(A Brilliant) Record Magazine
E-mail: recordmag@hotmail.com

Dear Godfrey Logan,
Hello! My name is F. Toscano, and I am submitting 4 of my poems for your consideration. I am 40 years old and have never been published before. I hope you find my work fits your audience. I appreciate your consideration in advance. Thank you.

Sincerely,

F. Toscano



my reality

psychologically stalking mental health
philosophically talking to myself
over wine and women song and wealth

it’s about something you will never quit
unfold you I’ll engross in fantasy
when in doubt of whether you can admit
you’re cold you need a dose of what is me
I’ll reach out beyond the farthest limit
grab hold and pull it close so you can see
my reality



time ago

subliminal sections intervals of intervention
reminiscent reflections moments I don’t mention
unaware areas inside changing times of contrast
reminders of memories times I’ve left in the past

when I was young when I was my only foe
friends I was among a real long time ago
and so it goes in between interpose and intervene
time ago


our first kiss

I’ve taken my licks fought the good fight
never thought I’d say you’re my fate
three seventeen oh six friday night
saint patricks day our first date

saturday too soon you felt it too
so close to your face and sweet bliss
then sunday afternoon I grabbed you
front of my place our first kiss


sweet music

tranquil music starts I feel sweet sixteen
drums with beating hearts for sweet Marlene
most beautiful eyes my eyes ever seen
inside lullabies with sweet Marlene
in my own parade reign forever queen
some sweet serenade to sweet Marlene
my point never moot that’s the way I lean
fragrant notes of flute of sweet Marlene
walking hand in hand here it’s so serene
I’m in la la land Marlene

F. Toscano

Hi, my name is Jason Christy. I am sending this poem in for submission per the details on writersmarket.com. I am a 30 years old, living and working in Southern California as a freelance writer. I have only flirted with poetry as my specialty is short fiction. This submission is actually part of a larger song that I wrote.

When I met you I saw the sunshine I had lost
When I met you I knew exactly the cost
I lost my bravery in past seasons
It was slain by time and treasons
When I met you I spoke my first words again
When I met you I fell in love with a friend
I lost my heart in past seasons
It was bled by time and treasons

or possibly the first verse

For once I'm at a loss for words to write
For once I'm lost in seas of fire and ice
I lost my tongue a long time ago
It was eaten by pain and sorrow
For once I have no words to speak
For once I'll turn the other cheek
I lost my sunshine a long time ago
It was swallowed by my pain and sorrow

Jason Christy

Pasted below are the following poems I am submitting for your consideration:

“An Illusion,” “Lips on a Rainy Night,” “My Blossom, My Magnolia,” and “Twenty Hours One Winter Past.”

These are from my larger corpus of romance verse called “Women I Must Forget.”

I am a lifelong poet with my verse appearing most recently in The Sheltered Poet, Red Owl and The Poet’s Art.

I also place first or second each year in various state and regional poetry competitions.

Thank you for considering my work. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Vandye Forrester
Vandye@frontiernet.net


An Illusion

Before you all was darkness; loneliness by constant
companion

All that had been my life was broken and gone

Someone changed the rules of life and I did not know

Then, one night I saw an illusion

I saw your deliciously red hair,
your lovely form a delightful surprise for my
hungry eyes, your soft facial features and beauty
made me hope again

You seemed so happy and alive and I had wanted to die for
so long; it seemed a certainty, only a matter of time

You didn’t know but I watched you for a long time, afraid
to speak since all else that I had touched had turned to
dust and blown away

It was through your courage that we met, and our first
steps together made me feel alive once more

The first evening I held you in my arms I loved you

You were soft and warm and I loved again

We agreed to walk a little way on life’s paths, to see
where they would lead us. For me they lead to true
happiness

You awakened parts of me that I never knew existed

For the first time I wanted only to give. If affection
and caring were returned I would be enriched

For me, it was enough only to be with you, walking or simply in
the same room with you as you slept to listen to the
soft whisper of your breathing and smell you fragrance

Our love deepened. I gave and you too; in the mutual caring
and giving we received the blessings of deep love between
a man and woman

For the first time I accepted a woman asking no change,
knowing from bitter experience that to change was to
destroy the object of one’s love

Those days and weeks and months that we shared a home
were the happiest of my life. Would that they had
gone on for a lifetime, but it would not be

At long, long last i had what I had for most of my
life only held in my dreams - a home in which I was
loved by my woman

We made a valiant try, you and I. We both did the
very best we could to make our love and life together last

Your demons returned as did your illusion

And, so I am left with the memory of your lips, of long
walks and private talks; of our wonderful quiet Sundays
over breakfast and kisses and soft music

You gave me love, you gave me hope and in the process
you gave me new life

Your memory, my illusion, walks with me every step of my days

I love you so dearly, so deeply and in my own way
tenderly

Because you were such a woman you made me more of a
man

Thank you for the loving home that for so long in my
adult life had existed only in . . An illusion

Lips on a Rainy Night

I tasted your lips
and my fingertips kissed your breasts
for the first time at
sunset in the rain overlooking the

Crashing Pacific . . . tonight

And each of us, My Valentine, held dear our own
thoughts
about the kiss . . . and where it
might lead

Perhaps . . . ah . . . that is it

And the Pacific crashed and I held you and
tasted your lips and the
rain covered our little hiding place

But we were safe by the fire in the arms of our minds
imagination . . . and it was warm and we
wanted each other

It was warm to the skin
but also warm in the heart on
this night for lovers


And we
exchanged emotions and thoughts
and our hearts

but, not too much for we are both still
afraid . . . flowing caution

Perhaps what we had tonight . . . our lips meeting at sunset in the
rain will be more

If not, the memory of your kiss and the softness of your
womanhood will remain in my memory



My Blossom, My Magnolia

My blossom-My magnolia
I’m thinking of you
right now

I can hear your voice
And see in my memory
the soft swish of
your gown across
the bedroom floor

The touch and soft brush
Of your hair on my
cheek
your lips your breath-soft

My blossom-My magnolia
I’m thinking of you
right now

Our walks in the woods
our love by the camp
fire on the tropical
island

The thousands, nae
countless hours in
each other’s
arms
tightly
tenderly
softly, urgently-


Saturday mornings over
breakfast and love
and love, and how I
miss my magnolia

How sweet and warm
and opening flesh

My magnolia, but most
of all
my love

The Florida clouds
cast shadows across
our love
Ah, my love, my magnolia

The weekend comes
in
the
fall mountains of
north Georgia

I imagine I can see
what love with you
my love, my magnolia
would be like by a
campfire and trout
stream on the side
of a gold and red mountain - my magnolia

The sun here rises
& goes down - red,
blood red

My blood ran red for
you for so long
and does still
in my memory that
at times
seems

Real, now - I feel
like we first
met, first walked
first talked first loved

I wish it could be
again

Suppose it cannot
but it can in my
memory

If I close my eyes
only for a second

I can kiss you once
more, in my memory

Once more you are
in my arms

Once more our breasts
meet - warm, wet

In my memory
my blossom - my
Magnolia

I’m thinking of you
tonight.

Twenty Hours One Winter Past

Twenty short hours one winter past
in each others arms
in our hearts we had the
promise of a
lifetime

The hours passed
The taste of lips and the
touch
of warm, moist flesh passed

The memory of the touch of your silk hair in my hands
and on my cheek,
as will the whisper and
your cry in my ear
Stay with me, hold me, comfort me

Your voice still whispers
your lips still kiss me

Twenty short hours one winter past
in each other’s arms
in our hearts - the promise
never to come true

But truth came to each of
us in
Many
forms

The strength of my manhood
loving your beauty and softness
during those twenty
Short hours - that was
truth

And, too, truth comes in the
searching

All of my life I have
tasted sweetness and
bitterness, searching
Wondering, when will time
be mine?
and you came, then
to me softly, gently,
urgently - for twenty short
hours one winter past

For those hours the world
vanished
and I was given a dream
and I held you and
Loved you and loved you

Yes the world vanished for
those
twenty short hours
one winter past
And I was blessed with
an illusion that I had
Long ago stopped believing would
be mine - but for those
hours of promise, my illusion
clothed only in lady white
skin, in womanly flesh
my illusion was flesh and
blood, warm, sweet
breath
and timid breasts and
slender hands and
soft, maddening curves

For those twenty short hours
the world went
away and from the distance
I was given love

For twenty short hours
one
winter
past

The ice wind of our winter
past
Seemed to warm your womanhood to my touch
The flower of spring
The promise of new
life soon to follow
on
a warm summer

evening - these I held

In my arms when I held
You for

Twenty hours one winter
past

That warm summer will
come to me and its touch will remind me of
your arms

Spring and summer will bring
The taste of your womanhood
once more - I will be
physically gone, but you touched me so profoundly

That
you
Will be with me, my illusion,
my searching, my winter with
spring and summer as
kisses and touch

As I go, once more I will kiss the petals of your
breasts

I will once again feel the
silk of your hair, its
lovely brown auburn blending
Beautifully with
the pastel sheets

One last time will I hear
the
murmur
of your cry, feel
your cheek
on my neck

And, my lovely illusion
who made the world
vanish - save you and
your lover

I will still see your brown green eyes
roll
and
plead
In pain
and
pleasure

During

Our twenty hours
one winter past

Is Tiger Woods Racist?: A Cautionary Tale

Remember the April 1997 Oprah interview? Tiger claimed he wasn't just Black, but was "Cablinasian," honoring and embracing the heritage of both his parents. A citizen of the world. A walking United Nations. Fast forward to 2009 and the unexpressed question on the tip of many tongues: "Is Tiger Woods Racist?"
Let's look at the evidence. His wife, Elin. Very Blonde. Very Fair. Peaches and Cream. Former model and nanny. Girl Next Door Grown Up. She's Nordic - about as far - in more ways than one - from a Black woman as you can get. Perhaps picked so the children would be even further removed. That honoring and embracing, maybe not so much...
And then there's his other women. They are all, so far, White. Primarily blonde, mainly out of the bottle, with ample or amplified figures. Few with dark hair among them; most appear tanned or well bronzed as well. "Playboy" Barbie personified? That California surfer girl the Beach Boys harmonized so eloquently about? Either way, very early 1960s. Looks like Tiger has bought into those stagnant stereotypes in spades. And at least a baker's dozen of women have too.
I'd say he has a problem being (half) Black. And what I don't understand is the lack of a loud, cacophonous outcry from Black women who typically don't like White women stealing their men away. All I hear on point is deafening silence in the mainstream media and derisive whimpering from their "Urban" cohorts.
I'd also say Tiger is stuck in a pre women's lib, pre civil rights movement concept of a woman. And, sadly, he is probably not alone. We've come a long way baby...but have we? And have men? As Tiger's taste clearly shows, the preference for the pale palette still prevails. To Black men, and men in general, why are booby blondes still the ultimate sought after prize? And why are women in this day and age so accommodating and catering to THAT? Betty Friedan must be tossing and turning in her grave. Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty needs to amp it up. Big time.
Is it because approaching 2010, many of us, including Tiger, do not know who and what we are? I am a second generation Italian American, born and bred in New York. The original version of Mattel's aforementioned doll had a blonde ponytail and vastly outsold the fairly contemporaneous brown bubble cut version, which I was given because, we'll, I had (and have) short, relatively dark, curly hair and it was important that I have a doll that looked like me. Despite a wider variety of product, a much harder feat to accomplish today. Growing up, I repeatedly heard "marry your own." I didn't, and the 20 year union was a disaster. I liken it to "culture clash;" such differences can be divisive. During the divorce proceedings, I discovered that my now ex had spent most of that time at massage parlors and with prostitutes who did not remotely resemble flat chested, "au natural" me. I am not a racist, nor am I a bigot or prejudiced. I actually have "atypical" blue green eyes and porcelain skin. But I am a realist with a solid sense of who and what I am. Racially and ethnically blended people do not have that advantage; they are by their very nature pulled in more than one direction, and because of that may have a harder time forming a fixed identity, which may explain their search for and attraction to what they perceive as the All American ideal. It probably doesn't help that the majority of female "role models," from the current Barbies to the multitude of women in or covered by the mass media, still for the most part parallel in appearance that inaugural 1960s doll.
Which brings me to some closing food for thought. Did the political and social movements of the 1960s that created racial and sexual freedom and equality unintentionally and inadvertently birth a backlash failure of self image and crisis in self esteem? Too many variations and choices where we socially require some standards? Does that explain, even partially, the identical affinity, almost fifty years later, for the busty, blushing or bronzed blonde that still stubbornly hangs around? Those inquiries might be useful as a starting point in answering my opening question - "Is Tiger Woods Racist?" - and exploring whether the rest of us are obliviously as well.
As a nation, we are again at a similar crossroads, contemplating sweeping political and social change. Tiger's tale is more than a salacious saga and should be probed for cautionary clues and cues that sometimes what is reaped is other than what is sown. To the powers that be, beware, and take care with our country's future.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Editor Godfrey Logan

Please find several works for your consideration.

‘Zillion Bits of Light’ is a short bit of fiction.

‘Those Worry Free Years’ is a slice of a bitter-sweet time in my youth.

“Scott, you should not have stopped trying” was advice that eventually changed my life.

My writings come from having lived on three continents, meeting hundreds of people of all backgrounds. I have lived in Asia, Europe, and this country. At one time or another, I have parachuted, dived, rock climed and lived in wealth and homelessness.

Until recently, my writing has been confined to internal and public documents for the companies I worked for.

Now, I am able to write full time.

Should you find these pieces have merit, I have others from poetry to short stories.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Respectfully;


Scott Wyatt


“A ZILLION BITS OF LIGHT” BY SCOTT WYATT

Yesterday, I met a man who said he had talked with some Aliens. There was no need for me to ask any questions, because I was not a bit surprised.
I was born and grew up on a farm outside a small Midwest town. It was a youth filled with wonderful times and experiences. My favorite times were those warm summer nights when I would lie out on the back lawn looking up at those zillion bits of light. Those little specks and me have been friends ever since.
Even as a kid, I suspected things about those lights they didn’t teach in school.
I knew there were other kids out there, on those bits of light, lying on their backs, looking up at the zillion bits, same as me. Yep, I would have bet my best baseball card on that. Kids just know some things without being told.
Like many farming families, when I was old enough, I took over the farm. I married my childhood sweetheart and we had children. With the farming and raising a family, those memories of youth forever lost by time and other responsibilities However, as with many special things we discover in our youth, and later to forget or put aside, well, they just have a knack of coming around in ways we don’t expect. Mine came by way of my wife taking sick after children were grown and gone
During the last year of her life, after the supper dishes were cleaned and put away, we took to walking out the back door to the yard. She and I would lie down on that warm summer ground and hold hands as we talked about those zillion bits of light. In doing so, we recaptured those youthful memories which gave us strength to hold on during those terrible times.
I’m an old man now. Someone else is farming the land. With my wife gone and our kids busy with lives of their own, I have lots of time. I continued to go out and look at those zillion bits of light. Sometimes I forget or fall asleep in the in my easy chair... But whenever the weather is ok, from spring through fall, I go out and lie down in our spot and look up and wonder which light my wife is on, looking back at me.
Now, you know why I was not a bit surprised…


“THOSE WORRY FREE YEARS" BY SCOTT WYATT

Yesterday morning while having coffee at the “Grind”, my friend and I got to talking about our youth. We agreed the years from 7 to 12 were the best. During that time we were neither children needing constant care, nor teenagers who were beginning to understand the world of good and bad. I know that there are many children during these years that do not have a happy childhood, however for me and others, those were the worry-free years of youth.
It was a time of impulse, a simple life – in which we seemed to run from one experience to the other. We measured everything by the minute, or hour; and anything beyond a day didn’t except. It was a gentle, warm time; we were safe and secure, our parents and authorities knew everything.
This part of my youth took place during the Mid-Sixties…that time of Make Love Not War. A message preached everywhere except Asia, where we were scarified our best and finest youth in a war not understood by anyone I have talked with since. When I grew up, I learned that that my parents and many other adults were as clueless as we kids but loved us enough to keep their ignorance and fears to themselves.
In most kids lives there are events, times, even friends that help define the more magical moments of those years. One such time for me was Beach Day which took begun on Tuesday about 9am. Our Uncle Kinney and Aunt Mariel would come to our rented house and pick up my sisters, mother and I for a day of sand and surf…and sunburns.
The sand and surf played a major part in the culture of the country at that time, regardless of whether you lived in the Midwest , down South, the North East or on one of the coasts. For many, the foremost influence was The Beach Boys-a West Coast band, whose message of sun, fun and freedom touched something deep inside most all of us. It was great if for no other reason than it gave us all a place to escape to, a place where everyone was athletic, tanned and free, as we hunted the world’s beaches for that perfect wave.
Those who embraced this message, mainly teenagers, were called “Surfers” and they became a click in the schools and colleges, adding to the Jocks, Bookworms, Socies, and malcontents and clueless. The ‘Surfer’ clothing was simple as their message; a white T-shirt, cutoff blue jeans and flip flops or sandals.
Whenever possible I would get into my surfer garb, walk around the neighborhood talking about the primo waves, hanging ten, waxing boards and the trips I would take when I got my Woodie Station Wagon.
With these thoughts in mind on those Tuesday’s at the beach, I lived the Surfer Dream. The fact that I used a cheap Styrofoam belly board-bought at the local drugstore, didn’t know how to surf and had no Surfer friends made no difference. They were times that I shall always look back on with satisfaction. It was one of my coming of age experiences when I began to see the beauty and innocence of life. I don’t remember when we stopped having those Tuesday beach trips.
I never became a Surfer, never got on a board in the mystical ocean where anything is possible. I missed living a life unfettered from standards imposed by others and didn’t get to that evening campfire on the beach, where the Surfers strummed their guitars, sang songs and kissed the pretty girls.
I have many memories of those and other times. I have since learned that most all of them are colored to some extent, not unlike the movie, “Wizard of Oz”. As you may remember the movie starts out in black and white, yet soon becomes a palate of color.
For many years I’ve heard ‘they’ proclaim that we cannot turn back the hands of time. But I wonder if by adding our own bit of color here and there, we could recapture a brief glimpse of those worry free years by seeing once again thru the eyes of our childhood...
Yesterday, as my friend and I shared coffee and our memories, I think that we both agreed that ‘they’ don’t really know everything…


“SCOTT, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE STOPPED TRYING!”

A woman taught me; never give. Her last words to me were, “Scott, you should not have stopped trying.” [I can not reveal her name. Today, she is successful and well known.] This memory and others of our time together, I keep safe, deep inside of me, away for the shabbiness of everyday life. You see, for a little while, I lived a life given only to a few - a life of love. I have heard, “Lives can be turned upside down in a moment’s time”. I believe this. It happened to me…
I was invited to a dinner-dance. As I walked into the ballroom I saw her. Our eyes met. Instantly I was disorientated, breathless and felt a hot, not unpleasant sensation overtake me. It was love at first sight.
She was full figured, well portioned, possessing a beauty seen only on a Master’s canvas. Her wavy, light brown hair caressed a complexion, the color of fresh cream. With a gently turned up nose, full red lips, and eyes, the color of honey, she reminded me of a fairy princess’ picture, I saw long ago. She was wearing a blue and white gingham checkered blouse and flowing tan skirt. In my mind’s eye, behind her was a shimmering silver castle, lovingly outlined by a warm summer's eve painted from that abundant pallet of nature’s colors.
After dinner, we danced and talked like old friends. Later, we walked on the beach. Under a full moon we kissed with a fire, an awakening to intimacy that has never left me.
So many things I remember about her, about us. We held each other through the long nights and longer days, loving and resting, safe in each other’s arms. In such times we found a harmony, a symphony of the purest notes.
I loved ‘my princess’ with that, once in a lifetime passion that both fuels an endless desire and magically allows one to live a lifetime in but a few short moments. It was she who showed me the beauty of this world, the majesty of its people. Never before or since was I under such a spell. I was the Prince, she was the Enchantress.
Unlike many fairy tales, this one did not have a happy ending. In little under a year, we separated. Although I have not seen her for these twenty-eight years, I have followed her career with great interest. It comforts me, somehow, to know she found what she sought.
I wish I could claim that I took her advice to heart. I didn’t. It took many years to grow into that place where I accepted advice. These days, as challenges confront me, especially when tired, frustrated, when feeling that I can’t go on; from the gallery of my memories, I hear her last words…
”Scott, you should not have stopped trying!”

Tiger Is US

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. My question is "just why are we so surprised?" First, few people are in restrained command of themselves 24/7, or want to be, his robotic golf play aside. Everyone needs some downtime, although Ambien sex with multiple mistresses is far from the best choice. Scary shades of drug dependence a la Michael Jackson. Also interesting is that the onset of the wild behavior seems to coincide with the death of his father, which might be meaningful. Trying to fill a void? Free at last? Think Mike Tyson after Cus D'Amato's passing. When my ex-husband's mother died, on the morning of her funeral, he told me very matter of factly that "now I am going to have to have oral sex every day." I thought it was a strange request, that the timing was inappropriate, and declined to comply. According to his sworn testimony in the divorce proceedings, less than a year later, unbeknownst to me at the time, he was frequenting massage parlors and hookers.
Second, those who work hard tend to play hard as well, going to extremes in all aspects of their lives. We glorify and deify individuals who shatter competitive limits, egging them on to even MORE. MORE, MORE, MORE. We have become a society that indulges in and celebrates excessiveness; his tawdry affairs, with more sordid details dribbling out daily, are but one result. A wife and family were not ENOUGH. The economic downturn does not appear to have diminished this national impulse, just redirected it. Perhaps Tiger's car crash, ironically on Thanksgiving, a distinctly American holiday, will help to wake him, and our narcissistic country, up. Tiger is US.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Michael Bruce Foster

Michael Bruce Foster was born and raised in California. His poems have been published in the City College of San Francisco Literary Magazine, Aurora, MO: Writings from the River, Rapid City Journal, and Mobius, the Poetry Magazine.

He gets his inspiration from his family, nature, and other things that are happening around him.

Godfrey,

More poems for you to consider.


Burnt Roses


Burnt roses,

Beauty caught in fire,

Bouquet with blistered thorns,

Blackened stems,

Lie on scorched carpet.

The vase shattered by heat,

Their throats filled with smoke.

Firemen, finding no children,

Gather them up gently.

Death was here.


Too Great a Loss

There are tunnels in our hearts tonight,

Peace has been shattered, the bodies

Of our children, lie scattered on the road.

There are bunkers in our minds tonight,

But they can’t protect us from the bombs

Of screams, threatening to blow out our eyes.

The stunned skeletons of our tears covered

In white linen, to be buried frozen.

There is an emptiness so gapping, like a Black

Hole, nothing can live in this madness.

We dig ditches and bury ourselves. This

Final pain eats through every shroud.

Embalmed in grief we go to a place only

God can find if he will remember.


Extraction


Four wisdom teeth, lay out on white linen,

Like bodies after the firing squad,

Tossed into a plastic bag grave, forgotten,

Except for the relative who knows they are gone.



Ballet in Flame


A silver moth

Burns to death,

Ballet in flame.

Temptation

Fascination

Sharp shadows

Of the consequence.


There Was a Fly


There was a fly

That caught my eye

Under a bush or two.



It wasn’t his wings

But other things

His scarf and his shoes.



Red fedora

To wear tomorrow

When flying over stew.



I watched him stand

In Neverland

His eyes so baby blue.


Mischief


Frozen, risen sun

Slowly melts its prisms

From within.

Winter grins,

Through cold criticisms,

Its frosted laugh fun.


Hope you like these. Thank you for your consideration.



Michael Bruce Foster