I Just Discovered an Amazing Poet – Giselle Di Paolo

Scattered across the globe, in little corners of the world wide web, extraordinarily talented people practice their various crafts, largely unseen and underappreciated, like wild, exotic flowers blooming in a hidden forrest.

Today, I happened to wander across one such gifted soul and her self-named poetry blog, Giselle Di Paolo.  I was both blown away and inspired by her work, especially the poem, The Whirling Wounded, which hit a little too close to home and made me sad, yet hopeful.

Here are three excerpts from three different poems on just the first page of her blog.  Click on the titles to read each piece in its entirety.

The Whirling Wounded

If my wounds could speak up
they’d say, we’re not going away
and we’re not strangers, we’re not hermits
we have so much to express
That’s why we press into your chest
That’s why we bend you at your knees

Mitchell, My Moment Man and Me

if you’d let me stay in the future and the past
then I’d still be listening for my dreams in some strange man’s words
and holding out my arms to anybody smart enough to say I need you

My Devotion Story

there once was a woman
so free
she made the birds feel trapped
they would watch her and wonder
what it would be like to fly

Poem – Appalachian Exile

A tsunami of spinning gnats
attack tenderfoots.
Along creek beds, chest bare
to the elements, a man looks at
crawdads scuttling under moss-slick rocks.

The above is an excerpt from Appalachian Exile by Charles Clifford Brooks III, published in the latest edition of the online literary journal, Prick of the Spindle.  Click the first link to read the entire poem.

Brooks is the author of the soon-to-be-published poetry book, Whirling Metaphysics.  To learn more about this author, read this author interview at Literary Magic.

Travel Poems by Little Known Authors

I love traveling and travel poems and have written quite a few myself.  Authors Den is a website where authors and poets can go to post their work, and readers can browse by subject, including travel poems.

I read through a few of the travel poems on the site today, and here are the beginnings of 5 of my favorites.  You can click each title to read the entire poem or click on the author’s name to find out more about them.

1) Seattle by Eileen Clemens Granfors

A kaleidescope of umbrellas disembarked
Hovering above trench coats, uniform in tan and black,
Faces awakening to the day, shielded and mufflered;
Gray clouds, heavy as cement, obliterated expected signals of time

2) Haiku Journey by Gene Williamson

blurred in my train window
ancient cork trees

flight to malaga
the small plane so crowded
I have to stand

3) Athens After Dark also by Gene Williamson

By day we cruise the Aegean Sea,
with a short layover at Hydra, magic
isle where the only transport
is noisy mopeds and tired feet.
By night we relax over drinks
at a table in Constitution Square,
talking home with three hometown
sailors on leave from a cruiser

4) When There Are No Words by Brian M. Morrisey

It is 9:50 a.m. here in Changchun, China
in the distant light of mid-May
on a plane to Shenzhen
while everyone I know
sleeps nine hours behind me
along the abyss of California coastline

5) Typical British Weather Forecast by David M. Darbyshire

(A short, 4-line, funny poem.  I’m not going to quote it because by the time I do, I will have re-published the entire poem.  So, just click on the link to read it.)

If you want more, go to the travel poems category page at Authors Den.  There doesn’t appear to be a screening process, but for a site that allows authors to post their own work, there is a surprisingly large amount of good poetry to be found here if you’re willing to sift through it.

Winter Poem by Robert Frost

I was glancing through my Robert Frost book the other night and came across this poem which seemed appropriate for a good winter-time post.  It’s called Good Hours:

I had for my winter evening walk–
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o-clock of a winter eve.

What is Bromance?

Bromance is a slang term increasing in popularity, but what exactly does it mean?  Simon Dumenico wrote a funny article on bromance recently over at The Huffington Post.  He describes bromance this way:

“Homosexuality, of course, used to be known as the love that dare not speak its name–until, thanks to the gayification of pop culture, it became the love that wouldn’t shut the hell up. Now the man crush (a heterosexual male’s feelings of platonic love for another man) and the bromance (when those feelings are reciprocated) are coming out of the closet in a major way.”

Click the link above for the full article.

If you’re still not sure what bromance is, I wrote this poem to explain it to you…

by Edie Montgomery-Pool

What is “bromance?”
You might say:
A love between two dudes
Not gay

There’s no dating,
No holding hands;
Just drunk guys stating,
“I love you man.”


(You may reproduce this poem in part or whole, on or in a website, email, podcast, or broadcast; permission for electronic reproduction is granted on the provision that the website on which the poem is published is not a vanity publisher or a scam poetry contest which requires its “winners” to make a purchase or pay a fee before being published. You may also reproduce this poem in print material for which net profits do not exceed $1,000. Author name must be included in any reproductions, and author must be notified whenever this poem is, or parts of this poem are, used. For all other uses not mentioned here, just ask and I will most likely say yes.) 🙂

Poem: Petals

This poem is called Petals by Amy Lowell:

Life is a stream 
On which we strew 
Petal by petal the flower of our heart; 
The end lost in dream, 
They float past our view, 
We only watch their glad, early start. 


Freighted with hope, 
Crimsoned with joy, 
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; 
Their widening scope, 
Their distant employ, 
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows 
Sweeps them away, 
Each one is gone 
Ever beyond into infinite ways. 
We alone stay 
While years hurry on, 
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays. 

Amy Lowell lived from 1874 to 1925.  She had an interesting life story, and you can find Amy Lowell’s biography here, if you’re interested.  Or read a few of Amy Lowell’s books for free online.

Funny Thanksgiving Poem — Toupee Souflee

This cute and well-written funny Thanksgiving poem, called The Thanksgiving Toupee Souflee, was created by Terry Lerdall-Fitterer and re-published here with her special permission:

The day had arrived; ’twas exactly one year
since my relatives, (moochers), had Thanksgiving here,
poor Grandpa was already stewed to the gills,
and Grandma–disgusted, was popping pink pills.

The turkey was turning a rich, golden hue
while children were screeching, “There’s nothing to do!”
And memories from last year still had me spell-bound
when inside my stuffing Gran’s dentures were found!

Soon mean Uncle Henry called–fit to be tied,
offended that no one would give him a ride
to this festive occasion–he’s such an old crab,
so he cursed one and all, then he phoned for a cab.

His arrival came soon, not that anyone cared,
the adults began groaning, the children were scared,
then I noticed a change as I hugged him with dread–
he was sporting a rug on the top of his head!

A pie made of pumpkin shot into my view
being used to play catch; out the window it flew,
and I thought for a minute just who was to blame
as my prized candied yams disappeared down the drain.

My husband, the whiner, quick pulled me aside
and bribed me with cash for a place he could hide,
with my baster now loaded and aimed at his butt,
he crawled back to the couch, made a face, then shut-up.

A frog and a hamster decided to play
on the counter by Auntie, preparing souflee
with the aide of old Henry; they both stopped to stare,
then she screamed and he raced from the kitchen–sans hair!

When asked he replied, “Gee, I had it before–
but perhaps in my haste it fell off on the floor.”
So we all made a search, but the hunt was in vain,
now poor Henry had nothing to blanket his brain.

Recalling what Auntie had started to make,
I put the large crock in the oven to bake,
then called for the vultures in voice sugar-sweet,
“Let’s move it, you morons–we’re ready to eat!!”

The turkey was carved when the timer rang out,
Auntie’s dish didn’t raise so I started to doubt
that ingredients used in her famous souflee
would’ve called for an ugly, synthetic toupee.

And lo and behold, as I dug through the dish
all smothered in egg whites–a hairy, Oh Ish!!
These Thanksgiving dinners, My God! I declare…
if it ain’t someone’s dentures, it’s somebody’s hair!

This author’s homepage is still under construction as of now (November ’08), but be sure to bookmark it and check back as she promises to put more of her work up in the weeks to come.

If you liked this post, you might also like this other funny Thanksgiving poem: After Thanksgiving Poem.