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Poetry 3
Spring 2011



 Mountain Top Experience

         by    james   g.   piatt

 Umber colored oaks with soft fluttering leaves
 Silence the pain of my darkened thoughts,
 My tired and worried mind is bathed in peace:
 I leave my worldly cares far below
  As I listen to nature’s healing rhythms.

 A private abode mid pines and oaks
 Soothes my search for frantic pursuits that
 Lie far below these peaceful mountains,
 Up here only a silent stillness is heard,
 I forget to grasp happy hours, below.

 We rush through our daily lives
 Searching for life’s confusing answers,
 Up here warm soft winds, hot sun,
 Smells of musty pine and oaks
 Cleanse anxious hearts of their pain.

 Pinecones strewn like dark brown jewels
 Give my eyes a contemplative serenity,
 Footsteps on brown and gnarled bark,
 Peaks covered with soft silver mist
 Send inner vibrations to soothe my soul.

 My anxious mind rests in a gentle peace,
 Soft blue skies paint away my emptiness,
 I Pity those below, struggling with empty lives,
 Up here warm and silent waves of sun
 Wash my cares away, as my soul soars peacefully


Bio: James earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from Brigham Young University. Two of his relatives, John James Piatt and Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, were prolific poets who wrote their poetry in the eighteen hundreds. James is retired and spends his time in the summer sitting along side a river penning poetry and writing short stories and suspense novels. He has had over one hundred poems published in poetry anthologies, magazines, and journals.


The Elk River, Calm and Indifferent
      by Peter Goodwin
Under a cool winter wind and bright sky, the river sits still,
serene; seeing or doing nothing while winter has its sway, 
just a squawking gull piercing and disturbing the quiet, 
landing on the river, unsatisfied, screeching, taking off 
as a larger, darker gull approaches, a gull which is no gull at all
but an eagle, a young eagle not yet with its bright white head 
and tail. The raucous gull dogs and bombs the eagle 
as it circles pretending to ignore that wretched noisy gull, 
gliding down almost to the water and up again, circles, and 
dives again to the water, and up again, all the time tailed
by that gull and down again, this time catching a dead fish
in its talons, but dropping it, retreating to the trees that line 
the river bank, the gull returning to the river and its dead fish
loudly proclaiming possession, tearing at the flesh of the fish. 
The eagle returns, the gull takes off and their dance 
in the air continues, circling, weaving, gliding, the gull loud 
and aggressive, bobbing and dogging the eagle, the young 
eagle’s motion smooth and silent as it swoops down toward
the delectable dead fish, misses and tries again and misses yet 
again, retreating once more to the trees on the river’s bank, 
the gull noisily returns to its dead fish, as the current conveys 
it and its prize down stream, 
the young eagle watching warily, 
the river calm and indifferent.

Bio:Peter D. Goodwin resides in Maryland, close to the Chesapeake Bay, writes poetry while providing succulent treats for deer, rodents, birds and insects.Poems published in his chapbook, No Sense Of History; the anthologies: September eleven; Maryland Voices; Listening to The Water: The Susquehanna Water Anthology; Alternatives To Surrender; and various journals including:  Rattle, Scribble, MainStreet Rag, Dreamstreets, Lucidity, Bent Pin, lunarosity,Delaware Poetry Revire, Yellow Medicine Review, LunchLines, Memoir(and), Prints.


The Voyage
     by  Martin C. Rosner
I am overboard in open sea,
My empty little boat, serenely
Sailing out of sight, towards
Prospects I will never see.
Somehow I seem to understand
That all the years I thought
I was on land were really
On the sea, in an empty
Little boat, that was only
Lent to me.
It was mine for a time,
Though how that came to be
I do not know, and where
It’s going I will never be.
So now I float and wait
And look from sky to sea,
Waiting to awaken from the dream
Or sink back to sleep
To the depths that I call me.
Bio:  Martin C.Rosner,M.D.  The doctor's  poetry has been published in numerous magazines and newspapers including 17 poems in "The New York Times" and is currently part of the course in modern poetry at American International College. 



   by Clinton Van Inman



I’d rather be a handful of ashes

than a truckload of dust.


I’d rather be unknown

Than be a big bronze bust.


I’d rather be a blazing comet

Than a chilly moon.


I’d rather be a mountain lake

Than a city lagoon.


I’d rather be summer shower

Than a mighty monsoon.


I’d rather be too late

Than too soon.



I’d rather be a spermatozoon

Than a spittoon.



I’d rather be a knife

Than a spoon.


I’d rather be a sleep

Than a swoon.


But of all the things I’d rather be

I’d rather be with you.




Bio: Clinton Van Inman  is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida.  He is 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. He  was born in England, and considers himself the last of the beat generation and his  collection of poetry will be called “the Last Beat,” as  a  fight for the cause.