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Juliet’s Words


What dreams are these?

Talking with eyes closed.

Private and stolen pictures of love,

like an opera,

swaying with the power of language.

I will not cry.

I have a place in this kingdom.

Even if Shakespeare brings on the lines,

I will not die for you!



Wherfore art thou?


I will not die for you!

You, Romeo, thought more of yourself than I.

You, Romeo, failed to check my pulse!


Paula Curci

Spoken word artist, radio talk show personality, school guidance counselor, chapbook published, voted best female poet at “The Vault” in 1998 and 2003

Will O’ The Wisp


What is that light that limns the further hill?

Is it fulfillment of the thing I dream

A wonderous light, reflected from the still,

Enchantment of perfection, the soft gleam

Of Beauty’s pool, where I may drink my fill?


Perhaps, perhaps — or maybe it is just

The Phosphorescent glow that marks decay,

The hallowing of offal, flame of lust,

Made beautiful against the fading day.

But let your heart discover what it must.


Then shall I seek to follow where it goes,

Even though foulness mock me at the end?

Yes, for the most untutored gardener knows

Fertilization of the soil will lend

A brighter bloom to the most perfect rose.


Paula Clayton

Many awards won, leathercraft artist, former

radio talk show personality, was L.I.’s most

senior active performing poet (b. 1902 d. 2006)



I know it will be wonderful, I know

That to touch you and to stroke your hair

Would be ineffable joy — it was, and Heaven

Moved in my hands as they caressed your face.

As my lips clung to yours a million strings

Echoed the music vibrant in the air

Around us, swelling with our shared embrace

Into a poem of joy, that rose and grew

Ever more tenuous until it left

Earth for infinity, soaring into Space,

Leaving me breathless, lovesick, and bereft.

Waking, my mind, loathe to relinquish, clings

To the dream petitioned for so long.

Gently your arms enfold me, and I know

Sweet as the music, high as the rapture given,

That is but the prelude to our endless Song.


Paula Clayton



A bagel,

a simple bagel,

a strip of rawhide

rolled into a holey mass,

basted, blessed

with some sort of something

short of what would tempt you.


A bagel

stuffed into a corner of a room,

behind a door that never closed.

A bagel never tasted, never chewed.


You put it there,

hidden away for other days,

days that would not come to you.


This brings me to my mother’s things:

silver, china, golden rings.

These things she saved for other days,

days that she would never see.

These things she hid away for me.


Yolanda Coulaz

Many awards won, many publishing credits, first book ‘Spirits and Oxygen’ , second book ‘Reckoning’


Performance Poets Association®

A Poem


             a child

an idea

             an ideal

a potential


kicks around

and rolls

inside you


it burst forth

gasps for life





it evolves

            and expresses


listen to it,

            guide it,

let it grow,

it matures

            let it go

it exists

           on its



Peter V. Dugan

Poetry workshop leader, multiple PPA award winner, one book published