They gave me a treasure chest when I was born:
a gift of magic, traditions and the seeds of truth.
They added the passing of the seasons,
the rolling crescendos of thunderous storms and,
tucked away in a corner, cynical laughter,
dragons fire and theories of belief.
They gave me the blues of Debussy’s flute,
the copper gold savannah dawn, the aching
cry of choirs at midnight. The told me
stories of heroes, of the futility of battles
lost and won. They shared their histories with me
and images of those long departed.
They gave me feast days and funerals to add
to my treasure; whispered rustlings on cold
Christmas mornings. I added a gull’s cry, a favourite
book, tinsel, tinfoil, a shiny new pencil, crumpled
brown paper, silk and satin bows, blue ribbons
and a post card from a friend.
I put in shades and shadows and angels wings, sea shells,
walks by the sea, a baby’s cry, twinkling fairy lights,
hopes and dreams, special patterned stones and
the first written word. Three ghosts; past present
and future are all in here. Time to close the lid
and pass the treasure on – my task is done.
Sue Spivey writes in Yorkshire.
Last week we stopped at a motel
on the way to somewhere else. I booked
the room; you waited in the car.
When I came out you’d gone.
I did not come to where I knew you’d be
for fear of barging in on
some private grief,
one moment needed amongst the crowd
of other moments set to drown you.
When I thought it long enough
I found you rocking gently on the swing,
your limp feet dragging in the dust,
your eyes practising nothing.
You told me travel changes, you said,
that it moves you from then to now.
But when will it change?
The problem is not this restless movement
but what we find perpetually
at the end:
these empty swings, these static spaces,
reminding you of what,
and when,
and how.
Darren Coxon teaches English in an international school in Switzerland. He has had poetry published in Iota and The New Writer, and articles in the TES and the RPS journal.
We hope you enjoyed the first issue of Every Day Poets.
We have another great selection for you in December’s issue. K.C. Ball is back with a kind of recipe, really. (You should have time to rush out and stock up on the ingredients just before the holidays.) Errol Nimbly gives us a glimpse of Limerick lights. Rumjhum Biswas reminds us what it is like to be a child. Ron. Lavalette brings us the full atmosphere of the season and Mark Dalligan has a little gift for you to treasure on Christmas Day. Finally, Peggy Landsman offers some wisdom worth taking with you into the New Year.
Speaking of the New Year, it’s time to send us your Valentine verses–romantic or not so romantic, St. David’s Day, St Patrick’s Day, Chinese New Year, The Vernal Equinox–whatever. Remember we need to schedule in advance so if you want to target mid-summer, feel free.
On another note, we are gradually finding our feet now, so just a word from me about the developing ethos of this magazine:
It is our policy not to accept profanity either in the works we publish or on our forums. More than that, we at EDP believe in treating people with respect. Please remember that at the receiving end of every comment, behind every poem, there is a human being–someone very much like you, who puts pants on one leg at a time. We don’t expect you to like every poem but if you do not like one, please express yourself rationally and politely. We reserve the right to remove comments which we deem to be offensive.
If there is anybody out there who is familiar with the workings of Wordpress, and would like to help with setting up poems and sending out proofs, we’d love to hear from you. Apply to EDP’s editorial team at: everyone@everydaypoets.com.
May we wish those of you who celebrate it, a very Happy Christmas, and to all of you a Peaceful and Prosperous New Year.
December’s Table of Contents
| Dec 1 | Sue Spivey | The Keeper |
| Dec 2 | James Graham | Common Maple |
| Dec 3 | David M. Pitchford | Looking Back to a Lover Un-estranged |
| Dec 4 | Daniel Ausema | Running with the Eagle |
| Dec 5 | Catherine Langford | Rising Two Metres Rising |
| Dec 6 | Patrick Parr | The One that Got Away |
| Dec 7 | Lee Beavington | Venus |
| Dec 8 | Larry Anderson | Screws |
| Dec 9 | R Jay Slais | The Window Between |
| Dec 10 | Barbara Fletcher | Frame by Frame |
| Dec 11 | Steve Goble | Ohio Autumn 2008 |
| Dec 12 | Lorette C. Luzajic | The Meaning of Zoe |
| Dec 13 | Kaolin Imago Fire | Not the Last Flight of Icarus |
| Dec 14 | kc heath | Monday Eve |
| Dec 15 | K.C. Ball | Witches’ Brew |
| Dec 16 | L R Humphries | The Whisper of Fingertip |
| Dec 17 | Joan Ryder | Do I Really Want to Be Festive? |
| Dec 18 | Barbara McGinley | Abysmal Christmas |
| Dec 19 | Errol Nimbly | Tizzy Season |
| Dec 20 | Robin V. Herrnfeld | Incongruous |
| Dec 21 | Jason L. Huskey | The Cross |
| Dec 22 | Rumjhum Biswas | What the Child Does |
| Dec 23 | Tina Cole | Season’s Greetings |
| Dec 24 | Ron. Lavalette | Outside the Inn |
| Dec 25 | Mark Dalligan | Blue Christmas |
| Dec 26 | Aurelio Rico Lopez III | Unlocking the Galaxy |
| Dec 27 | Iagoybardd | Out With the Old |
| Dec 28 | Darren Coxon | Last Call Home |
| Dec 29 | Jeanne Holtzman | Contentment |
| Dec 30 | Davina Colpman | Threads |
| Dec 31 | Peggy Landsman | Dialogue |
a sub rosa rose
pyrus communis disrobed
blushing bright green
J.S. MacLean lives and works in Calgary, Alberta with his wife Grace. He has published is a variety of print media including but not restricted to literary journals. He likes short.
He likes to say
he likes her like
he likes blueberries
on his cornflakes and
he’s always quick
to rave about the blueberries
Ron. Lavalette lives in the Northeast Kingdom region of Vermont, barely a snowball’s throw from the Canadian border. His work has appeared in dozens of print journals such as The Anthology of New England Writers, The Comstock Review, EDGZ, Lynx Eye, Maelstrom, The Pine Island Journal, and Raintown Review, among others; his work has also appeared in pixel form at Able Muse, Conspire, The Country Mouse, Crescent Moon Journal, MiPo, New Works Review, The Orange Room Review, The Writer’s Hood, and many other online venues.
Drip
upon
drop becomes
a flow too strong
to stop, a river
swirling sweeping muddy
mass, water tumbling tossing
torrents tearing trees unearthing,
hurtling rocks head over heels driving
death downhill, devastatingly destroyed.
American born and raised, Robin V. Herrnfeld has spent most of her adult life in Germany. Always an avid reader and interested in writing, she has started writing short fiction herself. Most recently she has been trying her hand at poetry.
Heaven’s crossing guards
Demand you do not cross
Yet, the begotten son
Paid the ticket’s cost.
William Soule is a Filipino-American poet from the northern regions of Utah. His works have appeared in Read This Magazine, elimae, Tattoo Highway, and the delinquent, among others.
(On Degas’ “Woman at the Bath”)
Sure. It’s hell on my posture, posing this
way: back bent, breasts dangling like grape clusters,
feet shriveled from water too cool to stand
or soak in. Back aching, my head’s lighter
with each passing moment, cheeks rosy red
from blood rushing to my face, though I’ll not
blush to save my life! My hips and knees ache
to beat the band. All for his stroking hand.
But a girl doesn’t get to be immortal
sitting around waiting on Romeo
or Don Quixote to come tilt dragons
‘neath her tower. No. Paint and poetry
keep a girl’s hair from grey, face from wrinkles
and a hag’s mask. Art is Youth’s truest Fountain.
David M Pitchford is a poet, editor, and novelist living in the Midwest.
dew on a spider’s web
cool morning breeze
stirs emerald leaves
fairy wings flutter
tangled in the mesh
Aurelio Rico Lopez III is a self-diagnosed scribble junkie from the Philippines. His poetry has been featured in various audio books, magazines, anthologies, and e-zines. He has received honorable mentions for poetry in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthologies. He has also authored two haiku chapbooks, entitled JOLTS and SHOCKS (Sam’s Dot Publishing).
She found me in a newspaper, next
to the star signs, but really, I read her:
shards of grey in her fringe, forty, maybe fifty,
too tired to dye: nobody left to impress.
Wait, wait – there is someone coming through
the mist between this world and the next.
Put your hands in mine, please.
Hers are wrinkled detergent dry by immersion in sudsy water.
That’s right. It’s a he. His name, I think–
begins with D. No, wait, C.
Watching, watching close, for the flicker
in the eyelid, for the tugdown of her lips.
Yes, C. He was older than you. Hang on,
younger. Much younger and very ill.
My son, she says, every breath a heave.
My little son. He came out wrong, but we gave
him a name anyway, for the vicar to read out.
He wants you to know–
Feel the pulse in her fingers, dit ditdit dit, a flutter
of iron in soft tissue. Pain is profit: I can see the future, and
those digits dip deep down baggy pockets.
He wants you to know that you are not to worry.
That he loves you and he is safe and free from hurt.
The arches of her wavering nostrils flare pink;
I pick at a stitch gone septic inside a psychic wound.
Thank you, she says. Your words are a miracle.
But the rustle of money sounds more magic to me.
Rhian Waller recently earned an English Literature and Creative Writing BA, and is about to begin a Postgrad doctorate in Creative and Critical writing. Rhian has produced stories of various quality since the age of five, has published a handful of poems in magazines such as Cause and Effect and The Harrow, and would very much like to publish some more.
