Fall 2013 Issue No. 8

word fountain fall 2013 issue no. 9

Editors: Rachael Goetzke, Iris Johnston, Jessica Kush, Edward Lupico

“Though the winds of change may blow around you,
but that will always be so”*



This issue is lovingly dedicated to the memory of Timothy Allen Harris


Born:  November 4, 1982

Died:  September 13, 1999

cat cover photo art:  Rachael J. Goetzke

copyright Osterhout Free Library (c) 2013

*Led Zeppelin_“In the Light”_Physical Graffiti_Swan Song, 1975.



A POEM for HALLOWEEN Charles O’ Donnell  
A Demon’s Treat Carol MacAllister  
A Son Jennifer Hill  
A Journey to the Buddha William Harrison  
May God Bless You Now and Hereafter Lisbeth Gelatt  
Fall Quake Tornieri  
Autumn Requiem Rachael Goetzke  
On Fall Scuter Tornieri  
Watch Out For Witches Adrian Spendlow  
Stranded in Scoville Carl Albright  
Attack of the Trednods Carol MacAllister  
Poem for Japan, March 2011 Dittow Tornieri  
NOVEMBER SECOND Charles O’Donnell  
Lonely Willow Tornieri  
Meet Your Editors    

A POEM for HALLOWEEN     by Charles O’Donnell

Subtracting matter,
making you by taking
away from you,
I cut you with a knife.
A stabbing craniotomy
scoops out your useless brain.
I slice your nose,
your sightless stare triangular,
a gash of jagged grin.
Seeds like spit-out-teeth
I scatter.
East of yellow, west of red–
your pumpkin color–keep.

Empty now,
your carved out space ignites
an inner light–
this candle making whole
your hollowness.




A Demon’s Treat           by Carol MacAllister


Fresh newt’s eyes and frog legs flinch

while boiling in the brew,

Spells are cast on howling winds,

There darts a trick or two.


Trouble lurks at every turn,

unknowing victims race

from moaning dead, banshee cries,

monster’s snarling chase.


Autumn’s rustling branches drone

at demons overhead

on ancient brooms, phantom steeds,

Rousing up the dead.


Strange, how innocence is lured

to wander through dark streets,

Each year, a few just disappear,

Snatched! – a demon’s treat.




A Son     by Jennifer Hill


Bar none, hands down, he has the happiest face in the history of punctuation.

Period? Not that end mark, full stop of forever. A comma, like the pause

that happens in a film where the director left the sky for the viewer to consider.

His face makes you want to write love letters to the world, gives you the feeling

that a grain of sleepy sand from his eye contains the universe. One yawn

and the entire court of your heart kneels. This is the light that clubs you to death.

You sense the great supervisor of your life
working at the file cabinet,

shifting your childhood, your young adulthood to the back to make room

for what will be his key years, your responsibility. It’s yours to hold and keep,

to match or un-match with what your parents did for you. His face is the happiest


note in all of music, in every song ever sung, even in his wailing, which reaches

a volume that makes the dog’s ears tilt and the cat scuttle under the bed. You asked

for spring and got all the seasons fast forwarded, but his face calms you, slows

the chatter in your head, casts a spell on reality. He is the dream that seals

the story, stacks the deck in your favor. If the devil himself had presented him

to you in the basement, filled with its spiderwebs of cunning,

you would have swaddled the boy and run. His face is the comma,

his face is the first brick of your foundation, his face is every seed

of the possible, and he came from you. Just you.





A Journey to the Buddha     by William Harrison


A perilous pathway wound its way

up a mountainside in Uijongbu.

Patient pilgrims plodded with staggering steps

along the dizzying precipice, fearful of falling.

Clinging to the mountain, sacred sites

gave haven from the punishing rays of the merciless sun,

or drenching torrents of flooding monsoon rain.

Food and drink were the comforts holy hermits offered,

asking nothing in return but pilgrims pray for them.

At the top the Buddha sat in splendor;

silent, stone-faced, staring eternally out

from a temple hewn of pine trunks painted red;


its lacy walls were inlaid with golden symbols.

Spirit-stoppers, in the form of savage serpents,
crouched on the roof

guarding the worshippers from lurking evil.

As from an infinite distance the Buddha watched

celebrants genuflecting on the stone floor at his feet

making obeisance to what they thought he was.

Unenlightened soldiers at the mountain’s base jumped
into their jeeps

and sped hastily to the Buddha, not realizing

that the journey was the goal.



This poem was written as a meditation on a pilgrimage to the
Buddhist temple north of Seoul, Korea while I was stationed with the 2d Division Artillery in 1980.





May God Bless You Now and Hereafter.     by Lisbeth Gelatt

American Soldier.

He was Not the first, God no.

It was very nearly tradition.

He lovingly polished the muzzle

ceremoniously blued just days before,

the one that echoed in his mind.

She nearly flexed her beautiful figure

in his mind,

caressed his hand, in his mind cried out

Choose Me! Me!

I’ll do you good,


So he picked her right out of the lineup

of eternal lovers,

that collection he and his buddies accrued.

Some of them old friends, some trophies

some clutched desperately

in the middle of the night

against unwelcome company.


Oddly, the nightmares receded

once he knew, knew

the direction he’d go with his life.


Heh, heh. Funny. He joked to himself,

didn’t think of anything,

pictured cool desert stars at night,

palming her cool thigh.

Saw that towering wall of red sand

swallowing the barracks;

overtaking daylight;

scattering the pickup game;

Swallowing sound in that shushed roar;

Advancing surely and with infinite patience;

Sipping greedily the town outside;

Overtaking a woman, small boy,

his gunmetal lover.

His hand.


04/16/2012. In memory of PFC Gray, and all who fell to enemy fire after coming home.






Fall     by Quake Tornieri


This time of the year,

too clearly cold and heavy—
my window strategy time—
comes too soon.


Can spring hide forever?






Autumn Requiem     by Rachael J. Goetzke

In eighth grade, the jocks made fun of me because they knew my brother Jeremy was a “stoner.”  One day at the lunch table after their chiding, I was so angry I cried.  Tim, the smelly kid at the end of the table, said, “It’s okay, Rachael.  They’re just stupid.”
“Dude, your brother is so cool,” Tim told me in English class our junior year.  I gave him a foreboding look.  Within five minutes, he was having narcotic dreams.  It made me hurt.  I remembered that smelly kid (he didn’t smell anymore) who put his arm around me and told me not to worry about the stupid kids that made fun of me for having a “stoner” brother.
Every day during our 27-minute lunch our freshman year, Tim would bribe coins off multiple people to see how many Yoo-hoos he could buy by the end of the lunch period. One day, he’d bribed enough change for three and drank all of them.  He bounced through the lower commons on a sugar high.  He came up and put his arms around Lindsey and me and starting singing, “And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson…” and all three of us launched into, “JESUS LOVES YOU MORE THAN YOU WILL KNOW WHOA-oh-oh…” and finished the verse, at least.
I was walking from my‘86 VW Jetta fall when Tim caught up to

me on the sidewalk in early September of our senior year.  “Hey, Rachael.  You have a Jetta, too?”

“You’ve got one?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty shoddy but it gets me to school.  It’s an 85.  What’s yours?”


“So I’m going to a party out in a field somewhere this weekend.”

“Tim, be careful, okay?  I worry about you.”

“It’s cool.  Thanks.  Have a good weekend!”

“You too, Tim.”


My friend William called me that Sunday evening.  “Tim Harris died last night.”  Flashes of Friday’s early fall sunshine spread across my mind as I saw his strawberry blonde hair swinging into his freckled face.  Sobs came and I set the receiver on the bed.  Mom came into the room and took the phone from me.
“H-how did it happen?”  I replayed a few of his last words to me:  Cool.  I’m going to a party out in a field somewhere.

Mom had spoken with William before he called me.  “He was staying at his doctor’s house, ironically.  And he took too many pills.  They didn’t know until this morning but they said he died sometime Sunday night.”  Thoughts of my brother raced through my head.  I remembered Tim staring up at me with pinpoint pupils during the old broadcast version of The Scarlet Letter in English class the previous year. By the end of that year he had taken to using his leather jacket as a pillow.  My brother’s so cool, all right.  So cool he could be dead, like you, Tim.

Tim’s viewing was the first one I’d ever attended; Mom went with me.  I’d like to say I shouldn’t have gone but it did something important for me.  It instilled in me the firm belief that your last vision of someone should be of them when they are happy and alive.  The image of waxen post-mortem Tim is tattooed on the back of my retinas.  I still don’t have to close my eyes to see him laid out in his Hardee’s uniform clutching a tennis racket and his VW keychain.  Laid out.  What a funny term, if you think on it.  It sounds so inviting—like you’re having some posh party while
everyone is grieving.  I stared at his lifeless face for a long time.
Only a week after his passing, I said to my friend, Chris, “I know he’s in a better place.”

“He’s gone, Rachael,” Chris insisted.

“Yes, I’m aware.  I choose to believe he’s in a better place.”
“When people die, they’re just dead.  That’s it—the end. Game over,” he said.

Tears threatened my eyes, “No,” I argued he’s in a better place.”  Before I finished my sentence, tears spilled over my cheeks.

Chris retreated, only a little, “Well, that’s foolish,” he said.  But then he dropped it.  I can’t accept the idea that nothing exists after this life.  My faith is too strong and “I shall not be moved,” as the old hymn professes.  I still believe people who have passed on are watching over us.  Mom shares this belief and has often said that she feels like her first love, Danny, is still looking after her.  Many people doubt the afterlife for animals but I refuse to believe in any other fate.  I’m quite assured that my dear, sweet cat, named Snakes, is watching over me, and always will be.

Sitting in the pew at Tim’s wake must have been eerie for her.  As we sat together I saw a girl clutching an older man.  She was unrecognizable in her grief.  “Daddy just tell me he’s sleeping,” she kept wailing.  This incident was actually more disturbing than Tim’s waxen face so artificially at peace.  I later found out this was Jessie and her father was the doctor who’d been allegedly been   allowing Tim to crash in the barn and also provided him with illicit substances that may have incited his death.


It took me about five years to write about Tim’s passing.  One

beautiful fall day after poetry class in college I summoned up that

September just a few years before:


Autumn Requiem

Silence deafened the day

The leaves danced to the ground—

Kamikaze pilots in a perishing pirouette

Dive and plie among the trees       the gentle breeze

Sang a song for you

My childhood friend slipped her hand in mine

The warmth colored my hand with comfort

As the fading day drained the color from your once-green



The single rose shattered the silence


as I set it on your cedar bed

And the benevolent moon strolled up on the scene to bid


the fallen leaf goodnight.

He’s in the passing leaves now.






ON FALL     by Scuter Tornieri

Disappointment speaks of change.
Clover time and garden time are over for now.
Flying time finds animals leaning to the south
or under the cooling ground.

Below, turtles, hide alone
In necessary sleep.






Watch Out For Witches     by Adrian Spendlow


Watch out for witches whirling about

Creeping and flying and leaping right out.


The warty, the shorty, the wily stick thin

All have a pot to boil you in.


With a hubble, a bubble, steaming it all

They creep up behind in the woods or the hall.


Whizzing on bristles, being cats or a hare

A whisk of a whisper they’re suddenly there.


Wizened and beaky with gleaming mad-eyes

Surprisingly silent till they screech a cry.


With a wriggle, a giggle, a wiggle of wand

Oops!  You’re a frog and you live in a pond!


We dance with a cackle and cast a wild eye

“We are the witches,” we scream and fly by.






Stranded in Scoville     by Carl Albright


No matter how comfortable

you feel in this present,

never give in

to a habanero dare.


Even when you’re sitting in

the Hard Rock Café of Niagara Falls,

beneath the slight shadows of

a Jimmy Hendrix hollow body.

No matter how innocent



finger-sized pepper looks,

their numbers

tell nothing about

what it feels like,

to have the immediate future

seared out in a stream of tears,

a pitcher of Budlight,

handfuls of hard rolls,

and yet another

never-again promise.







Attack of the Trednods     by Carol MacAllister


The rally ring of roses rang

While cockle crows shined purple fangs

All readied to save Starkle Tweak

A quiet place where Trednod feet

Can turn the drifting silent dins

Into a month of rattle grins.


“No rattle grins,” the slithers cried,

“The Trednod march.  We need to hide,

or be trampled under toes.”

“Don’t worry,” cawed the cockle crows.


Crows flew the cider waves of Mork

Each purple fang dropped silver forks

Upon the Trednods’ green webbed toes

Slithers hid as cockle crows

Drove back the stomping Trednod feet

Than all the slithers did repeat,


“Hurray! We’re saved from rattle grins

They will not stop our silent dins.”









Poem for Japan, March 2011     Dittow Tornieri


Earth I love.

Above, flying, I watched

ugly tide curl and rage

far so far outside the sea.


So different before and after.


How I cry!  Sweet lost people and pets

haunt me.  Who forced the treasured grass

and blanket of land off gardens and ground?

Boiling claws of water, signing sculpture it bare.

After, shallow pools shaped the face of the city.


Poems lights fear.






NOVEMBER SECOND     by Charles O’ Donnell

When her patient dies, the night nurse winds
the body in sheets and opens the window so
the soul will not be hindered on its journey.

Soul seeks her home at the end of her shift,
slips through her shaded window, entwines itself
in morning sheets, lingers in her daylight dreams.





Lonely     Willow Tornieri


June’s dry, soft clouds

code herons’ fishing time,

while in our lawn, robins listen

for worm rustles.


In fall, birds yield to the cold.

far away, my poetry cries

for spring’s return.





Carl Albright lives with his wife and three teenage sons in rural Northeast PA. He especially enjoys jogging over bridges, playing Sunday-morning guitar, sharing family
dinners, and praying for peace.

Lisbeth Gelatt is a writer, poet, and student in her final
semester at Keystone College. Lis’s work can be found at
Cowboypoetry.com, at the Keystone College Litmagazine, The Plume, at Pank Magazine’s parenting special, at her blog threedivas.wordpress.com, in Skin to Skin literary magazine’s upcoming December issue, and in 2012’s flood issue of Word Fountain.

William Fuller Harrison is a resident of Wilkes-Barre, PA.  He has studied creative writing with Charles O’Donnell of ArtSeen, and Leland Bennett of Plymouth High School, from which he graduated in 1965. His poetry and prose have been published in Veterans’ Voices magazine and Word Fountain.

Jennifer Hill writes, creates, performs, and believes only boring people get bored. You can find her online at: actsofjennius.com.

Carol MacAllister, M.F.A., is widely published in poetry, has won several poetry awards and has served as adjudicator in poetry competitions, most recently, NFSPS. She has edited and published three books of poetry – RIPASSO, a unique by-invitational-only collection including Robert Pinsky and other poet laureates. Available only at clmshazam@aol.com

Charles O’Donnell graduated from King’s College where he majored in English. He is a social worker in Nanticoke. His play “The Last Time” was produced by the Jason Miller Playwright Project in Scranton.

Adrian Spendlow is the official Bard of York, England, and presents his work in private and public venues. He is a key presenter in the huge annual Viking Festivities, as well as a storyteller and portrayer of characters in themed events and enactments.

Dittow, Quake, Scuter, Willow Tornieri are a family of Japanese poets whose work has been transcribed by their colleague, Rosemary Lombard.

Meet Your Editors…

Rachael Goetzke has her MA and MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University.  Excerpts of her memoir have been published in The Writing Disorder and Word Fountain.

Iris Johnston can’t decide if she is more satisfied by flowers and ponds, or Sephora and Thai food. She currently hopes to discover the existence of a Nail Polish Tree.

Edward Lupico is a full-time librarian who is never far from words. He travels many miles to taste craft beers and unequivocally enjoys the company of his dog, even though that dog is an illiterate teetotaler.

Jessica Kush is the Office Coordinator in the Alumni Relations and Annual Giving Office at King’s College. She is also a graduate from King’s College with a Bachelors of Arts degree in English: professional writing. When she isn’t reading or writing, she enjoys volunteering and planning programs for several nonprofit organizations.










Spring 2013, Issue No. 8

Word Fountain: Spring 2013 Issue No. 8

Rachael Goetzke
Iris Johnston
Edward Lupico

A Winter Conversation        
by Dawn Leas

Under a full moon, dim stars blur
as if brushed-stroked across the black
sky. She idles in a dark car. Shivering
from winter’s edge, she rests her head

against the frosted window, watches new
snow skittering across icy drifts. Phone
cradled on her shoulder she closes her eyes
to listen, spring just far enough away to want.



small press                 
by Rachael Goetzke

much worth flows from


small book


words in print
beside my work




by Alexandria Smith


in the days when we would

 whisper to the sea

loveliness rolling off of our tongues

 and into the deep as salt entered our bodies

 and air filled our lungs

making impressions we intended to keep


like beautiful truths

on beaded skin

puckered and


from the resting water

and glowing sun


a delicate feather

across smooth hips

new and trembling

beneath traces of sand

on heavy limbs; ton


reflected in the

beloved stones of the

shore, unblemished and

free as we whispered

to the sea


For the Man in the Museum          
by David J. Bauman

            Not in July or any month

                have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—

                Of fishing on the Susquehanna.

                                —Billy Collins


Kayaking on the Susquehanna—

now that’s a pleasure—in July or

any month lacking ice or floods.


I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a painting

of someone kayaking on the Susquehanna,

or any Pennsylvania waters for that matter.


My body feels it now, the ache that pushes

muscles as I row this rocking rhythm,

the meter of my stroke a little off—


two beats to port for each at starboard.

This fat little sit-on-top is made

for ocean waves, not upstream track.


But it’s the only kayak I own, so I row

on the Susquehanna, my backyard stream.

This far north of Harrisburg where West


meets North, the water’s deep, at least

when the dam is up. It’s inflatable, you know,

like the ego of poets who don’t know


about boats or bats that swoop past,

or fishing poles, or calloused hands,

curved paddles that dip and scoop,


and dribble Susquehanna into your lap.

It’s dusk; two ducks, and a loon flap past,

wings nearly tipping the waves. I tire and drift


the way we poets do when we’ve pushed

the pen too hard, and need to let

the stream find us again.


The slow current spins me facing downstream,

toward a low waxing moon, and even the rise

of countless mayflies doesn’t hide the glow


of pink sky above a bank of jumbled trees.

I imagine, as I glide toward shore,

a man in a museum, mind adrift,


gazing at a picture of a stranger

kayaking on the Susquehanna.

He senses something he has missed,


and thinks to write of his regret,

fleeting as a Pennsylvania rabbit,

briefly mourning a euphoria he’ll never know.


Shoulders sore, a setting sun, the moon

and first few stars hover over slow

roving water. Up ahead a bass jumps


for the day’s last fly. From far away I feel

his gaze. I pull my body up and out, and tug

the craft to ground, dripping the river behind me.




by Luciana Celestine   


When I forced my way into this world

The doctor neglected to mention

To my trembling father

And blood and sweat slicked mother

That by virtue of my birth

I had a 100% chance of dying


There is dust

There is ash

And somewhere in between

There I was


A delicate orchid

One soft frost away from its last sunrise

A precious artifact

Dug up from so much dirt

A find so rare that any archeologist would

Pulverize Nefertiti’s bones just to lay such a claim


De rigeur paces

A missed step here

A standing ovation there

A feeling in the pit of my being

That could lay a black hole to waste


Always dark spots near young stars


For thirty-three years

I have smiled like I’m brain damaged


My teeth bleached white like

Some old whale bones

Washed ashore

Baked in the sun

Picked clean of all life



Ova            by Iris Johnston


Her hand, like Lavinia’s, washed and trimmed.

Indelible jam on the face of a boy.

An old man, his eye sockets empty as Easter eggs,

their precious contents plundered.


I will make you a list of terrible things, of

Events With Huge Numbers,

catastrophes, governments, of

all the ways someone might hurt you.


I forbid you from being a genius, a drunk.

I will never let you wrinkle.

I will slip you in my pocket like a library card

for a book I have hidden under the shelves

so that no one will read you, smudge your poems,

or clip and cherish them, or

love you any more than I. 




On Selecting Optics               
by David J. Bauman

We’re talking birds of prey, right?
Migrants—so we’re talking distance;
you’ll need high power, but not too high.
What enlarges the image increases that shake;
your unsteady hand blurs the image. So buy

lightweight. You might consider a scope;
for those hawk-ish specks soaring far.
The tripod should be sturdy; it’s windy
on the ridge. Again, the shake, the blur.
And don’t let your eyes strain

to compensate for quality. Consider
the prisms, lens coatings, how much
you want to spend. Migration means
there’s so much sky to scan, so
choose a wider field of view. Tricky,

these contraptions—no matter how close
you feel, how crisp, how clear you see,
there will always be that bird you missed.
A Merlin on the wrong side of the ridge,
wings tucked into a glide, sails south and fast,

unconcerned about your careful records.
An east-strayed Swainson slips by, on long
pointed wings while, eyes turned west, you
are distracted by the glinting white head
of a Bald Eagle, perfectly framed in the glass.




The 6:45 Train             
by Dawn Leas


She drinks the bright warmth

waiting, always waiting,

for tomorrow and the late-train

whistle signaling his arrival.


(An idea catches her attention

drawing her closer to movement.)


Unknowingly, he transforms with each

passing mile while replaying their early

morning goodbye. As he steps onto the solid

wood platform, it never occurs to him


that she’s done waiting.





by Carol MacAllister & Adrian Spendlow


And through the haze appears

times that have been.

They call to us,

So often unheard

in haunting whispers

transcending words,

‘i hear’, ‘i hear’

one’s inner voice reminds
lacing through from other times.

An ageless sense of self is seen,

Is living merely lucid dreams,


Remembrance echoes from before

and memories ebb

our future lore.





Rapunzel                       by Iris Johnston


They tell me you died with your hand on your heart,

and nobody found you for days.

That’s what you pay

for the privilege of life in a land

where nobody knows your English name

and yours are the only blue eyes around.


Your mother wore poppies to honor your absence.

What do you care about poppies?

Your eyes and nose are cinders in the guts of whales.

Your sister told stories of newspaper suits,

of handmade capes,

manta ray trainers in ecru and pine.

But your shoulders now wear nothing but ocean,

you need no more hobbies to soothe nervous hands,

and your millions have purchased

their last pair of shoes.

Save one.

Some Stuart Weitzman loafers

tastefully tasseled, the color of tea,

with just enough sass

that all will believe

“these are the shoes my son bought for me.”




by Lino

Yes, I am insanely jealous
of every snaggle-toothed
lucky son of a bitch
who gets to buy some useless crap,
present it with flowers stolen
from neighbors’ gardens,
make awkward conversation
that skitters around the edges
of old disappointments,
over overcooked beef and
mashed potatoes,
making no effort to resist
the barely understood
gravitational pull of
unconditional love.




by Alexandria Smith


Is there a possibility

that the circles beneath your eyes

are not from lack of sleep

but from a lack of


Me, standing there

in absolute uncertainty

Uncertain Possibility

Not knowing where to go

or where you’re going

Like waking up way too late

or spilling coffee on your shirt

No, it’s not like that all


But is there a possibility

that the shake in your hand

is not from a plan that

refuses to unfurl

but from the absence of



A girl, you could say that

The first but not quite the last

but maybe the only one

with loving eyes and

tender charm

Uncertain Possibility

Like missing your flight

or forgetting your change

No, it’s not like that all


And is there a possibility

that the ache in your chest

is not from the arrival of

the rest of your book

but from a lack of


A part that you took,

the second time we met

Uncertain Possibility

Not knowing if

we’ll like it without it

Like saying too much

Or not enough

No, it’s not like that at all




Francis of Assisi to His Cat             
by Bill Harrison


“O Brother Cat, we have lived long together.

Woeful watch we kept

 at the passing of our parrot brother.

Mournful vigil we observed

over the cold corpse of our canine sister.

Your icy eyes watch intently

as my frail fingers speed

over the beads

of the Sorrowful Mysteries.

When alone you continually cry.

Are you as aware of your mortality

 as I am of mine?”




by Ray Gibson

A film is a dream that you pay to have
together in the dissevering dark
before walking into the other dark:—–
shifting foregrounds of crowd on nights stars pave.

Somewhere between, immersed by silver waves,
from the other side of the screen that spark
of isolate lucidity—–so stark,
so brief—–reflected back to your eye’s grasp.

Then, you surfaced to your separate selves
to sleep and dream again, but alone now;
this lens—–like a Janus—–can backward delve,

become the auteur unseen and unfelt
in waking life, through a sight which somehow
wouldn’t be the same for anyone else.




by Stef Szymanski


He has me

brush his hair smooth

after I kiss his lips raw.

He teaches me his art —

the mastery of messing it up,

the method to looking mad.


I have him

brush my own straight

after our mouths finish growing cold.

He untangles my knots

with the delicate cut of a comb.

The shock of comfort subsides.


When he’s gone

I see strands of our hair

twisted around each other,

clinging to the bristles,

and I know that

there are thousands of ways

to hold someone.




Shaxper 449                 
by Edward Lupico


The moon rose o’er England

that faraway night, yanking the tide of thought

into the mortise and tenon of centuries:

how we speak.

Know this: they are merely words.


Let the record show:

bells tollèd o’er the Avon when you were born,

when you couplèd, when you sirèd, when you expirèd.

Now we find you a grave man in Stratford,

cultivating sober weeds

under a slab of doggerel undisturbèd.


Your character set this stage:

grace and rude will

(the naysayers neigh ‘unletter’d,’

while others cry ‘horseshit,’

but let’s debate that another day)—

never we to know if e’er you foresaw

those ephemeral scenes

unwitherèd by age, bequeathing mysteries.


Not even pyramids hold their limestone sheen.

Time pulls it all down.

But shew something more,

inadvertently or with all your might,

and you just may be sparèd.

As in each our lives, with its mess of facts and sonnets,

the trips to London, the ink smears,

the backhanded testaments,

we may hear a rustle behind a curtain,

we may point our fingers at the sun.




Upon a time…              
by Adrian Spendlow


There once were children

Until imagination

Took them to an island

Where inner callings

Turned them into tribes,

Happy they were in pretence

Except that –

Something happened inside,

A darkness overcame them

They writhed

Hearts heaved

Ancient airs

Steadily simmered,

Something monstrous


As one then wizened.

Scaled and fearsome

Winding wildly


Moving gruesomely on.

They have become






by “Poets.”




Poet 1:             The morning sun cheers
                          Spring cannot be far away
                         The wind negates that


Poet 2:             My friend, it’s nice out
                         The picnic table:  obscured
                          Escape the TV


Poet 1:             Oh, how true that is
                         The noise can make me testy
                          Summertime please come


Poet 2:             Dusty inferno
                         Heavy breath, heavier head
                         The outside wants in

Poet 1:             The room is breathless
                         As are the people inside
                         Ancient air move out


Poet 2:             Optimism reigns
                         When the sun is in full bloom
                          Spring will always come


Poet 1:             Today is the day
                         Escape from the negative
                         Choose laughter instead







David J. Bauman grew up along the Susquehanna’s West Branch near Lock Haven, Pennsylvania.  His poems have appeared in various student and faculty journals. His awards include the Savage Poetry Prize from Bloomsburg University and the Academy of American Poets. David’s blog, DadPoet.WordPress.com features a heavy emphasis on reading poetry out loud.

Luciana Celestine has been enchanted by the written word as far as her memories stretch. Her love of art, fashion, and a good laugh have influenced her writing. Luciana earned her B.A. in English from King’s College and her M.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. She lives in Scranton with a handsome little dog named L.T.

Raymond Gibson is a graduate of the creative writing M.F.A. program at Florida Atlantic University.  His verse can be found in Oak Bend Review, THIS Literary Magazine, River Poets Journal, and Pirene’s Fountain.

Rachael Goetzke is co-founder and Managing Editor of Word Fountain.  Her poetry, fiction and non-fiction have been published in The Cohort Review, Ripasso, Tiny Booklets, Word Fountain and The Writing Disorder.  She earned her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University.  Visit: http://kindalikeapoet.wordpress.com/

 William Fuller Harrison is a resident of Wilkes-Barre, PA.  He has studied creative writing with Charles O’Donnell of ArtSeen, and Leland Bennett of Plymouth High School, from which he graduated in 1965. His poetry and prose have been published in Veterans’ Voices magazine and Word Fountain.

Iris Johnston can’t decide if she is more satisfied by flowers and ponds, or Sephora and Thai food. She currently hopes to discover the existence of a Nail Polish Tree.

Lino lives in Wilkes-Barre, where he has recently stopped caring much about anything. He is good company for short periods of time, then things get a bit wobbly.

Edward Lupico puts pen to paper to write the occasional poem, but more frequently just ruminates upon words.

Dawn Leas‘s chapbook, I Know When to Keep Quiet, was published by Finishing Line Press. She earned an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. Her work has appeared in goldwakepress.org, Literary Mama, Interstice, and elsewhere. She is the associate director of the Wilkes M.A./M.F.A. Creative Writing programs.

 Carol MacAllister, M.F.A., is widely published in poetry, has won several poetry awards and has served as adjudicator in poetry competitions, most recently, NFSPS. She has edited and published three books of poetry – RIPASSO, a unique 
by-invitational-only collection including Robert Pinsky and other poet laureates. Available only at clmshazam@aol.com

Poet # 1 has no formal writing training other than a creative
writing class in high school and a course in college. Poet #1 owes the haiku success to Poet #2 and Poet #2’s inspiration.

Poet # 2 would like to thank Poet #1 for her contributions to the daily haiku conversations that buoyed her through the restless winter of 2012-2013 and for her enthusiastic support of her creative endeavors.

Alexandria Smith “When things happen, you write.”  As I look back at the things I have written, I realize how true that is. These two pieces are the aftermath of a failed relationship, one that I savored, stayed, and suffered for. I cannot change what happened. I can only write.

Adrian Spendlow is the official Bard of York, England, and presents his work in private and public venues. He is a key presenter in the huge annual Viking Festivities, as well as a storyteller and portrayer of characters in themed events and enactments. 

Stef Szymanski cares way too much about the personal lives of fruits and vegetables, which has led to her becoming the co-creator, producer, writer, artist, and voice actor of the  animated project “Produce High” (www.producehigh.com). Her artistic aspirations and talents flourish in the cultural mecca known as Scranton, PA.