A present for all 2014 contributors :)

 HAPPY HOLIDAYS poets 🙂

We wanted to give our 2014 contributors a present this year, so we at PoetryPasta have REPUBLISHED ALL contributor poems from 2014, including poet photos and blurbs.  We encourage you to contribute to PoetryPasta in 2015 🙂

Roy K. Austin

Roy K. Austin – 2 poems in 2014

http://roykaustin.weebly.com/

SHORE  LEAVE by Roy K. Austin

These vague familiar longings
I slough off in the street
for my world is like an ocean
still lapping at my feet,

the rain is comprehensive
to wash away this town,
as I smile across the counter
my ego is a clown,

we would find another bar
where beer is just for fun,
and we will roll the barrel there
to make three sailors one,

I will pretend my fancy
in dens with neon lights,
my mind will sleep with Marjorie
my body walk all night,

I’ll drag and blow my smoke-rings
into the damp night air
I’ll flick my butt to dream of you
it is you I love my dear,

my ship will wait patiently
be ready to depart,
if I were you and you were me
the sea would break my heart.

SHE IS by Roy K. Austin

The ego grows and sticks like glue

behind it’s rampart and walls high,

through slit windows it’s arrows fly

to fall and run straight through

the spirit that is always you,

in desert climes where she is freed

as wind blows through the tumble-weed

and who can tell or glean

or verify what she has seen;

she is not time if she malingers

if she like sand runs through your fingers

forgetful she of all forgiven

she is the very soul of heaven,

she is the depth of the profound,

and is what makes the world go round.

———————————————————-
Peaceful Innocence by Alex Chornyj

Daddy, do I have to go to bed?

Do you want Santa to come?

More than anything else

Then scamper under those covers.

Is he as jolly as they say?

I think you can tell

By the jingle of the bells

By a lightness that surrounds his spirit.

Please read me the little angel story

The one with the gentleness of a fawn

It makes me warm and fuzzy

So tingly by its tenderness.

Can we leave milk and cookies

And some raw , fresh carrots?

This will show our gratitude

For the reindeer pulling a sleigh so far.

The earth is so big and round

However do they do this all in one night ?

From the twinkle of his nose

To a child’s peaceful innocence.

From the softness of snowflakes

Comes a blanket of serenity

I dream of sugar plum thoughts

Of hugs and kisses I wrote on a card.

I wish I was on this journey

Soon I’ll be on one of my own

As I drift off to sleep

I see myself upon a cloud.

One lit up like a Christmas Tree

I know it’s not the gifts

But the love that we share

Which makes this a special moment.

I am a little girl

I believe in what I believe

Because of two sparkly stars

Who cradle me in the chambers of their hearts.

I love by their affections

As this seed was first planted

When I came upon a doorstep

Which has been my happy home throughout all the seasons since.

————————————————————————-

angel cropped

Angel Lancaster (Johnston)  – 7 poems in 2014

Dogs Hair by Angel Lancaster (Johnston)

Dogs hair is like,
burned grass in the afternoon.
Dogs move through the grass freely.
My dog loves to tease my kitten by
chasing it.
My kitten loves to play with my dog.
A kitten’s hair is like some one
having a bad hair day.

As my kitten moves through the snow,
i think i could bury my kitten in the snow.
The snow is like sugar coming down
so fast in a bowl of corn flakes.
Dog’s hair is as soft as
grass rolling down a hill on a spring day.

Coffee by Angel Johnston

Wake up to the alarm,
ring a ding, ding,
off to work I go.

Bling, bling through the day,
the day passes,
by each hour clicking the clock.

Tick, tick,
the day comes to the end,
mash the potatoes,
to get ready for dinner.

Climb into bed,
fall asleep,
Wake up to the alarm.

Watery Clouds by Angel Lancaster (Johnston)

Clouds are moving
by as fast as they can.
As the clouds move
between a piece of wood
it looks like a
stream of water.

When a little child
runs up to a stream takes a
drink of water, then runs
and lays in the grass and
dreams of drinking the clouds.
When she looks up
she can see through
the clouds.

On a piece of paper
people paint a picture it
looks dark blue and gray
clouds, the clouds are
moving across the
baby blue sky.

Clouds are just like water.

The moist clouds is as
soft as wet water is like
the clouds in a white patch
of flowers!!

Untitled by Angel Lancaster (Johnston)

Down the road,
Across the long miley meadow,
Toward a big muddy spot,
Between two big oak trees,
Over the muddy brown spot,
Up an oak tree,
Lies a big red apple!

Around the house,
Under the porch,
Against a wall,
In a bucket,
In the outside,
Lies a spot!

Weather in Maine by Angel Johnston

Spring brings rain & flowers.
Summer brings warm weather & bugs
Fall brings the change of leaves &cold weather back
Snow starts to fly & then Christmas is here
Then happy new year
&
the cycle repeats itself all over again
Change of weather every day it’s something different

Untitled  by Angel Johnston

What family means to me:
Love, peace & happiness.
Help a hand when needed,
don’t judge & never
ask too many questions!

Have guidance to help you
through the rough times!
Experience goes a long way.
Appreciate the ones that
help you through and always
give back!

Life works in mysterious
ways. If it’s meant to be
you will know. Keep a
positive note & good things
will happen to you

Family by Angel Johnston

Sisters share
differences
yet they are close with time

Mothers build
a strong connection
with
their loves ones

Fathers provide
a home & food & things to grow

Grandparents & cousins
all form together to bring
happiness & love in the family.

Family is
hard to come by
but
friends & loved ones
help make
everything
come together.

————————————————————————————————————–
donal mahoney
Donal Mahoney – 8 poems in 2014

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

The Parlor of My Dotage by Donal Mahoney

In the parlor of my dotage
I have a grand piano where
the ghost of Shostakovich
plays “Chopsticks” every night
while I in my recliner
drink vodka in pajamas
and cheer old Shosty on.

Tonight the concert’s interrupted
when Granny in her nightcap
dashes from her bedroom
and shouts in high soprano
“Send old Shosty home.
I need a good night’s sleep.
I have Mahjong in the morning.”

Through my bullhorn I shout back,
“I won’t send old Shosty anywhere
until his concert ends at dawn.
Then I’ll put my parka on and saddle up
the horses and take the master home.
Old Shosty swears that global warming
is no problem there at all.”

Plagiarism by Donal Mahoney

I’d never steal a poem
or any of its shining facets
but I’d take the mood

a poem is born in
if the poem is smiling.
A lot of poems smile

but lately mine
can only scowl.
So when I read

a poem written
in the daylight by
a soul who’s

painting clouds
against a brilliant sky
as if the clouds

were butterflies
too lovely to let go
and fly away,

that’s the mood
I want with me
every midnight

in the basement
when I feed the ghosts
I can’t allow upstairs.

Scrivener’s Cauldron  by Donal Mahoney

It’s a fire hazard, really,
my wife keeps telling me,
the cauldron that I keep
bubbling in the basement
with its steaming stew of
nouns and verbs but no
adjectives or adverbs
because they’d destroy
the flavor, I remind her.

Whenever I go down
the basement I stoke
the embers roaring
underneath the cauldron
then strain the stew
until I find a noun
or verb tastier
than those I have
simmering upstairs.

Old Stag Giddy by Donal Mahoney

Elmer’s an old stag now
shedding antlers
snorting among the trees

but sometimes Martha
after her shower
is a doe beckoning

and he becomes giddy
and heads for the salt lick
happy in the breeze

Another Sunrise in His Day by Donal Mahoney

Will I walk again,
Tillie mumbled,
lost in the fog of

her knee operation.
The surgeon predicted
she’d toss her cane away

in two months.
Still in a fog, she asked
if she’d walk the way

she walked before,
with the same locomotion,
as her husband called it,

a walk he studied
through binoculars
behind lace curtains

from the upstairs window
sitting in his wheelchair
as she strolled through

the garden, picking a
bouquet, creating another
sunrise in his day.

Dancing on the Fourth of July by Donal Mahoney

All that hair
trapped in a braid
silver to the waist
Opal this morning
nude in the mirror
brings the braid up
between her breasts
and around her neck,
a python of her creation

that she promised Elmer
she would cut off
for a pixie hairdo
like Audrey Hepburn
if he would take her
on the Fourth of July
to the Senior Dance,
something Wilbur
would always do

if she wore high heels
and that red dress
and those black
nylons he found
with the seams
like the ones she wore
the day he came home
all crew cut and cowlicks
from Korea.

The Widow Next Door

Every Saturday
when the sun is out
and it’s hotter than Hades

Monica next door
raises her garage door
early in the morning

and leaves it up
long past noon as if
Herm will walk out

at any minute
oily and greasy
needing to clean up

the way he used to
every Saturday
for 30 years until

liquor ate his liver.
At night Monica
can still hear

the tall Marine
fingering Taps
over Herman’s grave.

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son  by Donal Mahoney

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I’ve never been much
around the house, my skills limited to

raking leaves and shoveling snow,
menial tasks I haven’t missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm
and has always liked getting things done.
But she’s getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation
and I’ve pitched in beyond my skill set
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe

it’s best to let you know that
one of these days the one who’s left
will ring you up and let you know.

———————————————————————
Vivitar
Joan McNerney – 2 poems in 2014

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Camel Saloon, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Hill Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net.  Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

Twelve Steps To Winter by Joan McNerney

1        Kicking up piles of foliage,

the wind tries to enter my house.

2        I can see my breath right

in front of me now.

3        Maple leaves, oak leaves, all fall

leaves tumbling through air.

4        Window panes clattering like

nervous teeth at midnight.

5        Frost pinches my cheeks, kissing me.

A cool, cruel lover.

6        Quickly, quietly needles of snow

embroider tall fir trees.

7        That must be my friends stamping

their boots outside.

8        As the kettle boils, aromas of hot

cider spice the kitchen.

9        Our favorite songs stream

through hallways.

10      Sparkling butter cookies melting

in our mouths.

11      A tiger cat with big green eyes

tosses balls of yarn.

12      Galaxies of snow stars whirling

every which way.

Misplaced by Joan McNerney

Searching for sweet red peppers on sale.

Recalling how my income has fallen.

Touching edges of anxiety

maybe my mind is misplaced or

some new disease invades me.

My caged heart rebels against looming panic.

All those wars…this planet growing

more pustulant as clocks choke forward.

What have I forgotten at the grocery store?

I want to be sure, swift not grasping,

Slivers of black ice can knock me down.

Misplaced, silenced, lost with yesterday’s lists,

mixed among crumpled coupons, long lines.

—————————————————————–
Halloween Dreams by Marilyn Pellecchia

Five little vampires
stood in a row
giggling and silly
with bags in tow
they scurried along
smiling quite  bright
lunging and bumping
into the night
as moon shine settled
to spy on their group
they danced up sidewalks
and settled on stoops
begging for candy
in voices gone scary
gifts came their way
in chocolate and cherry
stars soon peeked out
to warn of the hour
five sets of fangs
grabbed treats to devour
goblins and werewolves
appeared on the street
our vampires halted
with visions of these
so into the night they
journeyed to home
past witches and ghosts
and one gnarly gnome
five little vampires
in pace as they trod
stumbling along
as heads start to nod
fangs now retired
by smiles a beam
the stars shine down
on Halloween dreams.
———————————————————————————

Augusta, Maine – by Marianne Szlyk

I was made for the sun,
but here I am in Augusta.
At Christmas, the snow
is as real as ground glass,
and the Three Kings,
are just statues,
less than the live dogs
around St. Patrick’s manger.

All summer mi hijos played baseball,
and I shivered in the stands,
drinking café con leche
from a thermos.
The sun gave no more heat 
than a postcard of Florida.
My brown thighs shriveled
like bananas 
left on the counter.
I covered them in mom jeans.

All winter I sit, huddled
indoors in a white parka
bought from a catalog.
I drink Café Bustelo,
straight, no leche,
my gloved hands around
a thermos from the bank.

Neighbors hike to the ski lift
on the edge of town.
The men balance six-packs
on their shoulders.
No one else winces at the wind,
the snow, the sleet,
the black ice,
the wind and the sleet
that pound at my windows
like someone else’s bad lover.

My sons play hockey.
I keep them busy.
They are made for Augusta

Published in the anthology “Something’s Brewing”
by AJ Huffman

check out Marianne’s blog “The Song Is” here:

https://www.facebook.com/thesongis

——————————————————————————————-

Gertrude de Souza – 2 poems in 2014

Our Life Seasons by Gertrude de Souza

We rush, we run, not to miss
anything, everything, we search for bliss.
We try, we fail and try again,
enduring sunshine, wind and rain

Too harsh, too strong, the wind doth blow.
Too eager, too fertile, seeds hath sown
Too much, too rapid time doth fly,
We laugh, we cry and then we die

Like seasons, Spring Summer and Fall
Winter’s near…. nature comes to call!

Lost for meaning by Gertrude de Souza

Assuming, presuming, consuming thought.
Hoping, wishing, dreaming  for naught.
Consuming, denying, fantasizing and brew.
Concluding, eluding what is true?

My thoughts, just a parody.
Imagination? What’s the reality?

———————————————————————————————————-

sopphey_self_square_web

http://www.sopphey.com

Flight by Sopphey Vance

No one ever said
I could fly but I intended to.
I wrapped my arms
with feathers and slipped on
caked mud as shoes.
And I leaped from the ground
into the busy traffic.

Hesitant to cross paths
with fast cars.
Occasionally bouncing off trucks.
I could have died,
but I flew instead.
Running my feet tired,
soaked skin,
feathers dispersed along the highway.

Heart racing.
Mind numbed to the
beating of my veins.
I became an echo of humanity,
flight and wind all at once.

———————————————–

Thank you to all our wonderful contributors and readers.  PoetryPasta will be back in 2015 with YOUR poems!

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