March Newsletter

Page 1

March, 2018

Volume 1, Issue 3

Late Night Poets Spotlight Poet


lege for the trades and

and Andi, they high-

some university as an

lighted my poetry and I

english major.

will be forever grateful." Dan describes the LNP

he started writing po-

poets as "a great group etry at the age of 17 and of friends that share says that he became laughter and poetry" hooked on writing po-

he says his most valuable

etry when his first true

experience in the LNP

love wrote a poem for

group has been being


part of the scene every Thursday.

Dan Noble, age 49

Dan joined the LNP

from Ontario Canada

group in late 2016 and

On A.llpoetry we know Dan

Dan was published in his

first called the LNP radio university newspaper shows at the end of where he was editor of

as Dayenoble

April 2017

the arts section for a couHe says "I will never for- ple of years he is not curget that, with Cheryl rently seeking publica-

Dan is a CNC machinist his education includes col-


Happy March... Hey Everyone, Welcome

Many thanks to all that

To Issue 3 of Our Newslet- participated in the picter, hope everyone liked

ture challenge. Happy

Issue 2 as much as I did.

St. Patrick’s Day Much

So much great poetry .

Love To All ... 1

Read More..

Volume 1, Issue 3


drift on zephyrs By: Dayenoble

drift on ripples towards the sand beach

this grey epoch where I stand

where echoes of children play

fallen snowflake on hot sand

in serpentine daydreams

sublimation to the sky drift on zephyrs where am i?

where maple leaves bleed on the cross of a south westerly

over cliff bluffs through the trees


sweeping branches touching leaves

and monarchs float silently above

lifting white clouds rising fast

charting a path to the sinking sun

to the alpine mountain pass

whispering warnings of a dawning chill

glacial views to explore with the eagles I will soar

where dew of an early frost

as the jet stream pushes on

drips off canoes

singing wheat fields prairie song

stacked in even rows colour coded

golden grasses sway and yield

with a candy sense

to the ancient rocky shield

by teenaged camp conselors

adorned with pines pikes and loons

swimming in youth

howling timbers silver moons where sharp finned sunfish great lakes swelling spilling forth

flicker rainbow hues

draining rivers of the north

with cirrus clouds

flowing seaward brackish swill

above the metallic lake

filled with wreckage of man’s will

in surface reflections

in the oceans floating graves

where the harvest moon rises

join the coastal crashing waves

over the hemlock grove

form to formless reasons nigh

crooning opal love songs

drift on zephyrs never die

of a summer softly fading where the swirling sound of a lacquered black cherry paddle gurgles behind and whispers voices into the evening ice as an iridescent damselfly drowns in memories


March , 2018

Poets By” Dayenoble We are the losers of the literary landscape misfits and castaways caught on the archipelago that stretches out between the shallow seas of pulp fiction and the self-contained Marianas Trench of classic literature We are the cowlick on the chess club president’s head sticking out where few notice as a sweaty pulsating palm tries to press us into the prosaic form of pragmatic paragraphs and punctuation We are the broccoli and turnips of a teenager’s diet forced down with plugged noses and pale squinting eyes as minutes of meh and have mercy become hours of lost time in a flogged thesis that’s gleefully shredded at semester’s end We are the dusty exhibit of local curiosities found in the basement of the writer's museum where leather patches and tweed adorn aging professors of knowledge croaking grey interpretations to curtains of cornered spider webs We are the kirschwasser in the liquor cabinet the gospel hymn vinyl records in the thrift store the horehound candy in our grandmother’s purse the plastic sealed magazines adrift in the ocean of recyclables and the sole reason we pay for the privilege of publication

Volume 1, Issue 3

March, 2018

March 17th is Saint Patrick's Day celebrating the patron saint of Ireland. His father was a deacon and his grandfather, a priest. It is written that at the age of 17, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Gaelic Ireland for six years. It was during that time that he 'found God'. It is declared that God told him to flee, so he returned home and became a priest. The custom of "drowning the shamrock" was historically popular in Ireland. At celebrations end, a shamrock is put into the bottom of a cup and filled with whiskey, beer, or cider. It's then drunk as a toast to St Patrick or those present. The shamrock would either be swallowed with the drink or taken out and tossed over the shoulder for good luck. Today, because of that tradition, as Christians attend church, Lenten restrictions on eating and drinking alcohol are lifted for the day and on St Patrick's Day, it is customary to wear shamrocks, green clothing or green accessories. St Patrick is said to have used the shamrock, a three-leaved plant, to explain the Holy Trinity. By: Deborahlee 3

March, 2018

Volume 1, Issue 3

We Kill It Wit Whiskey By: JRC What da we do, boys, when we got some t'ings ta build? We rattle our dags! We sharpen our axe! And when we got da rains o'comin' and da rivers o'er flowin'?

I’m Paddy Flynn McMichael…. By: CCPoems4U I’m Paddy Flynn McMichael, And me stories rather grim. Me Family’s reputation Goes back to me Uncle Jim.

We got more sand then sense! and so's we stay out stackin' sacks!

Me fist be known for Donegal, Down to Kilkenny town.

And what da we do, boys, when our is-

And ner there ever been a

land needs a wall? We rattle our dags! We pound out bricks!

man, To knock ol Paddy down.

And I’ve not seen you around. She answered, your that bully, From the other side of town. My life it flashed before me eyes, She’d put me in my place. I knew that I had met my match, In that angelic face.

And when the fever hits da town, and we can't keep notin' down? We kill it wit whiskey! We kill it wit whiskey!

Me stubborn Irish temper, had got me in some scuffs But when it came to fightin, Seemed I never had enough.

What da we do, boys, when the barns are all on fire? We rattle our dags! We save da horses! And when da English come ashore, and

From boxing rings to taverns, And Pubs throughout the land. Many a man had come to

they calls your Ma a liar? Ask he wants a kuckle supper! Den we hit

town, To test ol Paddy’s hand.

em a fecking clatter! Last Sunday walking home And what da we do, boys, when are football teams a won? We rattle our dags! We're downin' the

from church, I spied a wee girl walkin‘. I smiled and said Good morn-

black! When Mary's left ya broken, and ya heart

ing Miss, And we commenced to talkin‘.

has come undone? We kill it wit whiskey!

I said, me name is Paddy, 4

Somehow that fateful meeting, Has truly changed my life. No more drinkin, no more brawlin, And that girl became my wife. As a tough guy, once upon a time, I’ll try to make this clear. When she asks domestic questions, My answer is “Yes Dear”

Volume 1, Issue 3

March, 2018

St Jude’s Children’s Hospital

By: Deborahlee

In 1957, the one and only Danny Thomas founded the American Lebanese Syrian Associated Charities (ALSAC), which helped him realize a dream. and also aided the fundraising organization of St. Jude. Since St. Jude opened its doors in 1962, ALSAC has had the responsibility of raising the necessary funds to keep the hospital open. St. Jude Children's Research Hospital is a pediatric treatment and research facility focused on children's catastrophic diseases. The hospital costs about $2.4 million a day to run, and there is NO cost to be treated. Founded in 1962, by Danny Thomas, with help from Lemuel Diggs and close friend, Miami, Florida, automobile dealer Anthony Abraham, on the premise that "no child should die in the dawn of life". His daughter Margo Thomas now champions the cause. St. Jude services the US and more than 70 other countries and has completely changed how doctors treat children with cancer and catastrophic illnesses. Although it was named after Thomas's patron saint, St. Jude is not a Catholic hospital and is not affiliated with any religious organization. They've made great strides with their discoveries over the years and by increasing the survival rate in the most common childhood cancers, seeing it rise from 20 percent survival to 80. Doctors all over the world consult with St. Jude staff on their toughest cases. St. Jude Thaddeus, cousin of Jesus and one of his Twelve Apostles, is the patron saint of hopeless, desperate situations and lost, impossible, or forgotten causes ...the name “Jude” means “giver of joy,” “Thaddeus” means “generous” and “kind.” St. Jude is also the patron saint of hospitals and hospital workers. 5

Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 23

March Picture Prompt

February March2018 2018



By: Scarlet Victoria

her blood orange lips search for her hunter's laser to

Gwendoline rises,

but he's blind in marshland swamps of a forest like

she's the nymph of gazebo woodlands,



siren of bud beds on green covered seas, winter's daughter with waterfall mist for a veil

Gwenny summons,

that breathes warmth into frozen lily pads at her

she's the keeper of spells that march in some heat,


and softens the edges of snow that flows into rivers. Tree posture and patience casts a call to the light 'love air' sending chardonnay doves into flight.

Little 'doline poses, wears crushed chestnuts and licorice roots on her

Three personas...a nymph...a siren...and...

head, and peaks through camouflage hazel at her spring 6

Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 32

February March ,2018 2018

Purity Goddess By: Dragon Sorceress

Wrapped in Green By: Deborahlee

Purity goddess dressed in white

Mother earth kisses the grey world every spring landscape pigments explode and katydid sing a lily pad pathway meets thick clover leaf trail out by rainbow arches as white turtle doves wail

Her beauty will compel Serenity she did invite In this glade she will dwell Old black magic has been dismissed Her cleansing rituals assist Old Black magic Old black magic

lighted whitewash gazebo dresses in accessories moss

By white magic she has been kissed

wooded treeline dotted with sprouted saplings trees toss Purity Goddess dressed in white

cool water cascades and climbing ivy grows sharp thorns

She makes ill creatures well

the brunette forest princess whispers songs to unicorns

Helping the doves achieve their flight Assistance she’ll excel

as she casts her spells into horizon batting satin eyelashes the people scout gold filled pots that a leprechaun stashes to mark the Ides of March, shamrocks and St. Patrick

Saving the doves first on her list The pure white doves she will enlist Saving the doves Saving the doves Purity spread she does persist

we tint beer clothes and food green in a color 'hat trick'. Purity Goddess dressed in white Evil she will dispel An incantation she’ll recite Intoned white magic spell She knows evil really exists Clearing away black magic mist She knows evil She knows evil She is a white witch that’s the twist


Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 32

February March,2018 2018

Pursuit laud By: AP Taylor A delicate grotto frames a verdant scene in waterfalls spilling, as lazily waters teem. Grecian is the abode boughs under bless, white to fore stately is a magical goddess. In place of sanctuary in trees witness calm change here is rare, seldom raise an alarm. Suddenly a call to bring experts with gloves over past few days place infested by doves. Find are in under the marble column weave by cajoling of feathers stains they all leave. Making a fluttering mess of pristine waters in fouling hands and totality of her quarters. As workman appeared to resolve messing with overalls, equipment, net to a blessing. First went to gather, in next wild seed baits but still no break from the cooing ingrates. In extra vans sent from Dan the Dove Man new plan hatched to remove a whole clan. As from back of a truck wild eagle soared doves turned tail, eagle god, pursuit laud.


Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 32

Famous Poet

February March, 2018 2018

Seamus Heaney an Irish poet, playwright and translator was born April 13th 1939 in CastleDawson North Ireland Heaney received various awards in his lifetime including the Nobel prize for literature in 1995 and is acknowledged as being a paramount contributor to the world of poetry. American poet Robert Lowell described Heaney as "the most important Irish poet since Yeats" One of the most extraordinary things about Heaney was that the style and subject matter of his poetry appealed to critics, academics and the common reader. He often wrote of the culture of modern Northern Ireland, essayist Richard Murphy described Heaney "as the poet who has shown the finest art in presenting a coherent vision of Ireland past and present. Heaney died August 30th 2013 and on his headstone is engraved these words from his poem The Gravel Walks, "Walk on air against your better judgment" Information taken from Death of a Naturalist BY SEAMUS HEANEY Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was All year the flax-dam festered in the heart

Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too

Of the townland; green and heavy headed

For they were yellow in the sun and brown

Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.

In rain.

Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun. Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles

Then one hot day when fields were rank

Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.

With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs

There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies,

Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges

But best of all was the warm thick slobber

To a coarse croaking that I had not heard

Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water

Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.

In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring

Right down the dam gross bellied frogs were cocked

I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied

On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:

Specks to range on window sills at home,

The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat

On shelves at school, and wait and watch until

Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.

The fattening dots burst, into nimble

I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings

Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how

Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew

The daddy frog was called a bullfrog

That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

And how he croaked and how the mammy frog 9

Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 32 Casualty

His turned back watches too:


He was blown to bits

The blurred mesh and murmur

Out drinking in a curfew

Drifting among glasses


Others obeyed, three nights

In the gregarious smoke.

He would drink by himself

After they shot dead

How culpable was he

And raise a weathered thumb

The thirteen men in Derry.

That last night when he broke

Towards the high shelf,

PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,

Our tribe’s complicity?

Calling another rum

BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday

‘Now, you’re supposed to be

And blackcurrant, without

Everyone held

An educated man,’

Having to raise his voice,

His breath and trembled.

I hear him say. ‘Puzzle me

Or order a quick stout By a lifting of the eyes

February March,2018 2018

The right answer to that one.’ II

And a discreet dumb-show

It was a day of cold

Of pulling off the top;

Raw silence, wind-blown

I missed his funeral,

At closing time would go

surplice and soutane:

Those quiet walkers

In waders and peaked cap

Rained-on, flower-laden

And sideways talkers

Into the showery dark,

Coffin after coffin

Shoaling out of his lane

A dole-kept breadwinner

Seemed to float from the door

To the respectable

But a natural for work.

Of the packed cathedral

Purring of the hearse...

I loved his whole manner,

Like blossoms on slow water.

They move in equal pace

Sure-footed but too sly,

The common funeral

With the habitual

His deadpan sidling tact,

Unrolled its swaddling band,

Slow consolation

His fisherman’s quick eye

Lapping, tightening

Of a dawdling engine,

And turned observant back.

Till we were braced and bound

The line lifted, hand

Like brothers in a ring.

Over fist, cold sunshine



On the water, the land

To him, my other life.

But he would not be held

Banked under fog: that morning

Sometimes, on the high stool,

At home by his own crowd

I was taken in his boat,

Too busy with his knife

Whatever threats were phoned,

The Screw purling, turning

At a tobacco plug

Whatever black flags waved.

Indolent fathoms white,

And not meeting my eye,

I see him as he turned

I tasted freedom with him.

In the pause after a slug

In that bombed offending place,

To get out early, haul

He mentioned poetry.

Remorse fused with terror

Steadily off the bottom,

We would be on our own

In his still knowable face,

Dispraise the catch, and smile

And, always politic

His cornered outfaced stare

As you find a rhythm

And shy of condescension,

Blinding in the flash.

Working you, slow mile by mile,

I would manage by some trick

Into your proper haunt

To switch the talk to eels

He had gone miles away

Or lore of the horse and cart

For he drank like a fish

Or the Provisionals.

Nightly, naturally

Dawn-sniffing revenant,

Swimming towards the lure

Plodder through midnight rain,

Of warm lit-up places,

Question me again.

But my tentative art


Somewhere, well out, beyond...

Volume Volume 1 1 Issue Issue 32

February March, 2018 2018


Volume 1 Issue 3

March, 2018

From Down Under… By: AP Taylor We used to all have a perception of our Governments in Australia. Widely considered a boring conversation topic, but still competent, in a sort of “I’m studying Macroeconomics”, kind of way. As we claimed some form of perceived moral superiority. “In the news today, politicians in Moldova have had a fist fight in parliament.” And so the silent sniggers would escalate and the eyebrows would ever so slightly be raised by the newsreader. As citizens, we have steadfastly feigned interest in politics. It is not even discussed at the dinner table. It is distasteful, like talking about a blocked drain when consuming food. I have no idea who my parents voted for to this day. Until we get to the compulsory voting on election days, where the stick is a $110 fine if you do not vote. The carrot being, once you had the ballot paper, you have officially voted and could turn the paper into a work of art or a rant against the Westminster system. Somewhere around one in ten chose this approach at the last election. They say that politicians are a mirror to your community as a whole. On that basis we have a nation that is rubbish at homework. Four elected officials have been punted from our Parliament in the last year for not checking they were dual citizens. That is they said they were only Australians, but in reality were also Brits, Kiwis or Italians. This episode played out in the High Court, when we had a 41 year old representative (a man of course) claiming, Po faced, that his Mum had sought Italian residency for him without letting him know, two years earlier. It is no surprise that our reported country educational achievement levels are falling or that women are seeking higher office more. On the basis, if nothing else, that it means their sons will not fill the seats, or start a fist fight with a next door neighbor. All power to them, AP


Volume 1 Issue 3

March, 2018

LATE NIGHT POETS Contact Info: Thanks To All That Make This Happen…

PamRay Deborahlee AP Taylor *hug*z & *love*

Contest Pages All Host / Hostesses Luyu WildDove Contests Agressman Contests Deborahlee Contests IffUrAbs Contests Pam Ray Contests Fillmyeyes Contests AP Taylor Contests Greyeyes Smith Contests JHatter Contests Andy, Mindy, Cheryl Contests 13