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Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems

Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems A blog for
poets and writers. We are now accepting
submissions.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Birds
By My Window: Willow Tree Poems

Birds
By My Window: Willow Tree Poems

I work from inside my condominium,
self-employed, out on the balcony are flowers of many mixed colors, a birdfeeder
I replenish each day for doves and sparrows. Sixty feet away from my window is a
lush, huge, 33 year old willow tree, draped with branches leaning toward the
ground, flowing shades of green blowing left to right with the wind, through the
sun. I love this old willow tree and the scratching sounds of little bird feet
inside a large plastic bowl filled with birdseed on my patio balcony--almost as
dearly as my kitten, Nikki. Thus, the beginning of Birds By My Window: Willow
Tree Poems a new blog for poets and writers.

WHERE TO SEND SUBMISSIONS,
GUIDELINES, COPYRIGHT CONSIDERATIONS:
Send all submissions to: [email-masked]

I'm looking
for: short poetry including haiku and tanka, flash fiction, short non-fiction
with a social or political message (ie inadequate health coverage for 54 million
Americans), good short stories. Include a brief 3rd party bio of yourself--50
words or less, especially any previous publication credits and contact info. We
only accept e-mail or electronic submissions. Don't send attachments less they
are asked for. No snail mail-it will be ignored unless they are comments and
queries. Send no more than 4 poems at one time. The word "Submission" must be in
the subject line. Editor retains the right to make a few comments about each
selected poem, if you are selected, you chances of it being positive are good.
As a general rule we require "one time rights" (meaning we plan to publish and
use a poem "one time"). We also allow all rights to revert back to the writer
upon publication on our site, which means the writer can have his work back and
do with it as he wishes. If you need to remove a work for any reason, email us.
Simultaneous submissions are ok, if you tell us, and give credit to the
publisher (s); we are more interested in quality of work then if being original
per sa.

I would like to invite graphics, nature pictures, sketches
original art work to decorate the site with, send to same email address as
above. Art: no larger than 5" x 5" or so, keep it small, black and white, or
color, in jpeg/jpg or gif format, signed and dated, attached or embedded within
the email. In the beginning we will select works and post them as quality
provides them-and notify the authors when they are accepted.

Visit my
other website(s) rich with poems from talented authors at
(all open for
submission now):
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
All
are now accepting new submissions.

Visit my personal website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/

Michael
Lee Johnson, Author of:The Lost American: From Exile to
Freedomhttp://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7

Email:
[email-masked]
PO Box 486,
Itasca, IL 60143

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 9:27
AM Links
to this post

Photo
supplied By Carol A. Marcus, Photographer

I
call this photo: Poem in a Window. It writes a poem with picture.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 9:21
AM Links
to this post

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Up
in the Willow & Small Poems Below

Photo below
right, "Chappell Hill Window" was contributed by: Christopher Woods is the
author of a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY (Panther Creek Press), and a
collection of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK (Stone River Press). He
has been taking photographs for about a year. He lives in Houston and in
Chappell Hill, Texas, where this photo was taken.

Buoy Song

By Karen Kelsay

Beneath the pier, waves swirl in a color
of daiquiri ice
cream, a flavor I loved as a child;
gritty hands, still shivering after a
swim, wrap
around a brittle cone.
Gulls huddle on the mound, wind whips
against
tucked wings, while whimbrels poke their needle
beaks into
seaweed. We interlace fingers
and walk the promenade. Young boys
beat
plastic tubs and others sing. The afternoon
reminds you of England’s
overcast. We come here often,
shuffling in the same direction—toward
the
shell shop, Tony's bar and pearl store, pausing to watch
fishermen and their
families. At the pier's end,
we pluck afterthoughts from a graying sky,
perch
on the blue bench and listen to a buoy song.
In the distance we
imagine to find the tip
of Catalina, and wish we could fly.

Bio: Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who grew
up
near the Pacific and spent most of her childhood
weekends on a boat. She has
three children, two cats
and enjoys traveling. Her poems have been widely

published over the past few years.She is the
author of Collected Poems
and two chapbooks,
Forever in Avalon and A Fist of Roots,
published by
Puddinghouse Press.
http://www.karenkelsay.com

Editorial Comments: Lovely use of words, images and story
telling.

Cracked Open
By Jane Banning

They're
chipping away at me and none of the hard white parts are left. One by one,
they're breaking me down, tearing my soft yolk. I can't do this, I'm not
protected, but these damn small town people won't stop.

Each one has
their own ways. The banker, who knows the insides of peoples' pockets, their
secret selfish places and their wisdom, fixes her brown eyes on mine and asks,
"How's she doing today?" I am undone. I struggle with the heavy door. I stumble
and leave.

The pharmacist prepares the prescription and tells about his
own mother, shriveled from a stroke, incontinent, then asks, "How's she doing
today?" Doesn't he know, doesn't he know what that does to me?

The
librarian wears typical half-moon glasses. She looks over them as she gives me
the mindless magazines I check out. She touches my hand and says, "She's such a
nice lady" and has no idea that a sob is right there, thrusting against the
fissure she's wrenched open.

The nurse with her unsophisticated perm
says, "She had a good night and moved her bowels fine this morning. I washed her
up and she's ready for you." The nurse probably doesn't see that I am near
meltdown, cracking, ready to bleed from the kindnesses.

Mom is sitting
up in bed, eyes sparkling, cancer spreading, fresh coffee in hand. She asks,
"Did you talk to anybody today? What did they say?" I put my head down on her
bedside table.

They all come to her funeral. Each one gives me an
unpretentious sympathy card. I break completely open and they all come inside.

Bio: Jane Banning lives in Oregon, Wisconsin with her husband, son,
their bossy Jack Russell/Beagle, and a tarantula, Harry. Her work has been
published in Brava Magazine, University of Iowa's Daily Palette, and, soon, Six
Sentences.

Editorial Comment: I wish I had the ability to write short,
concise, flash fiction. In 300-400 words a story is told. Yes, there are gaps in
thought and movement but it adds to the imaginations ability to fill in the
holes with your own thought patterns. If a piece was perfect it would require no
effort on the reader. Here we move from stage to stage, part to part, similar,
yet different. Nice job Jane Banning.

Behind
Bars
After Stevie Smith's
"Parrot"
by Ruth Sabath
Rosenthal

Plucked from rainforest greenery,

the parrot was handed a fait accompli:
barred from flight, faced with
scenery
far from agreeable. In a dank cage, barely one

by one foot,
she withstood incarceration
for years, then snapped
in the throes of
raging self-pity,
pecked her downy skin bloody
and beyond molt, clawed
an eye out,

flung it to the dark hearth
in the rental on Central
Park South;
then, with a swell of her aching chest,
opened herself to
death.

Bio: See below

Editorial Comment: Ruth shows the not so
lovely treatment of God’s creatures. Unfortunately, this happens all to often in
our greed, self-centered world. The beauty of nature is there for us to see, but
the darker side, must be pointed out. As human being we Have the good and the
evil; through descriptions and narrative here is an attempt to point out the
evil for good to those of us who read, then choice to act.

Up in the Willow
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Up the willow the
boy climbed
terrified to come down time
after time to play for a terror

of a conductor (his father),
who's damnable orchestration
drummed
home fear of the baton.

The tree's hospitality of limb
and leaf, a
bastion to dream in.
Up there, the first notes of a concerto,
which
fiercely emblazoned
the pith of the willow,
were hummed by the boy. The
anthem,
as will-o'-the-wisp
as the tree that embraced him,
would
become his magnum opus.

Last night in Carnegie Hall,
perched in the
balcony, I witnessed
the fledgling maestro grow famous
overnight--the
audience enthralled
with his music, as were the critics.
And through my
binoculars I caught
some man rushing off before an onslaught
of admirers
rushed to the son that father had lost.

A Blesséd Work
of Art
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Oh Willow, gargantuan, your

easy nature and noble stature
a kinetic sculpture fine as any is.

Your thick trunk and dipping branches
graced with green
latticework, pure art
that swells my ever-gratified heart.

Beneath
your umbrella of swaying leaves
I catch rays of sun poking fun at me,

naturally, I laugh, bask in absolute glee.

Bio: Ruth Sabath
Rosenthal is a poet residing in NYC. She has been published in various journals.
On October 15th (Ruth's birthday) 2006, her poem "on yet another birthday" was
nominated for a Pushcart prize. For more about Ruth, visit her website: http://www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com/.

Editorial Comment: Ruth’s merits stand on their own. Here style is
different than mine. Her poems are crafted with meticulous care; my poems tend
to be loosely, story written with hunks of imagery hammered in. Variations in
style expands the writing abilities of us all. Sorry Ruth, for losing your poems
the 1st time around. Here is one poem that talks about a willow tree with a very
real story behind it; and another that's about a willow tree that reflects its
natural beauty.

Tanka and Haiku Poems

by Kristen Howe

Seagulls soaring high
in the sky
with the white clouds,
gliding down to the lake-
now swimming the waves

to get wet from a hot day.

a dozen red roses
in a new vase-

apology accepted.

harvest moon
shines extra bright-

highlights wheat field.

Bio: Kristen Howe, originally
from New Jersey, now Ohio. Kristen's poetry has appeared in journals in the U.S.
and U.K. for 2005-present: Fullosia Press, The Funny Paper, Pink Chameleon
Online, Poetic Hours, Languageandculture.net, Illogical Muse, The Shepherd,
Westward Quarterly, Purple Dream, Sage of Consciousness, Down in the Dirt, and
others.

Editorial
Comments: Kristen has a real skill at brevity; to capture the
moment, to offer a “twist” and a pleasant surprise¾ like all good poets, she see
the common place with a slant and a different view of the eye.

My
Father in the Burning Wood
By Dr. Steve Klepetar

Trees and brush
ablaze, smoke
pouring out between branches
agonized in wind, a furnace
roar

crashing in this empty place.
All night my father rides flames,

green eyes glowing in circus dark.

I have found him here in
consuming
tongue and orange teeth, choking
breath rubbing charred shapes

hard against sky. When I turn
to read his face, he blurs into fog,

white beard sizzling like a fist

of snow tossed on fire, less scream

than murmuring gurgle of pain.
He comes to me in dreams, electric

in a night of sullen sounds, brands his
name on the flesh of my
upper arm,
kiss burning like salt or bitter chill of ice.

Bio:
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in
Minnesota. His work has appeared in many journals and has received Pushcart
Prize and Best of the Web nominations.

Editorial Comments: Steve tells
an outlined story with images. Sometimes we don’t always see images as concrete,
we sometimes may even feel they lead us into a sense of fog, of wonder. We stop,
we think, we try to connect our visions with the author, it is part of the fun
of reading and writing poetry. Are you left with “just” and emotional response?
Good, that is the # one criteria for a good poem.

The Tattoo Bride

By Jan Marin Tramontano

It was hard not to look at the tattoos

on the tall muscular woman
a football tight end
now all girlie
walking down the aisle
her silk strapless gown
accessories borrowed and
blue
showcase a snake across her upper back
a Boston Red Socks logo on
her arm
the smallest bit of a heart peaking out
from the top of beaded
bodice.
I wanted to see something in those images
I was fascinated by
her--
and by him - the waiting groom
his bride covered in art

lumbering down the aisle
watching him watch her
I waited to see The
Look
the smile that said
wow, I’m lucky
you are beautiful and I love
you
it isn’t just about our son
But he just stood there
as he would
waiting in the checkout line.
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of
creatures
I don’t recognize or understand
he wears his history as she
wears hers
giving them an edge
monsters and heroes etched into their
flesh
are skin deep
unlike mine that stay submerged
for just so long
.

Squid Boats in the Gulf of Siam
By Jan Marin Tramontano

there is no horizon
squid boats skim dark waters

without
stars or moon to guide them
the blackness is complete

fishermen
shoot rockets
flashes of fire erupt to light their way

through
stagnant air, they ease
their boats by degrees

with faith
they
glide past others on the night sea.

Bio:
Jan Marin Tramontano's
poems and stories have appeared in: Poets Canvas, Women’s Synergy, Byline,
Knock, Chronogram, American Intercultural Magazine, New Verse News, Mom’s
Literary Magazine, Ophelia’s Mom, and Surviving Ophelia. She has also written a
poetry chapbook, Floating Islands, her father’s memoir, I am a Fortunate Man,
and is working on her first novel. She is a contributor to the Times Union’s
Book Section.

Editorial Comments: This is talented lady. I like the
contrast between the 1st poem, so unusual; and, the 2nd poem that takes one to a
mystical place leaving you with a misty image of wonder.

Beyond Fall

By Tracee Coleman

in deepest green, the river
for giving finds
its way

yonder winding into salt
of swollen bellies perhaps

up into clouds of yesterday

when never means nothing
per
chance wind either way

searching the bending
happening is now, and
you

a rain drop

She Likes Pretending
By Tracee
Coleman

to be a frog of all things
hopping and croaking
as
children will do

She wobbles on a lily pad
giggling about the river

shaking a tight rope below

"Mommy?"

All balanced
her
tiny black eyes
grow serious as science

"Do you think tadpole eggs

open and close over and over
like that shutter in a lens?"

They
look at us that way.

Bio: Tracee Coleman is a "hopelessly addicted
poetry lover" who
spends much of her free time editing alittlepoetry.com, an
online poetry e-zine. Above poetry, she considers the blessing of a beautiful
young daughter to be her most precious source of joy and inspiration. Her work
appears in various journals internationally in print and online venues such as
"Other Voices International", "The Argotist Online", "Ken*Again", and "Great
Works".

Editorial Comments: Sometime simplicity is the best poem
(s). There are two wonderful examples of simple events in our life that are so
meaninful expressed through a modicum of imagery.

Choosing Basic
Needs
By Richard Webber

Trembling in the cold,
old so alone.

Wind bitter from the
harsh winter night
pours through cracks.

Tormenting the figure
huddled beneath a worn
gray blanket, stories

of its own.
Forced to a choice
basic of all needs.
Today food
had won,
for the moment,
yet ignored pains
grumbled, a companion

known well.
Pennies, nickels a dime
or two banked in
cookie jars
of times
where frugal was need.
Prescriptions stole wrinkled
dollars
long since
turned to half moons,
just to afford life.
Drawn tight
with
shaking hands the
blanket closed, a
curtain from the cold.

Another night of many,
choosing basic needs.

Bio: Richard Webber
lives in Maine. He works in the construction field. His poetry is an expression
as to what he sees.

Editorial Comments: I like simple, life events, that
roll like this.

The Tattoo Bride
By Jan Marin Tramontano

It was hard not to look at the tattoos
on the tall muscular woman

a football tight end
now all girlie walking down the aisle
her silk
strapless gown
accessories borrowed and blue
showcase a snake across her
upper back
a Boston Red Socks logo on her arm
the smallest bit of a
heart peaking out
from the top of beaded bodice.
I wanted to see
something in those images
I was fascinated by her--
and by him - the
waiting groom
his bride covered in art
lumbering down the aisle

watching him watch her
I waited to see The Look
the smile that said

wow, I’m lucky
you are beautiful and I love you
it isn’t just about
our son
But he just stood there
as he would waiting in the checkout
line.
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of creatures
I don’t
recognize or understand
he wears his history as she wears hers
giving
them an edge
monsters and heroes etched into their flesh
are skin deep

unlike mine that stay submerged
for just so long.

Bio: Jan Marin
Tramontano's poems and stories have appeared in: Poets Canvas, Women’s Synergy,
Byline, Knock, Chronogram, American Intercultural Magazine, New Verse News,
Mom’s Literary Magazine, Ophelia’s Mom, and Surviving Ophelia. She has also
written a poetry chapbook, Floating Islands, her father’s memoir, I am a
Fortunate Man, and is working on her first novel. She is a contributor to the
Times Union’s Book Section.

Editorial Comment: I love the contrasting
images so colorful and unusual.

BETWEEN SISTERS
by
Elizabeth Kurecka

I spotted a nest in the chinaberry tree this
morning
as I looked outside my kitchen window and I thought of you.

Look, it must belong to that majestic flamed Cardinal,
I said, pointing
to a limb of the nearby elm where he sat
a wing's span from attack, if
needed, to protect his young,
forgetting for a moment that you weren't here
to see.

Sadden, I returned to my newspaper and cup of coffee,

remembering another morning long ago, when we sat,
together, in a
different kitchen, a different backyard and
watched in awe as two brown
wrens took turns feeding outstretched
mouths that squirmed and wiggled like
little worms
from the weathered bird house hanging outside my window.

See, we said sighing, a parent's job is never done.

Then there was
that one hot lazy summer afternoon,
that we spent together laughing at a
greedy blue jay,
flying low from the weight of a stolen wad of tissues

he carried and the diving squad of wrens chasing him.
We cheered as he
dropped his heavy load and
flew away defeated while a dozen or so split up
his treasure.
See, we said smiling, greed never pays.

I heard the
cardinal sound the alarm, sharp and shrill.
Danger is near, perhaps an
approaching black, slinking panther
and I ran back to the window in time to
see the cat's retreat.
The nest is safe and the eggs will soon hatch new
life.
I think about getting the camera, taking a picture or two
each day
to send to you, but some how it's not the same.
See, I never knew how much I
missed you.

Bio: Elizabeth wrote the following poem in honor of a
sister-in-law who she consider her Soul Sister. She has had short fiction
published in Concho River Review, Thema, and Broomstick. Her creative nonfiction
pieces have been published in Beyond 50, Amarillo Bay and Under The Clock Tower.
Her most recent accomplishment is having two pieces accepted for the first
Silver Boomers anthology.

Editorial Comments: Elizabeth shows a
wonderful blend and constrast between nature, private thoughts of communal
relations, and the haunting
realities of loss. Nature brings back the
memories and then the
thought associations.

The Reading
by
Cathy Buburuz

Undeniable instinct
guides a gnarled hand
to
reveal secrets
of the true tarot;

Soft scents mingle:
blackened
candle wax
flesh of ripe fruit
jasmine incense;

Revealed stark
naked:
intense memories
of tragedies long past,
a future damned;

Grief and torment...
a history painted in pain
the deadly
promise
of more of the same.

Pieces of silver
in an open palm

and tides of torment
to seal the deal.

Lahnee Chee’s Orange
Orchard on Mars
by Cathy Buburuz

Lahnee Chee
child of moon and
sea
pearl of her father’s eye
gave birth to an orchard
born of
precious seeds
from a single Mandarin orange
brought from the homeland
afar,
dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red

nutriment-kissed in scarlet dust groves
that saved and sustained the new
nation…
a childhood whim turned to gold.

When she passed
at one
hundred and three
all who mourned her
knew what to do
though she’d
left no will,
no specific instructions;
In a pearl laden box
they
placed her ashes,
in a scarlet dust orchard
buried deep with love,

beneath dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red.

(First published in the July 2007 issue of The Martian Wave)

Bio: Cathy Buburuz lives on the Saskatchewan prairie where she edits
Champagne Shivers, Expressions, and the Potter's Field anthologies for Sam's Dot
publishing in Iowa. She invites you to visit one of the many online stores that
sell her fantasty art on products, especially since it's free to window shop:

http://www.ellenmilliongraphics.com/fantasyart/emgproduct.php?id=131

http://www.cafepress.com/cp/store.aspx?s=cathybuburuz

http://catherine_buburuz.tripod.com/cathybuburuzschampagneonice/id9.html

Editorial Comments: This is one extra ordinary lady. Not just a soft
pedal from a Canadian prairie province. She is special, very special! The
Reading-I love the private meeting of the spirit with the devil, the blend of
cards, the black candles, the scents surrounding the room, the use of the word
"gnarled" symbolizing the event, the beginning, the promise of the end in a pack
of 72 cards.

In Lahnee-I love the mysticism, the journey from a Asian
land to an orchard, the giving and the taking away of life, the remains, the
love of the spirit
reflected in the burial. The "blush" of colors reflecting
a memory lasting forever in it's own time.

This is truly a wonderful
poet, who thinks her poetry is secondary. Let's challenge that notion.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 9:51
PM Links
to this post

Labels:
Not Every Tree is a Willow Tree

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Late
Night Motel
Andrew Crane

Thirty dollars a night
no air
conditioning
I lay half naked on the bed--
single bed in the middle
under
the single hanging light bulb,
towels underneath me,
I dare not
to touch the covers.
I scatter my clothes on the floor,
they’re dirty
anyway
I remind myself, shake them free
of whatever is crawling through
them
turn the light off, so I don’t have to see
walls painted
grey
paint flaking here, there,
collecting on the bare
floorboards
where my clothes collect dust mites
I can start to feel them
crawl
possibly, underneath my skin.
I scratch and scratch with out
relief
what is happening to me?
My skin is pink and raw
pain, the
only relief from the itching.

I can hear the sounds through the
walls
snoring, coughing, crying.
the low murmurs of people making
love,
or are they just fucking their way into happiness,
with a stranger
that they met,
on the street corner,
across from the motel,
Road House
singing outside,
a fight in the parking lot.
An airplane soaring
overhead,
landing in the nearby airport,
passengers oblivious of the
degenerate nature of this city.
You are sleeping on top of the covers?
But
I can't sleep.
The cockroaches are scratching down the walls,
pulling down
the remainder of the paint.
It falls to the floor as they scatter.
The sun
is finally starting to come up.

Bio: Andrew Craner resides in the small
village of Greyabbey, Northern Ireland; he is originally fron Ontario, Canada,
but moved to Ireland 11 years ago to be with partner Julie. He has been recently
been published in 'A Hudson View Poetry Digest' and 'SpingingS... intense tales
of life.' and in the up coming Christmas edition of 'Delivered'. He is also
member of the writing group 'Ards Writers'. He has a number of poems and short
stories posted on http://Writing.Com/authors/cranemillican.

Editorial
Comments: Here is a real to life poem that
takes us to many places in our
young lives some of which
we wished we could have avoided-but this poem adds
craft
to the unsettling surrounds.

Crab
Apples
By Amber Rothrock

Ankles twist,
tripping over
fallen
crab apples
rotting in the heat,
infested with flies.
The apples
that is.

Sitting on the bench
mourning
the lack of broken bones.

No reason
to stay home from school.

Mother’s only advice
is
to pick up your feet.
But it would be
more feasible
to cut down the
damn tree.
Nobody
eats crab apples anyway.

Bio: Amber Rothrock is
a talented lady and editor of
Illogical Muse:
http://www.geocities.com/illogicalmuse/
soon to go to print as well as
online.

Editorial Comment: I love poems like this one, you can feel your
toes
squeeze between the crap apples. The scent, the aggravation, the fall
ritual,
the loveliness of southwestern Michigan. The poem is just
real.

Merton
By Shirley Dunn Perry

Merton rarely
speaks
except with his fingers
on the guitar, accordion
and church
organ on Sunday mornings.

Merton doesn't chat
about weather, politics,
or poems
because his words are marbled
a mumble of muffled
sounds.

He was born with his top lip and palate cracked open by God or
bad luck
only his family could understand him some of the
time.

Merton, stooped by wordlessness
soul drawn tight into concentric
circles like tree rings
harnesses Bess, the old mare
and heads down the
logging road.

It's spring
wild cherry blossoms
white in flight fall
on the road
a cloud of mosquitoes
buzzing and biting
each bite
reminding him
that he belongs on the farm
the one to stay
tending
parents, gardens, and animals.

Merton stops to listen
to the
White-throated Sparrow--
sun warm on his shoulders
one hand on the
reins
the other in his pocket
fingering a newspaper clipping
with the
name and address
of an oral surgeon in Halifax.

First published in
Oregon East, Volume XXXVII, 2006

Bio: Shirley Dunn Perry has had a few
poems published and
presently lives in Tucson Arizona. When she is not
writing
she is a nurse.

Editorial Comment: I love poems like this, my
only regret
is I didn't write it. They follow a pattern similar to my own
writings
with a story, rich in with imagery that touches the heart and
imagination.
I look foward to more poem by Shirley in the near future.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 7:29
PM Links to
this post

Poems
by: Taylor Graham

LATE INTO THE NIGHT

[ for Elihu Burritt, the Learned
Blacksmith]

It’s past my bedtime. I turned the lamp out
an hour ago.
Outside, not even the call
of the owl. Still, you keep turning in my
mind,
you won’t let me sleep.

I think of you, head bent to your
lantern-light
of languages, sailing the ship of geography
under so many
stars. Application
or Genius, Elihu? What bird or angel-muse

sang in
your ear so late into the night?
Sleepless, I need to make you
a poem. You
keep whisper-prodding
in my ear to try just a little harder.

UP
HERE IN THE MOUNTAINS

Late summer. An oak leaf falls
still green as a
shamrock.
No, it’s pocked and splotched
with shades of mold or
rot,
melanoma, leprosy. Ozone
does that, they say, scientists
who know
the secret ills
of trees, how man’s errors
write their wrongs on
leaves.
No luck of the shamrock
in this green.

Bio: I’m a
volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler. My poems have appeared in
The Iowa
Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, Southern
Humanities
Review, and elsewhere, and I’m included in the anthology,
California Poetry:
From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara
University,
2004).

Editorial Comment: I have to spend alot of time pissing around in
a dictionary and
thesaurus to understand your poetry try to be as good with
simpler
language. I don't like to work. I'm just a dummy here.
Congrats-to
a very talented poet.

BECAUSE I WAS OBSTINATE LAST FRIDAY
By Ashok
Niyogi

they’re not for me
these girls with fashionable
breasts
already under strain
of school going children

not
mine
those toes
with painted nails
hopefully slipping
from heeled
sandals
onto asphalt road

where pebbles meander
under police
stare
monitored by media glare

engineering
is what meditation
whispers
into shirt shoulders
that the tailor has narrowed

assuming
a certain
individuality

a refreshing
intellectual unnerving
with
the unfolding
of a ladybird’s
most colorful wing
in an optimistic
winter sun

Bio: Ashok Niyogi is an Economics graduate from
PresidencyCollege, Calcutta, India.
He now lives in California. He has
published a book of poems, TENTATIVELY, [ISBN :0-595-33935-2] and has been
extensively published inprint and on-line magazines and in Chapbook form inthe
USA, UK, Australia, India and Canada.

Editorial Comment: I enjoy
diversity of culture and the way it interacts with poetry.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 6:47
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to this post

Monday, October 29, 2007

Outside
My Window Natural Therapy is My Healer

Attention: Publishers and Editors, and all
others. If you need apparel (tee shirts, caps, jackets, uniforms,sweat shirts,
etc) custom imprinted with you sites logo or name be sure to visit Michael Lee
Johnson business website(s):

http://www.promoman.us/
http://www.promowear.us/

We also so a full
line of advertising specialties ie mugs, cups, calendars with your site or
company logo on them. Anything that needs to be custom imprinted on an item is
what we do. Special rates for publishers and authors.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 1:16
PM Links
to this post

Willow
Tree Poem
By Michael Lee Johnson
Editor and Author

Wind
dancers
dancing to the
willow wind,
leaves swaying
right to
left
all day long.
I’m depressed.
Birds hanging on-
bleaching
feathers
out into
the sun.

-2006-

On
Time by Phillip A. Ellis

No yachts, here, passing,
a
hundred, more or less,
or like a golden undertow,
the suckle of the ocean
wave

that simmers back against the beach
within a form of foaming
web
of white. No, time is like the passing grey-
tinged green of
eucalypts, their grey bark

delicate pastel shades. The hill
is sloping
southwards and down, an ah
of finely packed trees, passing eastwards
as I
pass to the west.

This is no westwards travel, to another
California,
awaiting us with
a form of gold rush optimism. No,
this is a west of
night, and the gone.

Editorial Comments: This is by far my favorite poem
I have seen to date. It touches me deeply and I'm honored to be the first to
publish this poem. Not only do we have a craftsman skill we have the imagery of
an angel. I love the way Phillip ties his craft, his images to his homeland,
Australia, the native eucalypts. The movement in the poem could be seen as
abrupt, I think it fantastic as waves in an ocean current, sea hoped and linked
well to us all. It is my honor to show you the merits of this author. Michael
Lee Johnson.

THREE BIRDS
by Luis Cuauhtemoc
Berriozabal

Three birds
on the wire.

The sun
explodes
in
the distance

BIRDS SING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
by Luis Cuauhtemoc
Berriozabal

Resting
a bad back,
birds sing
outside my

window.
Just one
sudden move
and I
scream in pain

drowning
out the songs
of the
birds. It takes
some time

for the
pain to stop.
I stay
in my bed
hoping
to hear
the
birds sing
me to sleep
and dream.

Author Bio: Luis is
from West Covina, CA. "I often marvel at birds, their song, how they dart from
the pepper tree in out backyard to other destinations. I like the name of the
blog. My poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review,Chrysanthemum, and
Iodine."

Editor Comments: The poems are simple,but lovely and fit the
spirit and theme of this site. Luis, can I related to the back spasms, one move
wrong and terrible pain-comes and goes.

Posted by Michael Lee Johnson
at 1:03
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to this post

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About The Editor, Publisher, Poet

Michael Lee Johnson

Itasca, Illinois, United States

Bio Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance
writer from Itasca, Illinois. Michael Lee Johnson’s brand new poetry chapbook,
From Which Place the Morning Rises and his new version of The Lost American:
From Exile to Freedom (both with many picture illustrations) is now available
at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. He is also the author of the full
volume poetry book, The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, which may be
purchased at:
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Michael Lee Johnson's poetry books are now available on Amazon.com:
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He has been published in 22 different countries. Michael Lee Johnson has been
published in more than 380 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of
poems are available on request. Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/
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Wizards in the Wind &
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Poems on the Edge and Other Rough Spots

INSTRUCTIONS IN CASE OF...
by Marie Delgado
Travis

You asked me sweetly once
not to die without telling
you
where I'm going.
But I only want to go
where you go, my
heaven.
We have to agree, then
whether to behave
or to be
naughty.
And no matter
which of the two
goes first,
we should
follow
these instructions:
Don't forget to sprinkle
bread
crumbs
along the path
--for the other to follow
and feel
secure--
with a little note
to the birds:
"Please do not eat."
They
understand
what it is to love.
Ah ... and the last to arrive:
please
turn off the lights.

THE LITTLE CAGED BIRD
by Marie Delgado
Travis

There was a little bird
who lived a bit snugly,
but
otherwise
comfortably, in a
pretty golden cage.

No one ever told
her
she couldn't leave.
She thought, happily,
that all little
birds
lived that way.

One sunny day,
just a shade cloudy,
there
came to
her little window
a free and
adventurous
sea gull--
quite
dashing,
naturally--
and he filled
her tiny head
with wild
ideas
about the seas
and the sky.

He invited her to take
her
first flight with him.

The poor little bird
tried and tried...
But
didn't know that
when her owner
locked her up,
it was forever,
until
death.

What rotten luck!
Because her master,
blind and
deaf,
couldn't see her.
He didn't even
hear her song.

From LA
VENTANA / THE WINDOW.

MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning author.
She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Visit her web site at http://www.mariedelgadotravis.com/

Editorial
Comments: Marie is not only an outstanding poet, she is a supreme human being.
She reaches out to others with helpful comments, suggestions, and the heart of
an earthly angel. If all writers and editors were of this caliber, the world
would revolve without too many issues. Michael Lee Johnson

Wild Dark Love
Song
By Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Her man,
A wild dark love
song.
Borne deep within her gypsy soul.
He's gone to live in jagged
mountains,
Where salmon jump and sing,
In tarnsHigh above
The cloud
lines
Beyond the silver moon.
In the shadow of the Cader Idris
In misty
mountains,
Where meadowlarks are known to wing,
And wild geese
fly,
Across the winter sky.
He's gone to live in snow capped
mountains
Where frozen voices echo,
Across the frosty fields,
Across
the icy meadow,
Languidly, across the frigid lea,
Then back again.
He's
gone to her forever.
This wild dark love song,
Her man.

For Richard
Sylbert1928-2003

Tiny Warrior
By Sharmagne Leland-St.
John

You never saw the spring my love
Or the red tailed hawk circling
high above
On feathered wings my love
You only knew the snow
You never
saw the prairie grasses bend and blow
And undulate like the shimmering indigo
sea
You never saw me
Your eyes were closed so tight
They say you put up
quite a fight
Somehow your life was over before it had begun and
Gently
did I touch and kiss your tiny-fingered hand
Born too soon
You never saw
the silver moon
Or the light of a summer's day
Last night I dreamt a
gathering of eagles
Had come To spirit you away
Born too soon
Your
tender heart
Could not beat
To the pulsing rhythm
Of life's taut
drum.

Nikolai 1982-1983

Bio: Sharmagne Leland-St. John, 2007
Pushcart Prize nominee, is a Native American poet, concert performer, lyricist,
artist, and film maker. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the poetry e-zine Quill
and Parchment.com. Barnes and Noble reviews:Unsung
Songs, Sharmagne Leland-St. John-Sylbert, Book - Barnes & NobleSilver
Tears and Time, Sharmagne Leland-St. John, Book - Barnes &
Noble

Editorial Comment: I love native American Poets, primarily
because their life is story, expressed in verse of a natural and ground rooted
reality with an earthly spirituality. Many of my own poems are story poems with
a spiritual twist, but add the native part and it becomes home
grown.

Judas, all too Judas
By Phillip A. Ellis

If I could
live outside myself,
without my head, without my flesh,
I doubt I'd meet
another man
more deserving of obscurity.

No righteous anger could
redeem my soul,
no measure of human mercy rained
could salve a conscience
compromised
by four decades of domination.

No amount of mercy could
wash away
my youthful follies still committed,
or drown the pain, panic
and fear
that litter my life, my head, my flesh.

If I could live
without myself,
would despair still be an issue?
Would I have the strength
to talk,
or sell myself to silence?

BIO: Phillip A. Ellis is an
external student studying English Honours at the University of New England.
Collections of his poetry will be published by Hippocampus Press, and Gothic
Press. He is the editor of AustralianReader.com
(http://australianreader.com/index.php), and Similax
(http://similax-poetry.blogspot.com/), as well as having a webpage at http://www.geocities.com/phillipellis01/

Editorial
Comment: It takes skill to feel your insides, and crawl out and watch yourself
from the outside, and wonder; how it feels to be inside your own skin and
outside it at nearly the same time. We also have an extended metaphor drawing a
likeness to a well known similar situation from Biblical times. Philip A. Ellis
is not only a talented poet, he is a personal friend.

Quagmire
By
Troy Reinagle

When it rains
the world is an old tintype
and I'm
walking down
wet streets that look
like long shots from
some black and
white movie,
wondering if the sum
of all the days behind
is greater
than
the sum of the days remaining
and if those days
were worth
all
this present gray.
It's a bleak little quagmire
I've found myself
in I know,
but these tintype streets
have to lead somewhere,
the real
question is
if there's time enough to find out where.

The Last
Time
By Troy Reinagle

Wasn't the final time,
but it wasn't far
behind
on a country road fueled by
cocaine and Guinness on a
St Patty's
day bender
at a hundred twenty miles an hour
to the place where I
was
scattered from the ashes
of a tin can
hit by a
lawnmower
spitting gravel and antifreeze
from a broken radiator
at the
site of my lowly rebirth
that night,
or that morning
the scars were
like stars across my body
from the tears of broken glass
and the dust of
the airbag and gravel
were all I could taste.

Found Out
By Troy
Reinagle

Once again I
find myself here
drunk at eight in the
morning
in the only place that
serves booze this early.
I'm sitting
next to my best friend
whom I've never met before
waxing philosophic
about
life God sex death
and the last sad days of
Jack Kerouac
and
as long as the bartender
keeps bringing them I'll
keep sitting here so I
won't
have to worry about the
cold hard world and where I
stand with
the Cosmic We.
Suddenly I remember,
I've never been to Paris,
and
probably never will;
and just then,
the cold hard world
comes walking
through the door
and takes the stool
next to me.

Bio: Troy Reinagle
is 31, and lives in a small dot on the map of Illinois called Piper City. He was
a barroom laureate for many years, until the muse left him for being a
neglectful drunk. He has been sober for three years, and has been trying to
reconcile with her. He received third prize in the John A. Logan College poetry
contest in 1998, but was not published.

Editorial Comment: Troy may be
new at the publishing industry, but I’m convinced he has the internals that make
a poet possible: life experience, hard times, spiritual faith, and a talent for
story expression that comes from the heart. I must admit to some editing
here.

Spring
By Linda Benninghoff

water at lakeside
lapping
a flock of geese flaps by
underside of wings white flecked with
brown
long black necks outstretched.
I remember the spring
came
shouting
tiny green leaves
I am not deaf to it
each tree springs
the
sap bulging
red.

Bio: Linda Benninghoff has published two chapbooks of
poetry and translated The Seafarer from Old English; the translation appears at
http://www.electrato.com/.

Editorial
Comments: I like the tightness of this poem, the reality of it and the ascetics
of it.

GOING TO WORK ON
By Kenneth Pobo

a Saturday, I’m playing
a CD
by Jack Blanchard & Misty Morgan
so I won’t run the car
in a
ditch, providing an excuse
not to go in, grin, in a suit,
a wool
cockroach. They sing
There Must Be More To Life
Than Growing Old. Really?
Some
don’t get old, die in a needle
or heads shot off in a classroom.
Others
hang on, hang on, complaining
about blacks, taxes, and people who
say
“Goddamn America!” Middle-aged,
in an Escort passing K-Mart,
I
check the mirror at each stoplight,
push my fingers to my lips,
force a
smile.

Bio: Kenneth Pobo has a new book of poems forthcoming this year
from WordTech Press called Glass Garden. His work can be read online at: 2River
View, Forpoetry.com, Pemmican, Adirondack Review, and elsewhere. He teaches
Creative Writing and English at Widener University. Catch his radio show,
“Obscure Oldies,” on Saturdays from
6-8pm EST at WDNR.com.

Birds
Outside My Window
By, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Even in the
rain
late at night
I hear the birds
sing outside
my window.
I
wonder if they
feel cold as
I hear their song
from under
three
blankets.

Bio: His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by
Pygmy Forest Press. Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.
His chapbooks, Keepers Of Silence and Without Peace were published in 2007 by
Kendra Steiner Editions.

Editorial Comments: I like simplicity. Here is a
simple, natural poem that stays focused on one topic and completes it with a
lovely overall image. Thank you, Luis.

Mornings
By Cheri
Fry

Warbling~the waking call of sparrows in flight
turn on my vision
until I can see something~
of course,
coffee helps
the good black kind
that smacks of bitter bean
and slowly my senses come together in a kind of
puzzle that makes sense
I hear you speak
about some news reporter who got
his facts wrong live on TV
and although it was live
I am thinking to
myself that I've felt
well, not alive, that's for certain....
Getting into
the car was a chore-never mind the drive to work-
always fraught with
disparaging remarks about stopping at stop signs and going
at green
lights-
I just don't really do mornings, I think to myself
and that
includes
taking the dog out.

Bio: Cheri Fry - I lives in Vancouver
British Columbia, Canada and has been writing poetry off and on for a number of
years.

Editorial Comments: Cheri Fry is a talented young lady; even
though she makes me use the dictionary way too often with some of her clever,
semi-unknown words. I love her imagery, the way it moves a bit disjointed from
one to the other but connected with a thread of the believable.

The Glass
Elevator
by Michael Levy

He loved to ride
the glass elevator
up
44 floors
watching
as people slowly
changed into ants
dwelling on
high
in heavenly
delusions of grandeur
praying to time
the great
tick-taker
to hold off
death from
cutting the
cable
************

Oscars for Shadows
by Michael
Levy

Serious lives pass-by, mostly unnoticed,
occasionally, there may
be a soiree
on the terrace of ambitions,
friends and family
will
applaud and cheer, feed the ego,
for a few irresistible moments,
but, on
the whole,
a life will sail past, furbished in hush,
nobody will notice
its golden interior,
illuminated in elegant ingenious creativity,
time
expires in modest silence,
a few vivid shadows may
be vocalized
in
lament,
as the picture book pages turn.
************

Bio:
International radio host Michael Levy, is the author of eight inspirational
books. Michael's poetry and essays now grace many web sites, newspapers,
journals and magazines throughout the world. He is a prominent speaker on health
maintenance, stress eradication, wealth development, authentic happiness and
inspirational poetry. His new book-The Inspiring Story of Little Goody Two Shoes
- is available at all good book stores and Michael's web site: http://www.pointoflife.com/

Editorial
Comments: Michael is a diverse stylistic writer. I requested him to send story
poems and he responded with two excellent poems. The imagery is stunning in
both. This is a reflection of the depth and diversity of this talented
author.

Not All Trees Are Willow Trees

But All Good Trees Are Willow
Trees!

Looking For Custom Imprinted Apparel, Tee-Shirts, Advertising
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Tee-shirts?

Attention: Publishers and Editors, and all others. If you
need apparel (tee shirts, caps, jackets, uniforms, sweat shirts, etc) custom
imprinted with you sites logo or name be sure to visit Michael Lee Johnson
business website(s):
http://www.promoman.us/
http://www.promowear.us/
http://advantagemarketing.blogspot.com/

We
also so a full line of advertising specialties i.e. mugs, cups, calendars with
your site or company logo on them. Anything that needs to be custom imprinted on
an item is what we do. Special rates for publishers and authors.

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