POETS OF AUTUMN
ELENA GALPERIN
TO LOVE
Sometimes it comes softly and gently startles you
out of the stale redundant existence. And at first
you are in denial for the feeling is still somewhat
foreign and then slowly, as a small child, you
begin your journey towards that gleaming light
that is still so far ahead. And the further you get
the stronger you become, driven by this forever
living and never dying emotion. And at the end
of your journey you are enriched and enlightened
and you know that this feeling that took such a long
time to reach you will stay with you forever.
Sometimes, like an unexpected tornado,
it sweeps you off your feet and you’re lost and
powerless in the face of something beyond your
grasp and beyond the comprehension of the human
mind. And when it finally departs, slowly,
taking its time, devastation and sorrow behind,
you are empowered and weakened at the same time,
for you know what it is to love and to lose.
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I LOVE THE SIMPLE MIRACLES OF LIFE
I love the simple miracles of life,
The peaceful sunny day and the clear, blue skies,
The storming, raging ocean, dark and grave,
Its wild fury and its passive, tranquil grace,
The little red birds outside my window on the tree,
And coming here, to this country and being free,
And all that I’ve learned and all that I’ve forgiven,
All of the right turns I was capable of making,
My learned ability to figure out right from wrong
nd learning to be bold and to stand strong.
To watch the snow coming down, cold and soft,
Descending slow and then fast like a dancing ghost.
Hot cup of tea on a chilly, winter day,
I love it all for all of it is safe.
I love to have my family and health
I hold it dear, all those simple things we have.
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© 2006 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. I grew up among strong hard working people who were accustomed to hardships since a very young age. When I turned eighteen my family immigrated to the United States.
“Writing had been my passion since I was a little girl. There are very few things in life that are able to fulfill a human soul as much as poetry and I’m happy to share a small part of mine with those who feel as I do.”
JOSEPHINE SCHININÁ LISSANDRELLO
SICILY
Sicily, where my ancestors loved and died,
surrounded by the deep blue sea,
air perfumed by carob trees and
majestic mountains kiss the cypress,
with arid rivers running dry
throught the valleys of the Gods.
Sicily, where oranges caress the coast
and lava flows from Etna
across the hills of fragrant jasmine.
Where religion and passion collide
and rumor can destroy.
A land too complex to understand.
Sicily, where no one is above suspicion,
where cunning is better than reason,
frivolity and naivetè not tolerated,
illicit acts ignored,
love affairs condemned.
A land with rules all its own.
Sicily, land of my blood.
Its soul embedded in my heart.
Ancient land of history and myth,
trespassed by many peoples.
What part of me belongs to you?
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THE PAVILLION
Distorted, mask-like faces,
eyes opened wide in fear.
Feet shuffling, pacing along the walls.
Postures disarranged,
hunched over, slouched.
Fingers fidgeting, pressing
one against the other.
Speech slurred, mumbling delusions.
Zombie reactions, post-medication.
Therapies performed with effort.
Psychiatrists indifferent, prescribing.
Memories erased by ECT.
Lives lost to blemished minds.
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© 2006 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.
BETTY MARCHITTI
LAZIEST POET IN THE EAST
Anchored to the bench
above the dune,
I see sandy beach, seagulls,
the breaking waves, driven
by wind from north/northeast.
Morning sun breaks through
heavy cloud cover.
Looks like the weatherman
will be wrong again today,
no rain in sight.
Herring gulls walk
across the sand,
their heads and breasts so white,
tail feathers black.
Strolling with dignity,
they own the beach,
not even one lone fisherman
to mar the sight of foaming surf.
Laughing gulls, mostly silent today,
ride the waves in repose,
rise up, flap wings
in slow motion,
skim the sea surface,
dip down to snack on tiny fish
carried in on the tide.
I could sit here for hours,
in this brisk breeze,
in this faint sun,
watch the gulls, the breakers,
do nothing else
but watch and listen.
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ALMOST SPRING
February chill
Pear tree buds are fat with hope
Surely spring will come
And then a willow
Breaks into soft yellow leaf
Winter's almost gone
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© 2006 Elizabeth Marchitti
Betty Marchitti has had work published in Breath and Shadow, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Lips, The Paterson Literary Review, Poetic Reflections of Monmouth County , Sensations Magazine, Spindrift, Voices From the Grove and Without Halos. Her poems have been finalists in The Allen Ginsberg Contest three times. On October 7th, she read poems from her new chapbook, Pause. . .And Begin Again, at the Walt Whitman Poetry Festival in Ocean Grove.
ED SMITH
ANGER
Keep your anger
in check
Check it at
the door
Check it out
of your system
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MY FATHER FELL
My father fell.
Mom called me and
Kathy said call 911.
I rushed to the hospital
in the snowstorm.
His hearing aid was off,
his glaucoma is bad,
his pinched nerve,
arthritis, and sciatica
made him fall and
all they can do is
feed him drugs.
# © 2006 Ed Smith
Ed Smith was born in Newark, NJ. His poem "morning cracks" was cut into red marble by the artist Larry Kirkland on permanent display in New York City's Penn Station, 7th Ave. Concourse side along with 11 other poets include Whitman, William Carlos Williams and Baraka.
He is the author of I Am That Hero (Gaede's Pond Press) and Greatest Hits 1980-2002(Puddiing House Press).
ANTHONY HWILKA
HAUNTING QUESTIONS
When life has me walking a new road I shall wait for a quiet time
Take my rest absorb music of the moment Remember each day of my past
Was I a good man? Did I do all I could for the lives I touched?
Did I bathe them in a fountain of sadness or had I made them happy moments?
What kind of man was I?
My children would say he is my Dad
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A VISIT BACK
Sadness swells within
as I walk
avenues of change
The home dad built
housing strangers
My high school
an empty lot
Friends -- a memory
I rewind my life
to childhood
to recapture a boy
full of dreams
As I leave I look upon
a faded town
faded loves
Time has made of me
a ghost
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© 2006 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/
ANTHONY BUCCINO
HOT LUNCH
Do you walk to school
or do you carry lunch?
In the Holy Family cafeteria
the windows were street level
and the kitchen one story
below the blacktop parking lot.
And a glimpse of the kitchen
reveals grandmas in hairnets
speaking in ancestors' tongues.
The long cavernous seating area
went on for miles to a 1st grader.
In later years the question comes up
do you carry that Roy Rogers lunch box
or brown bag the salami & cheese sandwich
in your fine skin leather briefcase?
Is your backpack full of water bottles,
its hidden pockets with treats and yogurt bars?
Or do you queue in winding cafeteria lines
or hike to the deli counter each day
Noting as you do, this is as it always was?
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AMERICAN BOY
Mama was second generation born here
She was mitigan
Though she cooked mostly Italian
We had white stew on a rotation with
escaroleAnd my nasty beans a la minest e beans
Mama claimed the American defense
that without her pressure cooker
even her meatballs would rot
Her father had a job in a factory
he didn't dig ditches or
break his back like the greenhorns
Mama knew Italian
& got along in dialect with Papa
usually when young ears were near
She raised her American boy
In a hyphenated American lifestyle
and called him Bee You See Know
like he was named for some
resort town down the shore
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© 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
CARRIE KINYON
ANGELS STAND IN AWE
When you make that glorious entry
To that city bright and fair
And when you've seen your Saviour,
You know He's waiting there.
When you've knelt before Him
A hundred thousand years or so
Then you start your search For the friends you used to know
I'll be there, my voice blended With that choir around the throne
There'll be no angels singing
For they won't know the song.
We'll sing about the Lamb's own blood
That redeemed us from our sin
How we asked Jesus into our hearts
And how He willingly came in.
The angels will just stand in awe
Of how we made it through
But they will never sing our song
That's just for me, and you
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GOD’S GLORY REFLECTED
Everything created reflects God's Glory in some way.
From the stars at night to the sun in the day.
From the smallest little ant to every season.
For everything created, there is a reason.
From the bright milky way so vast in the sky.
To the wind and the rain, to the tears that we cry.
We reflect His glory by the way that we live.
They will know we are His by the love that we give.
God deserves all the glory, honor and praise.
So to Him, Holy hands we should raise.
Or do a kind deed in the name of His Son
Or a smile to brighten the day for someone.
If our lives on earth reflect the Glory of God
One day when we no longer walk on earthly sod.
A crown we will win to place at His feet,
When in Glory land, Jesus we meet!
PRAISE THE LORD!
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© 2006 Carrie Kinyon
Carrie Kinyon says, "I am first of all a Christian, married to a wonderful man I met on the internet, I write as God inspires me and my prayer is that I could be a blessing to someone every day.
Visit Carrie's Poetry Page
http://www.carrielk.net
ROBERT CICCOLINI
WE WERE ONE
I wanted to leave
somethin'
for my kid- so I started to
write about some of the
things I thought she should
know, some of the times
that left a mark, like when
right after she was born
how I fiddled my pinky
into her delicate hand,
and how she clenched it
so tight, and I felt so big
that there was nothin'
but us, and how whatever
I was think'n stopped
so it could listen to her
voice––the real one
before language, before
the abc's, before time,
before all the pain, the
first hunger pang, the
first want she would
ever know not to be
delivered, and it was
like my finger was that
cord for a second and
we were one.
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THE MUSIC OF THE LURE
Shingled roof worn––weather’s bite.
One horse resting, stall door open,
birds to nesting.
Queer to one man’s passing site.
City man he is
and so the country's course––
traversed by few a foot as his,
wears in the grass a pensive stance.
Solemnly he sets his sights
on more than brick and flashing
lights... The sound of bird
and croaking frog,
of running brook by house
of log, leaves whispering secrets
through the door, the deafening riot
of the score, the music of the lure.
Soon nature’s noon crescendo ceases,
sun slips into tie and suit.
A day anew to rear it's head,
for city man his foot to tread,
the tar afar where his kind stay,
where works of man attempt to play
that same noon piece yet miss the mark,
for only Mother Nature's hark can bear the same.
Yes he'll go home a different man,
he'll come back every time he can...
where on this day his soul was fanned-
upon a simple plot of land such grand delight,
And every time seek piece of score,
to lend unto the time before
the plight his soul cannot ignore,
the candle once lit years before:
The music of the lure..
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© 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…”
BIOS OF OUR AUTUMN POETS
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
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…”
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. I grew up among strong hard working people who were accustomed to hardships since a very young age. When I turned eighteen my family immigrated to the United States.“Writing had been my passion since I was a little girl. There are very few things in life that are able to fulfill a human soul as much as poetry and I’m happy to share a small part of mine with those who feel as I do.”
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/
Carrie Kinyon says, "I am first of all a Christian, married to a wonderful man I met on the internet, I write as God inspires me and my prayer is that I could be a blessing to someone every day.
Visit Carrie's Poetry Page
http://www.carrielk.net
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.
Betty Marchitti has had work published in Breath and Shadow, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Lips, The Paterson Literary Review, Poetic Reflections of Monmouth County , Sensations Magazine, Spindrift, Voices From the Grove and Without Halos. Her poems have been finalists in The Allen Ginsberg Contest three times. On October 7th, she read poems from her new chapbook, Pause. . .And Begin Again, at the Walt Whitman Poetry Festival in Ocean Grove.
Ed Smith was born in Newark, NJ. His poem "morning cracks" was cut into red marble by the artist Larry Kirkland on permanent display in New York City's Penn Station, 7th Ave. Concourse side along with 11 other poets include Whitman, William Carlos Williams and Baraka.
He is the author of I Am That Hero (Gaede's Pond Press) and Greatest Hits 1980-2002(Puddiing House Press).
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