Poets of Winter
JOSEPHINE SCHININÁ LISSANDRELLO
TWILIGHT
It is Winter and the flowers of my Spring are gone.
Softly falling snow covers all I see.
All is still, my heart is quiet like the night.
Thoughts try blooming in my brain,
but like the Winter put to rest.
Stolen memories, flashing lights, coming,
going, leaving loneliness.
How do you plant the seed of life when
the twilight of your years has come?
#
HIDE AND SEEK
I love to hide inside my home
on winter days,
lounging on my favorite chair
with a cup of English tea,
listening to Mozart or Grieg
while reading about romance
or mystery.
If I hear a tap-tap at my door
I remain hiding still,
quietly ensconced
in my peaceful cocoon,
If the tapper returns
She'll find me soon,
I cannot hide forever.
#
JOAN'S SILENCE
Once she had a voice, she laughed,
she sang.
Later she could only hum whatever
came to mind.
Now she sits quiet, voiceless.
Knowing, loving...............gone.
#
© 2006 by Josephine Schininà Lissandrello
Josephine Schininá Lissandrello was born in Manhattan on June 24, 1939. She is the daughter of immigrant parents, Nunzio and Maria, who came to New York City from Ragusa, Sicily. Josephine met and married Vincenzo Lissandrello, a physician, in Ragusa. They had three children, Maria, John and Nunzio, who were raised in Teaneck, New Jersey. A widow since January 1997, she is still residing in Teaneck.
ROBERT CICCOLINI
GRANDPA’S FAUCET
They found him
on the bathroom
floor
in a fetal
position.
I picture him
crouching down
on the
marshmallow floor,
sinking..
The faucet still
drips there.
Cobwebs dangle
over stale
dreams.
#
THE BLIND MAN
I saw the blind man
yesterday, his cane
upon the ground.
Holding out the rusty
tray he recently had
found.
Every day I pass this
man yet never toss a
cent.
But today I think I can
after all the time I've
spent…
Just looking.
#
© 2006 by Robert Ciccolini
Robert Ciccolini was Newark, N.J. born and raised. “I have two kids: Ryan, 5, and Gabrielle, 12. I've been a hairstylist for 25 years and still going. I am spiritual but do not subscribe to any religion. There was an epiphany about seven years ago that was so profound I literally can draw a line between it and my life after. It was then that I was shown that we really are one…”
ANTHONY BUCCINO
DO NOT THINK THAT I HAVE FORGOTTEN LONELINESS
You've loved me and hated me, cursed me and
Promised me the sky, the moon, and the stars
You've loaned me the shelter of your heart
Spared me your love, your tender touch
Your sweet, soft fragrance and warmth of
Mornings and their desperate promises
And through it all dear girl, lover, mother
Friend, do not think that I have forgotten
Loneliness. She never forgets me.
#
© 2006 by Anthony Buccino
Anthony Buccino published a volume of poetry, Days You Knew Me, in 1976. He has two works in progress. One series, One Morning In Jersey City was written along the shores of the Hudson River in Jersey City.
The other collection, Yountakah Country, tells in verse some of the history of Nutley, N.J., from Annie Oakley and the first settlers to the people on the streets and buses today.
For more information, visit
www.anthonysworld.com
MARY BARNET
1
Horizon
One
Long Sun
2
Day
Wanes
Sun rises again & again
3
Night-fall
Sun setting
Here, and there
#
NEW WORLD At Last !
A scar upon the land
Life is no trick
From Now on Take it or leave it !
It may be (y)our
Treat....!
#
Behind the Colored Door
In the silent world of dreams,
Beneath the staccato rap of the rain,
What land is this ?!!
Friends, lovers & enemies are a timeless stream ---
The sleep I am swimming in is a hurricane.
Peace is hard to find.
It cannot be bought.
We are lost in an eternity of troubles,
So that our minds are flooded and remind us
Of the ruin of that gilded dream we sought.
What we wanted no longer can be found.
Now we want more :
Some jewel from every land,
Each moment a different musical sound,
A gift behind each colored door.
Compromise is a lost art
Perhaps what we get is what we see.
Tomorrow blossoms when the season is right.
Sometimes what we taste of life is tart.
It is only silence that lasts forever.
#
© 2006 by Mary Barnet
Mary Barnet is founder & senior editor of PoetryMagazine.com, and the-Manhattanite.com, as well. Recently published is her book The New American: Selected Poems by Mary Barnet, available on the Internet from www.cyberwit.net.
She is the proud spouse of Richard Schiff, artist and puppetmaster. Both gratefully trace their ancestry back before The United States Revolutionary War.
DANIEL GALLIK
SEPARATION
Hey chubby, Angston was teasing
his wife. She didn’t take it
as such. Marybelle hit him hard
across the face, left some blood
east of his lips. Angston left
for work a little perturbed. M.
sat at their kitchen table, and
wondered why she overreacted. I
have been feeling sad lately.
Over in Wabash, near the river,
her mother was near death. Age
had worn her down. Cancer was
finishing her. Angston found out
he was getting a raise because he
had discovered a medicine that
delivered the aged from any pain.
It also cleared their minds. Mom
said, in her last breaths to no
one, I am lonely, I must die. M
then, miles away, began to cry.
#
A NOTHING WORLD
He lost hope with her.
She was always somewhere
else. He didn’t want
to make an epic out of
this. So, he left.
Got a job as a trucker.
Long distance routes.
She always wondered
where he was but didn’t
work at finding him.
The kid went to school,
stayed a student until
he was 28 and finally
was kicked out. He
became a trucker too.
Mobile was their lives.
You ask, so what? I
say, nothing to do it.
Just a few words that
explain not a thing.
#
KINDS OF LOVE
The people who like
us hate us. Father
was talking to me.
I was not looking
into his face. I
was looking at our
neighbor’s house
and wondering whether
it would ever go up
for sale. My girl
once lived in that
house. I was thinking
about how I made love
to her in that house.
How her dad died there.
How her mom nurtured
her there when she
was a baby. Teething.
I was considering how
I was lucky. My dad
said, why does a world
hate us so? I want
to know why. I said,
dad, I don’t know most
things. Things happen.
I am just lucky who
I am. My dad, looked
at me and smirked. I
smiled. He smirked more.
#
© 2006 by Daniel Gallik
Daniel Gallik has had poems, short stories published online and in magazines such as Hiram Poetry Review, Parabola (Magazine of Myth and Tradition), Aura (Univ of Kentucky). Recently, his first novel, A Story Of Dumb Fate, has come on the market. The book is a difficult story about a child with disabilities born in the fifties. It can be bought online at www.publishamerica.com
ELIZABETH MARCHITTI
ODE TO MONOTONY
I love the sameness of the days,
the march of the seasons,
the endless repetition of spring,
summer, autumn, winter.
I love coffee in the morning,
waking to talk radio,
switching to classical QXR
to accompany my breakfast,
reading the morning paper,
the slow awakening
of my daily self
before my work begins:
The laundry and the tidying up,
the checks that I must write,
library books due,
phone calls to daughters,
emails for son and friends.
The same ol', same ol'
of the days, the seasons,
spring daydreaming,
summer swimming,
autumn walking,
winter shopping
as Christmas nears.
March trips to visit
son and family in Florida,
June vacations at the Jersey shore,
the beautiful monotony
of the rolling surf,
the heat of the sun,
sand between my toes.
Plays at the Paper Mill,
the Barn Theatre,
the Algonquin in Manasquan,
the parade of grandchildren's birthday parties
and holiday celebrations,
lunch with friends
and long phone conversations.
Always music in my life:
the recurrence of the notes
in Ravel's Bolero, building to crescendo,
the unrelenting voice of violins,
the tinkling of the harpsichord
in Brandenburg Concerto
number five.
Church on Sunday,
singing favorite old hymns,
really listening to the lessons.
The light that faith shines
in my life.
I love the steady drip of rain
after too many days of sun,
the howl of wind on bitter days,
the silence of the snow,
blissful monotony.
#
September 8, 2004
THE TINY WOMAN TRILOGY
* One: I Am Not The Poet
A tiny woman lives
inside my head.
She writes my poems.
She chooses words for sound,
as well as meaning.
She has studied poetry
for many years.
She knows iambs, trochees,
and dactyls intimately,
and knows exactly when
to ignore them.
She has an impeccable ear
for alliteration and metaphor.
Her instinct is never wrong.
It is I, the editor,
the rebellious one, who devise
the incredible oxymorons,
the ones that sound so lovely,
but convey no meaning.
It is I who disregard
what the tiny woman says.
She dictates perfect poems:
something is lost
in the transcription.
#
July 1998 Manasquan, New Jersey
Two: She Sleeps
The tiny woman sleeps--
Dreaming by the bay,
lulled by the gentle loosh, loosh, loosh,
the sound the mini-waves make,
that mock the ocean’s roar,
she sleeps, she dreams,
she writes no poems.
While I sit in the shade,
under the roof of the pavilion,
protected from the hot June sun,
caressed by gentle breezes
from the west,
the wind that drove me here,
safe from the bugs that bite
on ocean-side, safe
from the sun’s bright glare.
The tiny woman sleeps,
and dreams of poems
as yet unwritten.
#
June 18, 2004 Long Beach Island, New Jersey
Three: The Woman Awakes
The little woman is stirring.
I think she’s now
in REM sleep mode.
I can feel her eyelids flutter,
her tiny body twitch.
Maybe it’s the beach at Manasquan,
the variable cloudiness of the day,
the brisk southern breeze.
Maybe she hears the cry of gulls,
the whispered roar of the surf.
Oh, August! The summer wanes.
Will she awaken soon
and write me a poem?
#
August 3, 2004 Manasquan, New Jersey
© 2006 by Elizabeth Marchitti
* "Section one of this poem was printed in Passager, A Journal of Rembrance and Discovery, sometime in 1999. "Ode To Monotony" is published in my new chapbook, Pause. . .And Begin Again." --Elizabeth Marchitti
Elizabeth Marchitti is a seventy-five year old wife, mother and grandmother. She loves music, the music of poetry, and life in general. Her poems have been published in Lips, The Paterson Literary Review, Passager and Sensations Magazine, among others.
ELENA GALPERIN
MY FATHER
My father was a man of stubborn pride
Who learned of hardships early in his life
Who stood so far apart from other men
And walked his way according to his stand.
True optimist he never lost his ground
Believing that he’d live for years to come.
He took his final breath
With loved ones by his side
Emerging into peaceful tranquil light.
He left us grieving ravaged by his death,
Freed of his burden finally at peace.
And in my heart I feel that he is there
Above us in the place of no despair
Remaining as a man of willful mind
True to himself and those he left behind.
#
TODAY
Today I’m not the same as yesterday
I’ve soared through years
As a bird through wind and rain
And reached the point where I’ve gained
The wisdom to move on and to let go
And to believe in wonders of tomorrow.
Today I feel that I have learned
To place one foot before the other,
To see this life as is, without frills
And to enjoy the beauty and the bliss
Of living,
Laughing,
Searching for the truth,
Of having passion as my muse
Of finding purpose in this twisted, complex life
And a glimpse of hope to keep me warm inside.
#
© 2006 by Elena Galperin
Elena Galperin was born in Kiev, Ukraine, a country with harsh winters and beautiful, fulfilling summers, during the times when the word freedom was whispered and dreamed of. She immigrated to the United States with her family when she was eighteen years old.
Writing had been Elena’s passion since she was a little girl. There are very few things in life that are able to fulfill a human soul as much as poetry, and she is happy to share a small part of hers with those who feel as she does.
DAVID FISHER
ADORING THE EXPERIENCE
Blue sky memories
Soaring through minds wonder
A moment forever insisting
That time remain motionless
Loving arms embracing
The discovery of pure emotion
Studying laughter’s comfort
Letting passion illuminate dark days
When creative tides collide
Becoming swells of absolute energy
Contentment clouds the rational
And blinds thoughts of tomorrow
Sadness ensues uncontrollably
When worlds no longer align
Precious were the brief seconds of life
and forever with love they are kept
#
MISFORTUNE
Troubled now are the waters of virtue
Secretly keeping emotions well hidden
Fear of rejection now blinding sound judgment
Making it harder to find what is missing
Tears fall like rain causing floods of indifference
Murky and cold are the fruits of our labor
What will be left when excitement has dwindled
Silencing fate and suppressing free will
#
© 2007 by David Fisher
David Fisher is 26 years old. He currently lives in Orange Park, FL with his beautiful wife, Karma, and their two-and-a-half-month-old baby girl Olivia. "Besides writing poetry," David says, "I also enjoy playing harmonica, listening to Bob Dylan and spending time with my family."
ANTHONY HWILKA
WAR IN IRAQ
Pain of memories within us
Fear pumping from our hearts
We crawl trembling over sand
Soaked with blood and flesh
Human stew -- smell of vomit
Blasting shells -- bullets everywhere
Being hit many times
We lie numb
Life oozing away
With knowledge --
Liberals -- labeling us infidels
#
WOMAN
Lord God created man
On the sixth day
From slime of the earth
named him Adam
from him God created woman
to serve -- make him happy
man should never me lonely
man should never want
Come to pass
Adam said to Eve
WOMAN!
Help me -- help you
Tell me your needs
Your desires
and STOP
about this equal thing
#
© 2007 Anthony Hwilka
Anthony Hwilka broadcasted his poetry daily for eight years on Trenton, New Jersey’s Radio Station WTTM. He is Vice President of the New Jersey Poetry Society, Inc. as well as past President of the Poets of Southern New Jersey Society He continues to give dramatic readings and presently lives in Willingboro, NJ, with his wife Jan.
Hwilka cut a CD containing poems from his new collection Untamed Violets. Both the CD and the book are available. Click on his site: http://www.untamedviolets.com/
