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Daily Archives: January 8, 2015



They are a gift I have wanted again.
Wanted: One moment in mountains
when winter got so cold
the oil froze before it could burn.
I chopped ferns of hoarfrost from all the windows   
and peered up at pines, a wedding cake
by a baker gone mad. Swirls by the thousand   
shimmered above me until a cloud
lumbered over a ridge,
bringing the heavier white of more flurries.
I believed, I believed, I believed
it would last, that when you went out
to test the black ice or to dig out a Volkswagon   
filled with rich women, you’d return
and we’d sputter like oil,
match after match, warm in the making.
Wisconsin’s flat farmland never approved:
I hid in cornfields far into October,
listening to music that whirled from my thumbprint.   
When sunset played havoc with bright leaves of alders,
I never mentioned longing or fear.
I crouched like a good refugee in brown creeks
and forgot why Autumn is harder than Spring.   
But snug on the western slope of that mountain   
I’d accept every terror, break open seals
to release love’s headwaters to unhurried sunlight.   
Weren’t we Big Hearts? Through some trick of silver   
we held one another, believing each motion the real one,   
ah, lover, why were dark sources bundled up
in our eyes? Each owned an agate,
marbled with anguish, a heart or its echo,   
we hardly knew. Lips touching lips,   
did that break my horizon
as much as those horses broke my belief?   
You drove off and I walked the old road,   
scolding the doubles that wanted so much.
The chestnut mare whinnied a cloud into scrub pine.   
In a windless corner of a corral,
four horses fit like puzzle pieces.
Their dark eyes and lashes defined by the white.
The colt kicked his hind, loped from the fence.   
The mares and a stallion galloped behind,   
lifting and leaping, finding each other
in full accord with the earth and their bodies.   
No harm ever touched them once they cut loose,   
snorting at flurries falling again.
How little our chances for feeling ourselves.   
They vanished so quickly—one flick of a tail.   
Where do their mountains and moments begin?   
I stood a long time in sharpening wind.

Roberta Hill Whiteman




steam engine designed by Thomas Newcomen 
It has been said that a watched pot never boils,
But that is a saying which is easy to gainsay,
For we are told that James Watt sat and watched the kettle boil,
And this led to the steam engines that we know today.
A steam engine had been designed by Thomas Newcomen many years ago,
It was used to lift water from out of his coalmine,
James Watt was employed to repair this machine,
From this he developed the modern steam condensing engine.
This idea was later adapted by George Stephenson,
Who designed the Rocket in collaboration with Robert his son,
History tells us that this was the first steam engine,
And that it ran on a track from Stockton to Darlington .
The development of the steam engine for use in transport,
Was the most important development since the invention of the wheel,
Since then there have been many innovations,
Who knows what the future will reveal?
We know that trains are running faster,
Their design is constantly being brought up to a date,
The rail system is forever being modernised,
Are these the reasons that so many of them are running late?
Train breakdowns, signal delays, power failure or the weather,
These are the excuses given to explain the delay,
Rail travellers are not impressed with the improvements,
What a pity the Stephenson and James Watt are not alive today.
Ron Martin

“Time” – Promote Yourself


Mammy’s Fever. Promote Yourself


Her small hands lift the cool, white sheets

their pastried skin,



Beneath folding, looping veins

bones of steel.

. . . .


thoughtful fingers

tapping lightly in little rhythms

begin gathering the cool sheets for rehearsal.

. . . .

Moving through time

they trace

the patterns of the life they now describe

. . . .

Outside the window,

the cat

that was never there


Mammy  dreams


in her hospital bed,


making pleats.

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo, professional cellist/pianist from Pennsylvania; amateur poet/essayist.

Amnesia Behind Enemy Lines-promote yourself

Spider in the Bed! -Promote Yourself

Seagulls Cry


The wind blows on cliffs so high

All you can hear is the seagulls cry

The crashing waves

Echoes in the smugglers caves

Children walking on the cobbled beach

You can hear the crunching

Beneath their feet

Fisherman trawling

Crabs are crawling

To escape

The fisherman’s bait

The sea is rolling waves so high

All you can hear is the seagulls cry

They sit and wait for the fisherman’s trawl

On Hastings cobbled beach at early dawn

Gillian Sims

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