Interlude Poem by Darla Fitzgerald

Interlude by Darla Fitzgerald

Ticking of the kitchen clock
Moments measuring in time

Pen composing on lined paper
Ink gliding side to side

Gazing out rain spotted windows
Panes of glass dividing by eight

Sky painting the oceans blue
Clouds floating to set sail

Gentle waves of wind drifting
Sea of grass rising and falling

Tree tops swaying in flowing rhythm
Leaves dancing in golden sunlight

Butterflies hiding in secret places
Songbirds playing follow the leader

Ticking of the kitchen clock
Soul searching for magical wishes

Online Magazines:No publication rights
Word Salad-Publish July 2002
Write-Away!-Publish July 2002
Wellspring Journal-Publish Oct. 2002
Sometimes I Sleep With The Moon-Publish Winter
Printed Magazines:No publication rights
Eve’s Back-Publish Dec. 2002
Carillon-Publish Feb. 2003

Poet's Solstice Poem by David Mitchell

The Poet’s Solstice

The oddity of this meandering life

Is only emphasized by its failure

Of metaphor: the long slow passage

From too early autumnal nights,

Meager harvests, brief Indian summer

Into withering winter, ice in the

Marrow, grind of joints too frozen

To slide, cheekbones sadder than granite.

Others climbed uphill toward the sun,

Found basking places, came to rest,

But I moved past them, sought glaciers

In which to imprison youth, numb its

Edges against the pain of will, not yet

Tired of boredom as the boon companion

Of incarceration, still comforted by the

Crack and shatter of sledge on stone.

Strange that the wind becomes thinner

As oxygen fails, that rainbows survive

The heights, not caring the form of water.

How could I know life would linger,

That in its briefest season

The thawing margins of the summit

Would reach to plump out scant seed, impel

It to seek the source that scented

Warmer, still-rising air with the

Faint bittersweet of butterfly scales,

The pungent tears of spring’s first storms.

The body faintly wishes to resist this

Journey toward gentler repose, but

The way lies downward, daisy-marked,

Across slopes of talus and scree.

The feet already find hewn pebbles that

Have rolled this way before me, bearing

Faint impressions of decades’ labor:

A few have been pocketed as keepsakes,

Reminders of how little endures.

The heart has revived to the point where

Milestones are no longer beneath notice:

Yesterday I paused at the first and was

Struck dumb at finding another’s seasons

Stitched up and left as a wayfarer’s gift:

After a night beneath that cloak, I’ve

Shed my tatters and wrapped it about me.

It speaks of solace and longing

On the road to summer.

– David W. Mitchell

Musings Poem by Doug Tanoury

Musings and Other Poems by Doug Tanoury


Lying awake in
A hammock, I study the sky,
The patterns
Of high altitude clouds
Wispy and insubstantial,
In light brush strokes
Across the upper atmosphere.

There is a cardinal singing
From somewhere unseen,
High in the maple
Or deep in the ash
And starlings fly from west to east
In early evening, just as they fly
From east to west each morning.

In these small details
Of my day, as I lay weightless,
Suspended somewhere between
Earth and sky, I somehow feel
The absence of you,
A space unfilled,
A bird not singing,
A word unspoken.

Tumicerchi olio su tela – Art by Vincenzo Di Giorgio

Tumicerchi olio su tela
Tumicerchi olio su tela

Here is Google Translation of Vincenzo Di Giorgio  Here is his Facebook Page
In my life, thanks to continuous research, I was able to become a painter of abstract figurative and portrait paintings. I can make all kinds of portraits from photos, in person, to order or to personal taste. Realizable ancient and modern paintings, oil painting or drawing or mixed media, figures and landscapes , with brushes and oil and tempera painting to painting modern abstract.

I am happy to welcome Vincenzo to my little family of artists. He is from Italy. His abstracts are deeply interesting and I hope to publish more of his work and, maybe, if we are lucky, some photos of his country.  Well Done Vincenzo and thank you.

i am a little church(no great cathedral) poem by e.e. cummings

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

All in green went my love riding poem by e.e. cummings

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Four red roebuck at a white water
the cruel bugle sang before.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.

Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrow sang before.

Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.

Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.

Four tell stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.