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ON THE COVER January, 2008

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A Fury Of Motion (Excerpt)
From A Fury Of Motion: Poems For Boys
By  Charles Ghigna (AKA Father Goose)

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Baseball Dreams
In memory of Jack Marsh, second baseman, Yale University, 1943
Before the bayonet replaced the bat,
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;
his spikes anchored into the August clay,
his eyes set deep against the setting sun.
The scouts all knew his numbers well,
had studied his sure hands that flew
like hungry gulls above the grass;
but Uncle Sam had scouted too,
had chosen first the team to play
the season's final game of '44,
had issued him another uniform
to wear into the face of winter moon
that shone upon a snowy plain
where players played a deadly game,
where strikes were thrown with each grenade
and high pitched echoes linger still,
beyond the burned out foreign fields
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,
young Jack Marsh is rounding third,
and sliding, sliding safely home.

Hunting Boys
It happens every year
from autumn to spring,
a dozen or so are lost,
good ole boys every one;
boys from Butler County,
Bibb, Clarke and Cullman,
boys from Bullock and Clay,
boys who stay up late
every November evening
rubbing oil and dreams
into the steel of old guns,
boys who leave warm homes
to walk cold woods, forever. 

The Bowman’s Hand

“A 15-year-old athlete died of cardiac arrest from a high school friend’s punch in the chest during a classroom ‘cuss game’ popular with students.  Witnesses said he complimented his opponent on the ‘good hit,’ then died.” --The Birmingham News
The game over, the target rests on the ground;
but the heavy hand of the standing boy
will carry the weight of this dark moment
into the bull's-eye of memory, into the
corners of every swollen night.
This is the hand that will open and close
too many times before it sleeps,
before it catches that first star,
shines it bright within its praying palm,
puts it back into the black heaven of boyhood.
This is the hand that will shade the eyes
that study the sky for a cloudless past,
the hand that will grip and hold
the burning weight of growing old.
This is the hand that will not rest in peace,
that will not heal the broken arrow,
that will not lose its quiver;
the hand that will shake inside
the hand of too many smiling strangers.
This is the hand that will caress a sleeping son
named after his father’s brave young friend,
after the one untouched by time,
untouched by the sharpness of age,
by the point of a pointless game.

Over Herd
This time it will be different.
This time we will not go
like our bovine brothers
one by one down the ramp,
head first through the chute
into the slaughterhouse,
into the waiting slug of night.
This time we will rouse the herd,
we will rise from our dung
drenched funeral boards,
we will sway from side to side
in our heavy wave of defiance,
we will dance our rite to life,
we will rock and roll this cattle car
right off its clacking tracks.

What’s A Poem?
A whisper,
a shout,
thoughts turned
inside out.
A laugh,
a sigh,
an echo
passing by.
A rhythm,
a rhyme,
a moment
caught in time.
A moon,
a star,
a glimpse
of who you are

See Charles Ghigna's INside Interview about writing.
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© Freelance Writing Organization - International 1999-2049

IN This Issue
Gory Glory
Undertaker's Moon (Excerpt)
Romantic Intrigue
No Safe Place (Excerpt)
From The Docks To The Commons
The Care Vortex (excerpt)
Irish Mists And Histories
Shadows Will Fall (Excerpt)
A Mind On The Move
The Rush To Here (Excerpt)

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Bald Ego
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Writer’s Block
The path to inspiration starts
Upon the trails we’ve known;
Each writer’s block is not a rock,
But just a stepping stone.

Poetry Is Not
Penned to the page
Waiting for us to admire.
It is only a lonely thought
Caught by tears on fire.

Silent Echoes
A quiet rhyme upon a page
Is what a poet gives;
Some gentle words whispered in trust
To see if memory lives.

Bard From Deadlines
What makes a poem finally work
Is not the time it takes;
It’s how the poet used the muse
To prophet from mistakes.

Be Mused
The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.

Fine Vintage
Don’t plant your poem on the page
As though you’re hanging drapes;
It’s shape and flow should come and grow
Like wild summer grapes.

Getting It Write
Writers write what they know best,
Their passions, fears, and dreams;
Writers rarely write about
What other call their “themes.”

Double Vision
A writer’s life is paradox,
It’s more than what it seems;
We write of our reality,
The one inside our dreams.

The echo of a promise,
The thunder of a sigh,
The music of a memory,
A child asking why.

Letter Perfect
Twenty six symbols arranged on a page
Can send a soul to heaven or torment it with rage,
Can free a fragile world or hold it in its net--
The power and the magic of the mighty alphabet.

The Write of Passage
The jump from writing just for fun
To getting paid for it
Begins when you first realize
You know you’ll never quit.

It is not the magic of his wings
That sets us free from our bond.
It is the muse within ourselves
That lets our words lift us beyond.

Photo Poet
Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.

Rising Moon
A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.

Star Light
Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.

Spider Web
A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.

The final draft upon the screen,
At last my poem’s through;
A verse of only four short lines--
I rewrote twenty-two!

Read All Of Charles Ghigna's Poetry at

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