If the truth causes Ruth to never be beaten by him again,
I would abandon my pen,
and proclaim love with no physical pain
to all Ruths, until every one abolishes this abuse.
To Ruth pt2
If Ruth inhales my love as a rose scent
escapes in the night from his torture; her life begins.
Then I would fast against all man’s sin
and kneel below Ruth's waist, removing her scars.
*To Ruth is a series of poems first revealed in OW News. Part three will be in the next issue. Ruth represents a woman who is living with a man who physically abuses her. Join this newsletter by emailing
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Before Petroleum
(A Poem For Our Times)
POETRY | By Patricia Anne McGoldrick
Everyone knows that
Oil
and
Water,
Even if holy,
Do not mix.
This twosome today
Spells disaster
Now,
Unfortunately,
Ever after.
• Patricia Anne McGoldrick writes poems, essays and reviews. Her poems are published at Sleet; Irish American Post; Chapter And Verse; Cyclamens and Swords and League of Canadian Poets. Patricia's ontributions are featured in Frost and Foliage; Voices Israel Anthology 2009; Ice: New Writing on Hockey; Love & Longing in the Near North; The Changing Image, 2008, 1994 and The Grand Table Anthology. Patricia is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and The Canadian Poetry Association, Associate Member of The League of Canadian Poets.
[Note: This poem took second place in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
Sister Moon set adrift in fuchscia pinks and bright yellows: a glowing golden ball
Illuminating creativity, dancing synergy...smiling down on Madonna's funky
Moves, frozen in Videographer's Time; showing a 48 year old's energy,
Down right spunk and a type of frenetic chemistry...Mama Madonna churning
Out a techno-style moving musically to a modern muse...
Sister Moon languishing in the success of a female who goes to the beat of
Her own drum--sexy, classy, smart, not supercilious, listening to
Her instincts, bucking trends: talking about the importance of spirituality,
Individuality, dealing with the issues in the family...saying "F you" in
Music speak--saying selfishness is out--concern for humanity is paramount...
Her latest groove gets you into the mood...
Talking about regrets, mistakes, things missed in the ambitious uptake:
Not listening to your heart, but marketing gurus...Selling your soul for
Fame--the right choice according to THEIR rules...
But Madonna does a reverse-take: wears her heart on her sleeve and
Publicity for money and fame does abate...
Singing about concern for her daughter that she grows up happy
Despite the darkness in the world...
Echoes of pangs, desire for a mother she never knew...
Running away from a past haunted by sadness and feelings never explored...
Following her heart--following her muse...Sister Moon laughs--for Madonna
Has finally come of age...A record that flops; Madonna undaunted;
Another album...Accolades: what The Sister isn't surprised to hear of...
Confessions of blind ambition...acts that lead to derision...Acts that led to
Faulty Decisions...
Alluding to someone who tells her what he thinks:
Does not treat her like a spoilt brat--a celeb that deserves constant,
Sole Attention...Pushing her to be the best; Pushing her to be
Considerate, caring, talented, honest, compassionate like all the rest...
Madonna pushing 50--and she has more than fulfilled her destiny:
Pop Diva, Dancing Queen, Classic Female Artist always having the
Pulse on the Music Scene...Yet being able to marry throbbing beats
With intense, melodious, introspective lyrics that hit us with
Profundity, clarity, and sincerity...
Melding Kabbalah spirituality with a story of someone lost who
Is trying to create a new home...to flat out saying no to waiting for a
Flaky lover and just staying home...
Madonna rules her musical domain with passion, precision, a lyrical vision
In a marriage to a mesmerizing dancing beat born on the Dance Floor--
Inspired by the Street...
Sister Moon emanates like a giant disco ball--lighting the
dance floor which is
Urban Earth--and making the way for people to have fun and freely fall...
Into Break-dancing: Women, Men, A Young Black Girl, A Young
Black Woman...
Blacks, Asians, Whites...They are all having a ball...United because of the
Drone of the dance beat: bodies gyrating, bending, limbs flowing to the
Techno-heat...
Madonna...a role model...revolutionary--saying something with meaning,
With a Disco Leaning...
Madonna...mother, wife...entering the fifth decade: no signs of
Slowing down; still successful, famous, in a decade initiated by
A New Millennium...Not making apologies for speaking her mind
Speaking her soul--speaking her thoughts which is a rare goal...
In a world where image and artificial lyrics reign supreme...
Alacrity, sincerity, literary destiny is often a dream...
Madonna...A woman who says it's okay to be yourself, looking
Youthful, being spiritual, and having a joyous, timeless aura
Despite the years...
Inspired by Sister Moon...mother of creativity...mother of
Lyrical dexterity, musical ability, spirituality...tenacity,
Timelessness, veracity...physical elasticity...subject of
Vincent's Starry Night...
Ageless through the centuries...peering over artists: Musicians,
Writers, Painters...
Sister Moon--not a mere satellite, not a fool...
But earth's luminous orb of light attracting us, guiding us
Into our own depths of creativity, sensitivity, reflecting reality...
Leading us to know ourselves...inspire others...like the stars
In the universe that twinkle and dazzle...
Sister Moon basks in the intensity of a strong light destroying
Darkness, duplicity, downright stupidity, and encouraging
Artistic kinship, empathy, harmony, unity, sincerity in a vicinity
Called La Terre--Sister Moon's sister--kindred spirits that
Can't compare: sisters forged by synchronicity...nature's gift...
Sister Moon looks in on us with support and surprise--at us
Trying to be honest, destroying lies...
Sister Moon takes over when La Terre is asleep...Sister Moon
Takes pride in our successes, but is saddened by our defeats...
Sister Moon inspires the artist in us all...Sister Moon is the muse,
Now, then, and forever after...Amen.
Upon A Wing And A Smile
POETRY | By Lynda Anaya
[Note: This was the winning entry in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
Lady is a flower;
stem strengthened by life,
tresses, petal soft
flowing in gentle breezes
catching clandestine sparkle
of falling constellations.
Appearing almost fragile;
her scented skin glowing
as moon shines, faintly
jealous of her light.
She basks in the afterglow
of accomplishment
singing lullabies to sleepy eyes,
still unaware of the strength
hiding behind soft eyes;
love fluttering within every blink
of feathered lashes.
***
Poet's Note: My poem is dedicated to my Mom and all Mothers whose love carries us through life upon a wing and a smile!
Cisterns of Love
By Kimberlee Edgecomb
[Note: This poem earned third place in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
When I was much younger
With few rules, less laws,
I lived wild without Jesus in a life without cause.
Acting out how I felt
Played openly with sin,
And dabbled in wells that fast drew me in.
Never contented
Never at peace.
I plunged into sin that never did cease.
Looking good on the outside
But down deep in my soul,
Lay an old empty well, all filled up with holes.
Then the fullness of Christ
Swept over me with a roll,
I began to look inward to search my own soul.
The gleam of this world
Lost its glitter and flash,
As I thought of the cost for my sins of the past.
Thanks be to God
For my Lord paid the price,
And today I walk freely and humbly with Christ.
Observations On Earth Hour
POETRY | By Patricia A McGoldrick
Dinner is over, dishes cleaned
Just as Earth Hour begins
Evening darkness is descending quickly so
I rush to find the matches
First, I light the tall yellow beeswax candle
Anchored in the pewter holder inherited from my great-grandparents
Who knew more than an hour without hydro power.
Through the sheer curtains, I see
Streetlights go out
I turn off the kitchen light
Pour my tea, pick up the candle
Carry it into the living room
Earth hour has begun.
Tonight, I write, in darkness, almost.
My blank white paper, tinted with mellow candlelight,
Flickers with shadows
As I write down these words
It seems ironic to me, now, that I am mesmerized, once again,
By a yellow candle flame glowing brightly
Reminding me as it flickers of a moment in the past
At Orangeville District Secondary School--
It seems like only yesterday when, in our first class of Grade 12 Chemistry,
My peers and I were assigned a seemingly absurd exercise—
Noting and recording observations of
Something so elementary as a lit candle.
I recall that, to my non-scientific mind, the exercise was one of futility
Why we could be learning about elements and chemical interactions
Not just looking at a mere candle
Years later, for me—poet writer observer, you might say—
it was humbling to learn about the significance of
Faraday’s venture to record his observations of a burning candle
But I digress…
Everything is still in the house now
I listen in the candlelight
White noise is gone
Aside from our creamy cocka-poo’s breathing
There are no other sounds here
I pause from my writing, sip my soothing tea and
I glance around the ochre-coloured living room where
Dark green upholstery blends into shades of dark and darker
Our Edwardian furniture was made for times like these
Wrought-iron lamps are capped with white translucent shades
Circled with a band of green ivy
Waiting in the dark until time has passed to be on display again.
As I sit here, quietly, drinking some Irish breakfast tea
From one of Mother’s blue cameo bone china cups
My eyes are drawn to the candle once again.
I watch, puzzled by the Latin dance its flame is performing
The rhythm is soothing, almost hypnotic in its sway
I break away from its spell and then
On the cherry wood coffee table I notice the rectangular box,
Constructed last summer by Eric,
As a home for a sandy Zen garden and memories of Anne’s Green Gables
I reach to gently rake the red grains of PEI sand
Rearranging the small stones collected from Maritime shores
I see that on one side of the sturdy Zen garden there
Sits a brown burlap pouch containing a grid mat with handwoven Xs and Os
Just waiting to be picked for a game
On the other side, sit two mind-testing board games--Quarto and Quoridor—
With their smoothly-crafted wooden pieces resting on their game boards
I grin to think of the numerous times
We have played these games with each other, relatives, friends.
Sighing contentedly in the quiet of this special hour,
I drink my tea that has just the right amount of milk
Savouring the flavour of my favourite brew.
I turn my attention back to the book and note paper beside me
By candlelight, this evening, I read
Emily Dickinson’s poems, a small collection of her verses
She too wrote in the darker light of candles and lanterns
In her small yellow house noting the small things
More than once she wrote about light and hope
And death and winter and light and nature and birds and hope
Like Faraday, she noted so much.
I finish reading her poems and note, by my watch, that
The hour is quickly ticking by
I finish my tea and wonder about Emily and Faraday and
My eyes are drawn to the piano near the window
With its creamy white keys beckoning to be played.
I can still remember a bit of my Grade 8 Conservatory pieces but decide that a
Simple solo is sufficient for this peaceful eve.
I sit on the piano bench and start to play softly an octave above Middle C—
Twinkle, twinkle, little star…
When I am finished playing my opus, I glance towards the window.
Through the clear glass I see that our neighbours, too,
Have some yellow spots of candlelight showing through their darkened windows.
The streetlights are starting to flicker
This year’s Earth Hour is coming to an end
Time to extinguish the candle or
Maybe I will just let it linger
Savour it with some more tea for, maybe, Another hour for our Earth.
Patricia A McGoldrick writes poems, essays and reviews. She is also a member of The Ontario Poetry Society.
A Poet's Adventure
By John Jansen in de Wal
From ode to sonnet
more’s in your bonnet.
From Glosa and Virelay
Pantoum and Nonet
you’re offered Refrain
yes, even Quatrain.
More you shall see;
of Etheree and Shih.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from his book A Poet's Adventure. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com.
Word Music
Two poems from Word Music, by John Jansen in de Wal
If my Dad had been a rooster
and my Mom a willing hen,
They might have had a lot of chicks.
Maybe even ten.
• • •
Sometimes I feel like
a bramble bush in the desert.
Not only are my thorns,
my leaves, my branches
on fire, but my very roots.
It is a fire that
does not scorch
nor burn to ashes.
It causes me to shake
in body and in soul.
Is that your spirit?
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. These poems are from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com.
Flirty Fanny Floozy
By John Jansen in de Wal
Flirty Fanny Floozy
bare skin’d ran
in bright moon
to get a tan
both arms here
both legs there
Flirty Fanny Floozy
did not care.
Flirty Fanny Floozy
what a gal
went to bed
with an - I can’t tell -
one leg up
one leg down
Flirty Fanny Floozy
wore no gown.
Flirty Fanny Floozy
that hot gal
played in bed
in a way just - well-
one leg down
one leg up
Flirty Fanny Floozy
swilled a cup
Flirty Fanny Floozy
that drunk maid
fell out of bed
then farewell bade
both legs up
shoulders down
Flirty Fanny Floozy
took to town.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com.
Rooster: A Silly Short
By John Jansen in de Wal
If my Dad had been a rooster
and my Mom a willing hen
they might have had a lot of chicks
maybe even ten.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com.
The Music of Words
By John Jansen in de Wal
I’m in love with
the music of words
at once undulating in
their ebb and flow
of syllables that sybillate
in mellow affirmation of
subliminal self or
starkly stride
harsh
full-blown egos
onto the page in
a breath of fire.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com.
Red and White*
By Patricia A. McGoldrick
All I know is that Paul made me see red
Red, when I didn't want to see any colours at all.
He sent a white letter with a royal blue stamp
And then, he started talking
About white
And Blake
And red
And Burns
And roses in boxesAnd roses in paper
And roses in JuneAnd roses in sick--
Sickillredcells
White cells--too many
Paul lived only twenty-one springs--too few.
Soon, so many
Needles so sharp
Drugs so strong
Handsome blonde hairs almost gone--
Laughing on Demerol
With skin so tender and white and pale
Arms hugging Paul so dear
Red-blooded leukaemia-stricken male.
Sick, in a red brick hospital
On a cold winter's day
Surrounded by white uniforms and tight white sheets.
In summer,
The colour-coded maze of halls
Are hospital-warm
And...
Aphone is ringing
Shrieking a warning in my home--
Paul
is haemorrhaging and
everything seems
red
again.
Through red eyes,
I see parents
At a sombre black funeral
With a white-draped
coffin
resting on green.
I left a
white rose for Paul
And a
red rose for me—
Just like my poet
Wanted it to be.
*Published previously as a winning entry in The Dorothy Shoemaker Literary Awards Contest inThe Changing Image under the poet's married name Patricia McGoldrick Goldberg, 1994.
In the dark opulence
of timelessness,
absolute anguish
palsies my integrity.
Jolts of fiery flames
pierce my bosom,
stab my sorrow.
To the naked eye,
no perceivable notion.
Stimulated
by bland intensity,
the dreadful saga
alters my subconscious.
Hopelessness
lutes its dirge.
• Maria Pia Marchelletta is a teacher, translator, quadri-lingual poet
and writer published internationally. She is the vice-president of
WEN and member of the League of Canadian Poets. Her short
story secured second place in the National Ottawa Literary Festival,
2009. She has published a chapbook Nocturnal Laments and her
debut collection On the Wings of Dawn is forthcoming from
In Our Words Inc.
Featured below are translations of her poem Timeless Opulence in three languages.
Opulencia Eterna # 7
En la opulencia oscura
de la eternidad
Angustia absoluta
Paraliza mi integridad.
Sacudidas de llamas ardientes
Perforan mi pecho
Apuñalan mi dolor.
Al ojo desnudo,
Ninguna noción percibida.
Estimulado
Por intensidad sosa,
La saga terrible
altera mi subconsciencia.
La desesperación
Canta su réquiem.
Opulence Intemporelle
Dans une opulence noir
d’intemporelle,
angoisse absolue
paralyse mon intégrité.
Sursauts de flammes ardents
troue mon sein,
perce ma peine.
A l’oeil nu,
pas de notion remarquable.
Echauffé
par l’intensité fade,
l’événement terrible
modifie mon subconscient.
Le désespoir
lutte son chant funèbre.
Intramontabile Opulenza
Nell’opulenza scura
dell’intramontabile
l’angoscia assoluta
paralizza la mia integrità
Sbalzi di fiamme focose
penetrano nel mio seno,
accoltellano la mia tristezza.
Ad occhio nudo
nessuna nozione percepibile.
Eccitata
dall’intensità insipida,
l’orribile evento
altera il mio subconscio.
Non come una vedette affascinante
ma come creatura umile
rassegnata ad esistenza pura.
Sono i dei celesti che prescrivono questo?
Essere capace di piangere con dignità
senza nessuna ricompensa.
Ha tutto questo un significato profondo?
L’afflizione deve essere element
di divinità o d’infinità.
Che anima nobile sopportare tutto questo,
il viaggio eterno.
Obama Smile Touches World's Heart!
POETRY | By Frederick Rocque
That smile
Flashes warmth, a gleaming welcome
Reaches out, shakes hands with your heart
Eyes touch your soul
Gentle comfort from just a glance!
That smile
Melts cold, bruised hearts, instantly
Soothes minds heavy with envy and scorn
Twinkling eyes, brush aside invisible shackles
Of bitterness and regret
That smile
Is hope, inspiration and confidence,
Shatters stony walls of isolation, rejection
Eyes light up, open wonderful windows
To life, a celebration!
That smile
Braves biting cold on the campaign trail
Turns foes to friends, champions for change
Eyes clear, beacons to a radiant path
To a historic present, a welcoming future
That smile
Is charm etched in character
Bridging time, shrinking distance
Eyes commit, an unspoken oath
Wedding race, faiths, creed and culture as one holy union
A legacy for change, a promise for humanity!
Written as a tribute to US President Barack Obama, the images are
those the world witnessed on his campaign trail and during his
first 100 days in office. This poem was published in October 2009
in celebration of Obama being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize
after less than a year in office as the 44th president of the United
States. Obama's inspiring role and leadership mark a glorious era
in American history - indeed world history!
Apple Picking at Rougement
POETRY | By Patricia A McGoldrick
On Saturday morning
In Grandma’s white car
We drive for an hour to the Quebec orchard where
Rows of trees with shiny green leaves
Are waiting patiently for pickers and those who plunder while picking
Cherry red apples are dangling
Like taunting targets for eager grasping hands
Within an hour of autumn sun
We have heaping bushels and brimming baskets bursting with
Late Macs and early Northern Spies
Delightful Golden delicious and crunchy round russets
Waiting on the wagon—but, all too soon, it is time to go back to Montreal
Ladders are secured and
We climb down with care along the charcoal stems of the trees while
Stealthily reaching into a bulging denim pocket for that rounded morsel
Before it is shipped from the orchard to be crushed for a tin of juice
Or packed into the trunk for the long ride home.
Suddenly, I hear a crunch; furtively, I look around—
Then, I take another and another crisp crunch--
Who can resist that first bite?
• Published in Voices Israel Anthology 2009, p.150. Patricia A McGoldrick
writes poems, essays and reviews about history, nature. books and
people. Recently, her poems have been published in Frost and Foliage, Voices Israel Anthology 2009, Sleet Magazine, Irish American Post and
on other websites, including Chapter & Verse. Patricia is a member of
The Ontario Poetry Society (TOPS). She lives in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada.http://pmpoetwriter.blogspot.com, http://sites.google.com/site/pmpoetwriter
Maelstrom of Love
POETRY | By Gabriel Arntt
Two people meet—a familiar dance ensues, as old as time.
A touch of sky, a glimmer of hope that flashes across your face.
You can never find a proper name,
but the feeling always stays the same.
Muscles tense in anticipation and the skin quivers (you know what’s coming). Grant the mind its sudden elation and give in to the body’s celebration.
Lips part and breath comes heavy, slow, and labored.
The nervous laughter starts;
Neither one retreating nor making an advance.
A quick glance and both eyes lock.
A smile creeps across your face;
a mirrored reflection responds in kind.
Unspoken agreement crackles,
like the first streaks of lightning in a storm.
Finally, lips touch: the gentle first kiss of lovers
slowly soaking in the moment.
A storm of emotions, falling gently as the rain.
Chests begin to heave.
The heart beat quickens, racing towards the object of its affection,
but it sputters and trips with each electric connection of skin to skin.
Insecurities and fears are shed with the clothes that lie on the floor.
An act of trust, matched by no other; two souls rejoicing in their simplicity.
Bodies writhe and the temperature rises;
a sun burning brightly within the two.
Clouds disperse and life itself cries out in ecstasy.
This is sacred, this is pure.
Now the ocean recedes slowly, the tide returning to the vast deep.
Stars appear and twinkle with mirth.
Both bodies hug close in the afterglow of this momentous occasion.
An acceptance of release and an affirmation of humanity’s hope in its most heavenly form:
Love.
• Maelstrom of Lovewon third place in the Second Annual Love
Poem Contest. For the contest report, click here.
