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Purple Mountain




it was


from the death

of an old woman

from a young betrothed

of her employer an exporter

of Ligurian stems that stem steps,

sloping seaward, from ashes, scattered, clusters,

purple tones vined in sympathy of a grand Matriarch’s passing

branching from the gnarled trunk, vivid memories flourish a quarter of a century

rising scaling, sprayed by Mediterranean misted mornings.  Then twenty five, fifty, married

the giver of life landscaping the wall ascending his throne with crowning young shoots blooming



Through the years, spectacular tropical, thorned, evergreen, woody vine,

spines, climb the wall beyond the Auto Strada in San Remo,

mapping the journey uphill to Coldiroti, home of his

grandmother, past the Church of St. Anne, beside

the hill round the curve where we stopped,

let the old man carrying white lilies cross

the road, across iron gates,

the cemetery, her grave,

etched family name,

cut stone, growing

black and white from

the same earth as the


he planted.


Lorraine Conlin

Fourth place winner of The Lake Poetry Contest, editor of

‘The Plover’ newsletter, director of membership for the

Long Island Writers Guild



That greatest of landscapers


always ready

moves to fill in

after we scar the earth

with our practical projects

softens the stark retaining wall

with graceful Virginia creeper

covers the spaces between paved roads

with grasses, ferns and wildflowers

sends vines up naked poles

embracing even unseen wires

camouflages blind, utilitarian buildings

with gregarios green on green

-- fulfilling her own capricious delight

heedless of audience.


Charlene Babb Knadle

college professor, publishing credits, editor, nominated for a Pushcart prize

Performance Poets Association®



Stern as his countenance seemed to be,

G’ampop’s gaze was turned from me.

No look of love for a wondering tot,

Only a glare that left me weak.


Now, in death, he cannot see;

My grandfather’s eyes are closed to me.


Imprisoned emotions never set free,

G’ampop’s touch was held from me.

Around my shoulders it circled not,

Nor ever stroked me on the cheek.


Locked now by the bonds of eternity;

My grandfather’s arms are closed to me.


With voice that uttered not one plea,

G’ampop’s thoughts were shut to me.

Their warmth to know was not my lot,

No love for me did that voice speak.


The argument sealed with finality;

Mu grandfather’s lips are closed to me.


Now I’ll never know with certainty,

If my grandfather’s heart was closed to me.


David A. Egan

Poet since age 8, writer of romantic melancholy genre, one book published ‘Dremer’



“I love him,”

she says to me

wrapping her arms around him

in an exuberant hug.


I watch his impassive face,

see the dead eyes

waiting for her

to release him from the grip

clutching the bond

slipping away,

a husband

already gone from her life


we stand on the sidewalk

speak of cinch bugs

gnawing at our lawns

slugs devouring our dahlias


damage done stealthily

night after night

in the dark, unseen

until it is too late.


Lola Ferris

Poetry award winner, Taproot workshop leader

Future Memory


What was I doing when I died?

Hiding?  Cowering?  Praying for reprieve?


“I want to get old and gray,” I said.

“Bent with age too heavy to sustain.”


“You did,” said death.  And held

A mirror to my face.


I did not recognize

The person whose reflection shown.


Believed it not myself I saw.

Relieved, said, “Yes.  Take her instead of me.”


I sighed.

Death laughed,

            and set me free.


Beverly E. Kotch

Prose writer with many publishing credits, member of the Farmingdale creative writing group, many awards won