked the ventriloquist next
door for a little relief from defective
life, so he put 13C on his lap and
gave it the timbre of high rent.

Here dirt cleans itself on passersby.
Pink neon glows, tries to bathe the
street, only to draw back–like
peers from an eight-grader oozing
with too much brain and forehead,
and zip on the varsity letter potential.

“Gwenda the good witch don’t come down here.
Never seen Sante or the April Bunny either. So wadaya spect?”
Slithers Billy Tooth, as he shakes down the naked cabby.

At Ninth and Elm she spots the soft-shell cockroach
that lives in the church basement.

On Hanover she stumbles over Ham Sandwich and
Pig in a Blanket, then they steal her lunch.

There is great commotion out back of Ratellas,
outside the kitchen: nobody wants to
give up their place in line to the new kid;
The one with two good fists,
fresh gauze and tape over his eyes.

There really is something she wants,
knows, needs . . .
She’d felt it watching one of those dopey shows,
(the people with half hour problems),
in the final minute when the dumb
remarkably see.
That light in their eyes . . .

that is to covet.

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Question Yourself. Trust only
What others say  about you
Johnny Beatific

Before sanctifying quantum mechanics
Evolution, your religion of choice,
Dismiss these opinions, place them
On the back burner and turn up the heat.
Anything that makes sense
Put in a folder marked Pending.
Withdraw all your money and give it
To the neighborhood prophet, the one
You run from screaming each day.

Ask your youngest about the latest on afterlife.
Get your dog his slippers and paper.
Not the Times! He’s got a pad on the
Pulse of a blue chip market.

When lunching in public, chew loudly, burp often.
Leave dinner for other functions.
For breakfast, give yourself a break.
When driving keep your eyes off the road.
When walking try your hands instead.
Open a door for the advantaged.
Tell the needy to do the same.

If at any point you find yourself
Laughing uncontrollably
Look for me.
I’m the one breaking bread
With Buddha, Groucho,
And Nietzsche the whimsical one.

Jeff is a Motivation, Self-Improvement, and Success expert and can be found at SelfGrowth.com. He has written 100′s of essays and articles; over 50 poems; and several books: At Amazon.com, you can find Black Body Radiation and the Ultraviolet Catastrophe, a novel to inspire young adults and the young at heart. For more inspiration, get his collection of poems, To Die at the Age of Man at Lulu dot com.  Coming soon: Give and Grow Yourself Rich (July, 2008); Education is a Waste of Time, (early 2009); and a children’s novella The Search for Adriana (late 2008). Currently, he teaches writing and owns Inner Projection, a self-improvement business.

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Fossil and root are stories that begin with the end,
exiled, ravaged of neglect, living in darkness.
Nevertheless, in the fossil
answers to the foundation
of civilization
boil and quake,
activity in still life.
And the root
without fanfare,
unseen,
the groundwork for being.

Our depth of meaning, understanding,
is gleaned of human experience,
combined layer upon layer.
Why does the pressure crush some?
While others produce eternal gems
of power and light.
Granted, we deal not in perfection
but those striving the hardest
look to build sapphires, rubies,
and then
seeds to root
to posterity’s delight.

And the vanquished, well,
their shame is not reveled in,
and at their request
the gem builders
exile their darkness
to unconditional light,
seed to root with ancient law,
a gentle guide for the vanquished,
if wisdom shows true ache to play.

With patience root will to fossil,
a radiant gem, aglow in the night

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When the words we say are just not enough,

When the emotions we feel are just too tough.

When we keep things from those we love,

When we bend the reality into something is not.

Who decides what is true and what is not?

If it isn’t right why then do we lie?

Do we protect our loved one more than we harm?

If it is easier to say the truth why then do we not?

If I could keep you forever… I should.

If I could make you forgive me… I would.

When it’s not in your hands where do you turn?

If it happened to you would you let it go?

If it tears us apart would you survive?

Make it all better you have done it before.

What’s the difference this time?

Is it because you’re on the other side?

Am I just not enough?

Tell me again will you or just show me this time.

~

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Changed Days Indeed is a little on the dark side with a twist in the tail. It’s hard to find a single answer when I’m asked what the poem’s about. It’s about how ancient relationships can still cast a shadow over us despite the passage of time and how easily unresolved emotions can be rekindled with something as simple as a glance. It’s about no matter how much a person changes or improves themselves in life, there’s always someone from their past unwilling to acknowledge that. I guess too that it demonstrates the saying ” the best revenge is a life well lived.”

Hope you like it – it was a different direction for me in my writing and a road I’d like to travel again.

Changed Days Indeed

The china teacup chatters unevenly against the saucer
As if seeking rescue from her tremulous fingers.
Aristocratic as ever, though gossamer thin now,
Her startling blue eyes still serve to divert the unwary
From discerning the spitefulness harbored beyond.

One caustic glance and I hurtle back three decades
To a time of white knuckles clutching a scarred desk,
My small frame attempting to concertina itself into invisibility
While offering skyward fervent soundless prayers…
Lord, oh Lord, please don’t let me be called upon today.

It’s doubtful that many remember when she was judge
And jury to all who passed through her domain.
White chalk gave voice in exquisitely crafted longhand
To an unfaltering belief in her superior command
Of both language and frightened children.

I wince inwardly at the memory of my parent’s crushed faces,
As my cheeks maddeningly flush scarlet with shame.
She had pronounced sentence upon me, and
It was all the more scathing in its casual delivery.
I was the ‘girl that would never amount to much’.

I relieve her gradually of the dancing teacup.
Placing the cold steel against her wheezing chest,
To my ears the gasps of shock are more like a final breath.
White knuckled with resistance, she contorts her wizened body defiantly.

Thrashing in a cloud of linen and lavender scent,
She prays wide-eyed to God that she will not be called upon today.
Changed days indeed, I murmur to myself…

And yet despite my white coat and stethoscope,
In her rheumy eyes I still am,
And always will be
The girl that would never amount to much.