Poetry Breakfast suspended due to Hurricane Sandy

Just wanted to let everyone know that Poetry Breakfast is on hold for right now. I have not even looked at the site or any submissions since we began preparations for Hurricane Sandy more than a week ago.

While my family, myself, and my home survived the storm, many neighbors were not so fortunate. We live along the Raritan Bay which sits between NJ and Staten Island. Like all coastal areas of NJ we were hit hard. Many of the homes down the street were washed away and most of Union Beach, a small working class town, has had more than half of its town destroyed.

Needless to say, Poetry Breakfast is not a top priority for me right now.

I know there have been many pleas in the media and even a benefit concert to raise money for the Red Cross. Yes they are a wonderful organization, however, they are not here. I’ve heard they are in NYC and in Southern Jersey. But I haven’t found a sole around here that’s seen them.

A vast majority of our needs are being served by a little local non-profit called RAINE (Reaching Anyone In Need Everyday). On Sunday alone, they served over 20,000 meals, handed out clothes, helped residents clean up their damaged homes, provided diapers and toiletries, and so much more. They have been doing this every day 10 am to 7pm since the day after the storm hit and will continue working daily to help our neighbors in Hazlet, Union Beach, Matawan, Keansburg, Keyport, and other Bayshore areas.

100′s of people have volunteered to help RAINE with their relief efforts. ALL the volunteers are local. Many have been without power for a week. You’ve seen the destruction that Sandy caused. What you have not seen is how amazing the people in Central New Jersey are. On the news, you see people pleading for help from the government and Red Cross. Around here, there are no pleas. People are taking care of each other. The best way I can put it is this: The wave of volunteers and donations from our own community is stronger than the 15 ft tidal surge waves that demolished half of our neighboring town.

If you want to be inspired, or just find a place to donate where you know that the next day, your donation will actually be put in the hands of someone who’s lost everything from the storm, please check out RAINE on facebook at www.facebook.com/groups/raine/ You can visit their main website at http://rainefoundation.com/ . They are accepting financial donations through their main website. And like I said, basically the next day, your donation will be in the hands of someone who needs it right now.

If you’re local to the Bayshore NJ Area, I am posting where help is available and where donations and volunteers are needed at www.facebook.com/BayshoreNjReliefCenters

For those of you who have submitted poems for consideration in Poetry Breakfast, I don’t know when I will be getting back to reading them. It may be a week before I get back to that, or it could be a few weeks. If you don’t want to wait and wish to send your submissions elsewhere, I completely understand. Just please email me to let me know that you’ve sent them somewhere else. If you’ve already received an acceptance for your poem, it WILL still be posted on its scheduled day. Those are already scheduled and in the system.

And yes…I am asking you to donate to RAINE. And to spread the word about them to your friends. Also, I’m asking you to look at their facebook page just so you can see the amazing generosity and resilience of people here at the Bayshore. With all the destruction around us you would think it would break your heart, but with the hundreds of people volunteering thru RAINE and the tens of thousands they are helping, it lifts your heart to a level you could never imagine. If you can’t give, just go to their facebook page and let them lift your spirits too.

When Love Arrives

Something a little new here…take a look see at this wonderful poem and then scroll down to find out all about the new line up at Poetry Breakfast.

So yes, there’s a little something different on the menu this morning.  But really, one can’t eat oat meal every single morning without soon thinking breakfast is just an unemotional function.  And as the cook, er editor, here at Poetry Breakfast, I can’t keep serving oat meal day after day after day.  Not when there’s a plethora of amazing poetry dishes out there.  It’s time to spice up the menu!

Here’s the daily menu:

Mondays:  Featured poem chosen from the best of those submitted to Poetry Breakfast

Tuesdays:  Video/Audio reading of a poem – selected by the editor

Wednesdays:  Featured poem chosen from the best of those submitted to Poetry Breakfast

Thursdays:  Interviews / Lectures by poets past and present, and the occasional poetry class

Fridays:  Featured poem chosen from the best of those submitted to Poetry Breakfast

Saturdays: Extended Poetry Readings – these will run 20 minutes to 2 hours.  Sit back, relax, and enjoy a Saturday Poetry Brunch

Sundays:  Featured poem chosen from the best of those submitted to Poetry Breakfast

Poetry submissions are still being accepted as usual for Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays featured poems.  All other days will be filled with videos and audios found and chosen by the editor.

Hopefully, by being a little more adventurous with our Poetry Breakfast we’ll all be able to have a broader taste and fuller experience.

Last Dance with Mary Jane by Nina Bennett

Last Dance with Mary Jane
by Nina Bennett

Miguel shows me his bag of dope
at every counseling session.
I keep my expression neutral,
refuse to be drawn in when he asks
if it looks like good shit.
We then spend 30 of his 50 minutes
discussing his paranoia. He worries
that he is being ripped off, that his dealer
thinks he is stupid because his English
is poor. I use every maneuver I know
to redirect the session, but each week
we end up gazing at the baggie
he pulls from his backpack.

This week Miguel doesn’t show up,
doesn’t call to cancel, doesn’t answer his phone.
Today I see the article, buried
in the crime section of the newspaper. Shot
in the back, he bled out on the sidewalk,
died alone, three doors from his home.
Outside my window, daffodils bow their heads
as a spring shower cleanses the street.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

ROOTBOUND by Karen J. Fox

ROOTBOUND
by Karen J. Fox

Each day the trees
beside Middle River
watch their
reflections
and wish
they could run away
with the water.
They tug at their
roots and
flail arthritic
branches
tying to see
what lies beyond
and why
the water hurries
to get there.
They plead to the
sun and moon
as they move from
here to there,
weep to the
boulders
who are old and wise
but find stone
has no pity for
Oaks and willows.
Finally, they
shake gold foliage
free
watch leaves tumble
onto the hasty water and
head toward
adventures
unknown.

Karen has been an off-and-on writer for most of her life. Published in several small publications and included in “The First Anthology of Missouri Women Writers” she spends most of her time lost in her own world where everyone knows & understands her.

Forecasting Hemlines by M.R. Smith

Forecasting Hemlines
by M.R. Smith

Weather will come
in its own fashion. Dark
evening dress, sharp jewelry
meant to kill,
sometimes light and blousy.
Today it is straight-legged
and lined out clean, a casual
bearing trying to portray
confidence and control
of a situation that could
change at the drop
of a barometer.

M.R. Smith lives in Boise, ID and will have work appearing in the fall in The Red River Review.

Resurrection by Nina Bennett

Resurrection
by Nina Bennett

The first Easter after Dad died
I waited for him to come back to life.
I sat at dinner, silence broken
by klink of fork against china,
swish and crackle of ice
as I stirred sugar into my tea.
I tried to ignore the whispered hypocrite,
you don’t believe in the resurrection.

I am responsible for my father’s
death. I’m the one who implored
the ICU doctors to convince my brother
it was time to forgo life-sustaining treatment,
to explain that our father now existed
in a realm we could not access.

First child, oldest daughter,
I’m the one who rested my head
on Dad’s chest, strained to hear
his fading heartbeat, pressed my fingers
against the once-pulsing artery in his neck,
pushed the call button and told the nurse
his final exhale was at 5 p.m.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

Dear Park Ave. by Gary F. Iorio

Dear Park Ave.
by Gary F. Iorio

She bought a dog to have
someone
to walk with. But the dog never walked.
He ran, and stopped, sprinted, circled, peed, barked,
pooped (shat), yawned and slept.
Really! He
never walked with her – at her side, like
she dreamed.

The town was waiting for her
and her dog.
Outside the bakery, there was a water bowl on an aluminum stand.
Inside, the doggie treats were free.

The guy who owned the franchise-sandwich-shop had
pictures of a Boxer-mix taped to the register. But behind the counter
there was always a sleeping Husky
lying close to a wall papered with black and white images of the
Subway station at Stillwell Avenue,
Coney Island!

She chased and shouted as
he knocked over the clean, aluminum stand; pleaded with him as
he refused and barked loudly at the doggie treats that were offered and free.

Once, while she waited for her small “Veggie-Local,” he cleared the counter
and landed on the sleeping Husky.

She’d walked past my window carrying the huge, heavy, happy beast.
We all knew she whispered his name each night, last thing, before
she dreamed.

GARY F. IORIO was raised in Brooklyn and Massapequa, NY; he has an MFA from The University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Mr. Iorio works as a real estate attorney. His fiction, poetry and memoirs have been published in various publications including SAN PEDRO RIVER REVIEW, FICTION AT WORK, THE EAST HAMPTON STAR, THE WISCONSIN REVIEW, THE MISSISSIPPI REVIEW, FRONT&CENTRE MAGAZINE, ECHO INK REVIEW, BLACK WORDS ON WHITE PAPER, CRACK THE SPINE and MUSED.

City Pool by M.R. Smith

City Pool
by M.R. Smith

I exit the city dripping,
sagging like hip-hop pants,
equally useless; my arms
clutched from my risk-on day.

On the train I think
I must be a sight
with my eyes wide and
leaving a trail like a slug.

My night will consist
of vigorous motion,
pacing, tossing, turning;
trying to dry off

before tomorrow when
I must make another
ill-advised steep dive
into the shallow end.

M.R. Smith lives in Boise, ID and will have work appearing in the fall in The Red River Review.

Jeppesen Terminal West, Denver International Airport by Nina Bennett

Jeppesen Terminal West, Denver International Airport
by Nina Bennett

From the top of the escalator,
the security line below resembles
a cattle chute, people lowing
as they herd through.

I glance at the bins on the belt.
Dusty name brand hiking shoes, local.
Unscuffed cowboy boots, tourist.

TSA agent smirks, motions
me to the advanced imaging
booth. I spread my legs, raise
my hands over my head, resist
thoughts of agents snickering
as my petite frame is revealed.
I am in the junior high locker
room again, without a towel.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

Skin Elasticity by Robert Strickland

Skin Elasticity
by Robert Strickland

I lost my birth somewhere
in all this shit I’ve been doing
for the last fifty-seven years.

Mother called Sunday.
I asked her but she couldn’t
remember. Friends

I gathered around
like goose down
became recluses

who stock pile canned goods
instead of cleaning the carpet
then walk off the edge

of the world.
So why ask them?
I made money

because there’s no money
in poetry then confirmed
there is no poetry in money either

just like Graves said. It’s true
I lost my birth but, strange
as it seems, eyes get
clearer every day
on where death
is hiding.

Robert Strickland is a bassist, composer, singer, multi-instrumentalist, and poet. His family hails from the American Deep South, with originally English and Dutch roots. Splitting his time between Colorado and Florida, he pursues his interest in the intersection of poetry, music, photography, painting and other art forms. His work has appeared, or is scheduled to appear, in The Pale Horse Review, A Handful Of Stones, and Houseboat, where he was recently a featured poet.