Good evening to our lovely poet friends.  One of our own, Darlene Franklin, is in the hospital.  She left a very brief  message for us, letting us know that she feels she had a  “close call.”

Connie Peters  says this:  “FYI, I just learned from a friend, “Darlene Franklin is in the hospital with possible blood clots in her lungs. They’ve put her on blood thinners and diagnosed her with COPD and congenital heart failure. They are treating those and will send her home in a few days.”

Please  keep this gentle soul in your prayers, if you are the “praying kind,” and in your  good wishes, as well.   We will look forward to her return to grace us with her lovely blooms in our garden.


Here we are, a little further into the season. The remaining leaves have changed and the colors have achieved a more rich and deeper hue. So we go into the palette again and tap the crimson shade to give a bit more variety to our poetry. As always, go where your muse takes you and let us see your vision.


A Creator’s Palette (Sonnet to The Artist)

Describing “yellow” leaves in fall, for me,
Does not at all depict their cheerful gleam
As sunlight spills as liquid through the trees,
And they themselves could light the day, it seems.

So also “orange” can’t describe the bliss
That autumn’s gorgeous vista just compels.
And though I can’t rename it, I know this:
Fall’s celebrated color casts its spells.

My favored autumn shades though are the reds:
From rosy blush to crimson, fire-and-iced.
They fairly flaunt and flame as they turn heads.
There’s no way common “red” would have sufficed.

How can we label paints and pens of God
That leave us reverential, praise-filled, awed ?

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




The air is chilled.
Clouds in a hue of blue
that feels frigid, making
exposed digits ache and stiffen.
Autumn enters through
Summer’s rapidly closing door
and it’s true that fall may be hours old,
but the cold will have you believing
that looks are deceiving.
Summer is departing;
sheared down by the scythe of life.
Can a disheartening Winter be far behind?
I find that this respite is a diversion,
an excursion through these years of seasons.
No reason I can tell can suffice to quell
the brilliantly crimson leaves and the crystal ice .

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018


Here Blake wrestles with the inner struggles that friends present sometimes. And at times the resolution can have undesirable consequences. “A Poison Tree” sits at #78 on the Best 85 Poems.

William Blake


by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld its shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.