tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5240272018304023522024-02-18T21:33:17.216-08:00A Tender Touch and A Shade Of BlueTake Time To Read All The Other Talented Poets & Writers On This Site-Scroll Down & To The Right For Links & Additional Pages.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-524027201830402352.post-88932490514897727792012-06-28T09:54:00.002-07:002017-11-03T21:21:12.177-07:00Visit All Poetry Sites by Poet Michael Lee Johnson<span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael Lee Johnson is publisher and editor of 11 poetry, flash fiction
sites–all presently open for submission, he is published in 35 different
countries, in more than 1011 publications (just type Michael Lee Johnson into Google Search). </span></strong><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael Lee
Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015, Best of the Net 2016, 2 Best of the Net nominations 2017 poetry.</span> </span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: blue;">The poet now has over 140 videos on YouTube-Choose Which Video You Want To View Here:</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa"><span style="color: magenta;">https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa</span></a></strong><br />
<em><b><u><span style="color: blue;">Purchase Poetry Books by Michael Lee
Johnson At:</span></u></b></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze</i>", is
now available on Amazon.com, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Amazon
Kindle, available in </span>Europe. </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">Buy now just
$13.95/Kindle $2.99. Chief Editor/Publisher/Poet, Michael Lee Johnson, Coeditor
Ken Allan Dronsfield. </span></b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762</span></b></a> <b><span style="font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;"><br /><span style="color: white;"></span></span></b><a href="https://www.createspace.com/6126977"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">https://www.createspace.com/6126977</span></b></a> <span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Dandelion in a Vase of
Roses </span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">which
is now available here:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089</strong></span></span></a><span style="color: #333300; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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see Favorable Customer Reviews</strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa</span></strong></a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;">iUniverse-Purchase
Book by Michael Lee Johnson Here:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></u></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><a href="http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx</span></strong></a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">Purchase Poetry Books Amazon.com
by Michael Lee Johnson At:</span></u></i></b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917</span></strong></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJ23GrZo9UW8oguPYb8HO3Hb7lA89E0ugyjE4l8JRS94KW39lGpc5XWy8Hyf3HrHUligZUS7YkCjpoa1h_Lppt10GDfppWV4hycCkm1JY8PMQMtHrC5XFgyT9362b7-nN-e2lk3TRjzno/s1600/2013-02-18+18-20-29.824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJ23GrZo9UW8oguPYb8HO3Hb7lA89E0ugyjE4l8JRS94KW39lGpc5XWy8Hyf3HrHUligZUS7YkCjpoa1h_Lppt10GDfppWV4hycCkm1JY8PMQMtHrC5XFgyT9362b7-nN-e2lk3TRjzno/s200/2013-02-18+18-20-29.824.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<span style="mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><strong>Visit Other Poetry Sites </strong></span><span style="mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><strong>Edited </strong></span><span style="mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><strong>my Michael Lee Johnson</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><strong><a href="http://dreamsagoniescontemporarypoets.blogspot.com/">http://dreamsagoniescontemporarypoets.blogspot.com/</a></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><strong><a href="http://promomanusa.wix.com/contemporary-poets2">http://promomanusa.wix.com/contemporary-poets2</a></strong></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: xx-small; font-stretch: normal; font: x-small/normal "calibri"; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/">https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><strong></strong><span style="mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><a href="http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson</span></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://itascaillinoispoetryman.moonfruit.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://itascaillinoispoetryman.moonfruit.com/</span></span></a><span style="color: blue; font-size: xx-small; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/</span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/</span></span></i></a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="http://electricinthesun.blogspot.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;"><span style="color: blue;">http://electricinthesun.blogspot.com/</span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/</span></span></i></a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/</span></span></i></a></span><br />
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><a href="http://poetsinterviews.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: blue;">http://poetsinterviews.blogspot.com/</span></a></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Author website: </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><a href="http://poetryman.mysite.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://poetryman.mysite.com/</span></span></i></a></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Em: </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">promomanusa@gmail.com</span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Em: </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"><a href="mailto:writerillinois@yahoo.com"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">writerillinois@yahoo.com</span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
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</span>Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-524027201830402352.post-11877144776053104092008-01-19T17:31:00.000-08:002015-09-04T17:18:03.282-07:00A Tender Touch And A Shade Of Blue<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMx6sM6_zu2dEhQ7_C20MG4sFd5qBPTomSBPHL3SYCf5-3x9dH-NBQw34USV9CyBQnuZTJz-R-6kZ1Myzd68NU94IRa6ddWl8S5kjMT4W4ZXES6Xw500Np4YRCKxvxw7FvNNkpIgL6vCU/s1600-h/DoveByMyWindow.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="195" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157398260921299778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMx6sM6_zu2dEhQ7_C20MG4sFd5qBPTomSBPHL3SYCf5-3x9dH-NBQw34USV9CyBQnuZTJz-R-6kZ1Myzd68NU94IRa6ddWl8S5kjMT4W4ZXES6Xw500Np4YRCKxvxw7FvNNkpIgL6vCU/s200/DoveByMyWindow.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" width="200" /></a> A tender touch and a shade of blue is an old title I gave to a series of poems most of which originated while in exile in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Vietnam era.<br />
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Now days, most of thoughts, life, and creativity come from looking out my second floor balcony window. That window is huge and shows me my poetic world each day. A bird feeding basket hangs in the middle of the window; doves, sparrows, and the occasional male cardinal plus a few squirrels come to feed and display their feather and furry attire to me. Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson who often would stare out her 2nd floor, bedroom, window out over the streets and write her poems from that milieu. Poems don't have to have a large world to be created in.<br />
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A Tender Touch and a Shade Of Blue poetry and general art site is designed for beginners and professional writers. If it were not for small venues and small presses, poets would be alone in cornfields screaming out to the wild winds. So it is here with the sparrows, doves, and Nikki my cat where I spend my time and create my poems and post the creative works of others.<br />
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WHERE TO SEND SUBMISSIONS, GUIDELINES, COPYRIGHT CONSIDERATIONS:<br />
Send all submissions to: <a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com">promomanusa@gmail.com</a><br />
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I'm looking for: short poetry including haiku and Tanka, flash fiction, short non-fiction with a social or political message (i.e. inadequate health coverage for 54 million Americans), good short stories. Include a brief 3rd party bio of yourself, 50 words or less, especially any previous publication credits and contact info. We only accept e-mail or electronic submissions. Don't send attachments less they are asked for. No snail mail-it will be ignored unless they are comments and queries. Send no more than 4 poems at one time. The word "Submission" must be in the subject line. Editor retains the right to make a few comments about each selected poem, if you are selected, you chances of it being positive are good. As a general rule we require "one time rights" (meaning we plan to publish and use a poem "one time"). We also allow all rights to revert back to the writer upon publication on our site, which means the writer can have his work back and do with it as he wishes. If you need to remove a work for any reason, email us. Simultaneous submissions are ok, if you tell us, and give credit to the publisher (s); we are more interested in quality of work then if being original per sa.<br />
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I would like to invite graphics, nature pictures, sketches original art work to decorate the site with, send to same email address as above. Art: no larger than 5" x 5" or so, keep it small, black and white, or color, in jpeg/jpg or gif format, signed and dated, attached or embedded within the email. In the beginning we will select works and post them as quality provides them-and notify the authors when they are accepted. Visit my other website(s) rich with poems from talented authors at (all open for submission now):<br />
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<a href="http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/"><span style="color: red;">http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/</span></a><br />
<a href="http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: red;">http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/</span></a><br />
<a href="http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/"></a><a href="http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: red;">http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/</span></a><br />
<a href="http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson"><span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: Helvetica;">http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson</span></a><br />
All are now accepting new submissions.<br />
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Visit my personal website at: <a href="http://poetryman.mysite.com/">http://poetryman.mysite.com/</a><br />
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Michael Lee Johnson, Author of: The Lost American: From Exile to Freedomhttp://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7<br />
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Email: <a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com">promomanusa@gmail.com</a><br />
PO Box 486, Itasca, IL 60143Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-524027201830402352.post-14277573505014529342008-01-19T17:02:00.000-08:002013-03-26T09:18:14.089-07:00Tender Poems, Story Tellers, and Paintings, a Tender Touch of The Heart!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNyy4lH8GAa6goMNDgpIznS5vFNPrapfsWNOh62K-4rkDGX0X3o1LabHfiWUgnTupUPAhvSnDzODWqbTfTrFjBKQZVCvou4uqrDfsSs2ghwzS8iKtEzq_wiUPG4mCQN4_oWaMadGuXr48/s1600-h/Karambelas_D_Urban_Gardner.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253717055950841826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNyy4lH8GAa6goMNDgpIznS5vFNPrapfsWNOh62K-4rkDGX0X3o1LabHfiWUgnTupUPAhvSnDzODWqbTfTrFjBKQZVCvou4uqrDfsSs2ghwzS8iKtEzq_wiUPG4mCQN4_oWaMadGuXr48/s400/Karambelas_D_Urban_Gardner.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By: Donna Janec Karambelas</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">At the urging of friends and family, Donna Janec Karambelas began painting professionally in 2007. Her primary medium is watercolor and she "loves the myriad of ways paint and water join to create that which is sometimes beautiful, sometimes odd but always interesting". Two examples of her work are shown. Urban Gardner highlights the joy of flowers and gardening wherever. Walk in Sunny Climes was completed from a photograph taken while walking in Florida. It's bright vibrant color scheme and peaceful fountain are meant to encourage viewers to seek the positive, i.e. the sunny aspects, of their journeys. Donna lives in Oak Brook, Illinois with her husband, John. Her e-mail address is </span><a href="mailto:djanec@hotmail.com"><span style="font-size: 85%;">djanec@hotmail.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">Editorial Comment: Poetry takes many forms: words, painting, watercolors, photography, etc. Paintings and photography capture poems; they engulf them, they contain them. Here are two lovely works by Donna Janec Karambelas that I’m proud and lucky to have displayed here. Feel free to leave comments or communicate with Donna. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">By: Donna Janec Karambelas</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskHEQb0oF09dP1r07J-1ImTE8HB0S_mZioDmKf4VYy6zMHa8qDlj6N1dFdkWMzIydhUM1kWE4q8nUtiws-_iSOnKuYb90Cd4GLKeuz1ij4RxP7T3Zrr-l18RC3f1L5ACC8v51s7ZHiKht/s1600-h/Karamblas_Walk_In_Sunny_Climes.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253716585673569106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskHEQb0oF09dP1r07J-1ImTE8HB0S_mZioDmKf4VYy6zMHa8qDlj6N1dFdkWMzIydhUM1kWE4q8nUtiws-_iSOnKuYb90Cd4GLKeuz1ij4RxP7T3Zrr-l18RC3f1L5ACC8v51s7ZHiKht/s400/Karamblas_Walk_In_Sunny_Climes.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJHEvjHvKFNFLvViwjm2FafiJGAKYXGkp3uhyphenhyphengAbwbPtW54R0bL3O-zjS6hZ32logsG5Ey7D8uQdpBMDRJG7TeESQC9PUTF6I_WJqehv90OMvz4nTQgBAj3iEZ_sfsmS-dcHnPwV5_yrr/s1600-h/SnowPine.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157361899728171794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJHEvjHvKFNFLvViwjm2FafiJGAKYXGkp3uhyphenhyphengAbwbPtW54R0bL3O-zjS6hZ32logsG5Ey7D8uQdpBMDRJG7TeESQC9PUTF6I_WJqehv90OMvz4nTQgBAj3iEZ_sfsmS-dcHnPwV5_yrr/s320/SnowPine.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
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Willow Tree Night and Snowy Visitors<br />
By Michael Lee Johnson<br />
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Winter is tapping<br />
on the hollow willow tree’s trunk-<br />
a four month visitor is about to move in<br />
and unload his messy clothing<br />
and be windy about it-<br />
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow<br />
fragments the seasons.<br />
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket<br />
over the courtyard greens and coats a<br />
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow<br />
leave’s widely spaced teeth-<br />
you can hear them clicking<br />
like false teeth<br />
or chattering like chipmunks<br />
threatened in a distant burrow.<br />
The willow tree knows the old man<br />
approaching has showed up again,<br />
in early November with<br />
ice packed cheeks and brutal<br />
puffy wind whistling with a sting.<br />
<br />
-2007-<br />
Editorial Comments: Poem by the editor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A Found Poem<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Carol Smallwood<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 2pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">(the doctor's waiting room had a dry erase board</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">by a seated skeleton: here's patient comments)<br />
<br />
Doc said diagnosis isn't very good.<br />
What do you mean? You need an x-ray!<br />
I lost so much weight.<br />
Dr. in yet? I can't wait much longer.<br />
No more shots, OK?<br />
I'm chilled to the bone.<br />
I'm boney, I'm boney, now leave me alonie.<br />
At least I don't have to worry about hospital gowns.<br />
So much for the Atkins Diet!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The pharm rep has only been here a short while.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Doublethink<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By Carol Smallwood<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
Post-traumatic stress thrives on disassociation:<br />
doublethink hits anytime, is equal opportunity<br />
making one block real feelings, fear explanation.<br />
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 6pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To reach the core, the causation<br />
and end a war of internal disunity<br />
should seem logical, an obvious exploration<br />
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 6pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">but core terror causes brain fragmentation<br />
so we flee self-scrutiny<br />
as if the hottest conflagration<br />
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 6pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">what Freud compared to demon visitation-<br />
this retrieving that seems pure lunacy<br />
is really the mind's attempt at reconciliation<br />
<br />
to what caused the terror of this aberration,<br />
while trying to behave as people do usually<br />
without the doublethink compensation.<br />
<br />
Such stress signs were once viewed an aggravation<br />
that shock treatments should end fully.<br />
Post-traumatic stress thrives on disassociation,</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">making one block real feelings, fear explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 8pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Bio:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carol Smallwood is
co-edited<i> Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching</i>
(McFarland, 2012) on the list of Best Books for Writers by<i> Poets &
Writers Magazine</i>;<i> Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and
Publishing</i> (Key Publishing House, 2012); her poetry received a Pushcart
nomination. Carol has founded, and supports humane societies.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 8pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<br />
<strong><em>The Re-Education of Zhu Yufu</em></strong><br />
By Rick Hartwell <br />
<br />
There is much to learn<br />
in re-educating the poet – <br />
You can’t take away all<br />
desire he sees in the world, or<br />
remove hunger seen in the land; or<br />
blind the beauty he sees within you.<br />
<br />
You can’t take away songs<br />
he hears of birds singing,<br />
or the raw tinkling sound<br />
of spiraling wind chimes;<br />
soft sigh of wind in trees.<br />
<br />
You can’t take away earthy<br />
smells of honest days’ labor,<br />
or the pungency of dung<br />
strewn, plowed into fields;<br />
whiffs of rice cakes with<br />
jasmine tea allowed others<br />
on their last visiting day.<br />
<br />
You can’t take away the taste of<br />
brass in the poet’s mouth after his<br />
most recent protocol lesson,<br />
or a remembrance of wet lips;<br />
last kisses before parting.<br />
<br />
You can’t take away fingers<br />
tracing old scars as if they were<br />
nipples of a first and lost love;<br />
mixed feelings of shame and<br />
satisfaction as the poet voids<br />
his bladder after marching on<br />
parade for most of the day.<br />
<br />
You can’t take away a mind’s<br />
longing to be known by the<br />
simplest names: writer, poet, man.<br />
Perhaps it is true, poet Zhu Yufu<br />
can be broken, can be re-educated;<br />
however, only the point may break<br />
leaving the body of the pencil intact.<br />
honed, whetted, poised to write again.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Note: this poem was 1st published at Writing for Human Rights:</span><br />
<a href="http://protestpoemsdotorg.blogspot.com/2012/03/rick-hartwell.html"><span style="font-size: x-small;">http://protestpoemsdotorg.blogspot.com/2012/03/rick-hartwell.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>Bio</em></strong>: Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember,the hormonially-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley,California, with his wife of thirty-six years (poor soul, her, not him), theirdisabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife and their two children,and twelve cats. Yes, twelve! He believes in the succinct, that thesmall becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, thatthe instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing poetry, Rick would ratherstill be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Editorial Comment: </em></strong>As a Vietnam resister many years ago, I generally avoid "causes" at this point in my life. The above poem may not make a lot of sense till you look up Zhu Yufu in Google and study it for awhile. This link will how you the simple poem this man received 7 years in prison for, in China: <a href="http://uncut.indexoncensorship.org/2012/01/zhu-yufu-subversion-poetry-china/">http://uncut.indexoncensorship.org/2012/01/zhu-yufu-subversion-poetry-china/</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>In A Record Store<br />
<i></i></b>By Brad M. Bucklin<br />
<br />
In a record store in Hollywood there was<br />
a woman as big as a line backer<br />
singing to the Michael Jackson CD<br />
playing over the loud speakers.<br />
Big breasts pushed out, silicone or plastic.<br />
Skinny legs hurriedly unhaired by a quick shave.<br />
Skirt dancing, face wanting and not wanting to be seen,<br />
a detectable five o'clock shadow.<br />
We looked away,<br />
there was nothing about her that was real.<br />
<br />
After she danced out the door<br />
the evening made her disappear<br />
or, perhaps, transformed her;<br />
in the dark things change.<br />
<br />
Bio: Brad M. Bucklin received a Bachelor=s Degree in English and Theatre from Windham College where he studied with John Irving. After moving to Los Angeles at 25, he worked as an actor for a number of years on such shows as "One Day At A Time," "Waverly Wonders," "Facts of Life," "Days of Our Lives" "Picket Fences" and in films that included "World War III," "Wavelength" "No Place to Hide" and more. He is a credited writer for "The Wedding Channel," and his stories have been published in the “Brentwood Bla Bla,” “Anemone,” “Windham Free Press.” His poems have appeared in “Autumn Leaves,”” Bijou Poetry Review,”” Short Story.”<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: 130%;">Tanks Rev Their Engines</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Andrew Grossman </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span>The body in daffodils, the blood in azaleas, the bones in opening branches;<br />
Sun like a blender spinning in your chest and no blades:<br />
It is campaign weather.<br />
I shall study the topographical table<br />
with potatoes standing for hills, unripe tomatoes slit open<br />
in a grove of cauliflower.<br />
I shall rush to embrace death in spreading white tendrils,<br />
for once be tender in the grave of spontaneous form.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>Bio</strong>: Andrew Grossman is a poet, writer and cartoonist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">He was one of the pioneers of the online<br />
business model for selling creative content. In 2000,<br />
he launched CartoonResource.com, a cartoon licensing agency.<br />
With a worldwide clientele in print, presentation and advertising<br />
media, CartoonResource.com helped show that online content was<br />
profitable. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">His poetry, stories and cartoons have appeared in thousands<br />
of newspapers, magazines and book collections around the world,<br />
including The New Yorker, Stern, The Washington Post and<br />
Mainichi Daily News. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Editorial Comment</em></strong>: Andrew has a way with imagery that is hard to ignore.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: 130%;">Retirement Haven</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">by Barry Basden</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
This place was once selected<br />
by a glossy magazine full of<br />
color photographs as one of the<br />
five best retirement havens<br />
in the world.<br />
No, I won't tell you where it is; I can<br />
only say I once drove by a grand<br />
house there and saw a tall balding<br />
man with a pony tail that swung back<br />
and forth as he yelled at another man<br />
working in the garden.<br />
Down the road a ways, near a hillside<br />
fragrant with coffee blooms, I passed<br />
a row of tin-roofed huts next to a river<br />
where women were washing clothes.<br />
Men watched from the doorways as<br />
they sharpened machetes.<br />
I can also tell you the flowers<br />
there are lovely and the<br />
coffee is fine.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Bio</em></strong>: Barry Basden writes mostly short pieces these days. Some have been published in various online venues. Some have not. He is co-author of CRACK! AND THUMP: WITH A COMBAT INFANTRY OFFICER IN WORLD WAR II, and edits Camroc Press Review at </span><a href="http://www.camrocpressreview.com/"><span style="font-size: 85%;">www.camrocpressreview.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Editorial Comment</em></strong>: Over and over I say I’m a sucker for a poem that tells a story with good imagery like this one.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: 130%;">Bombs</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Daniel Ames</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
they are stashed everywhere<br />
placed with no master plan<br />
quite haphazardly<br />
no collective time frame<br />
for final resolution<br />
I can hear them like<br />
a schizophrenic orchestra<br />
at night when I can’t sleep<br />
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick<br />
tick…tick…tick…tick…tick…tick…tick<br />
tick………tick………tick………tick……….<br />
perhaps one is in a cupboard<br />
another beneath the foundation<br />
probably one is concealed behind a half-truth<br />
another slipped between the veils of exaggeration<br />
the only consolation may be that while<br />
this field of imminent destruction is a composite of our lives<br />
there is a certain security in knowing that each<br />
little surprise package found its quiet private home<br />
via our own pale, gentle hands<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Bio</em></strong>: Daniel Ames is a poet living and working in Detroit, Michigan. He has had poems recently published in Magnolia: A Florida Journal of Literary and Fine Arts, The Centrifugal Eye, Nefarious Ballerina, Flutter Poetry Journal, Opium Poetry, Bijou Poetry Review and The Inquisition. More poems are slated for 2009 publication in Edison Literary Review, Thieves Jargon, Iodine Poetry Journal, Pulsar Poetry UK and Thick with Conviction. To view links to some of his published poetry, you can visit his website: poetdanielames.com </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Editorial Comment</em></strong>: I’m always impressed with large volume of talent that submits to my poetry sites, this being one of them. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span><br />
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<strong><em>Lasting Moment</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Martin Kimeldorf</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span>I hang suspended<br />
by a spider, fine<br />
silk of emotion<br />
I dangle−<br />
<br />
and I’m not afraid to fall<br />
head and heals loving you.<br />
<br />
In this precarious moment<br />
I hear a doubting voice...<br />
<br />
I care not!<br />
Let love remain a fickled story.<br />
Tonight I feel completed.<br />
<br />
Somewhere<br />
deep inside<br />
I find a new gravity<br />
to hold me firm−<br />
<br />
lady love<br />
lady love,<br />
dwells in mystically soft night<br />
<br />
she adds fluorescence<br />
while the window shade soaks up moonlight.<br />
<br />
Lady love<br />
play with me,<br />
more charades of sensuality,<br />
<br />
be kind with my flimsy self,<br />
and don't tell me<br />
when you must go,<br />
make love joyous, instead of confusing.<br />
Love waits subdued.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Chain Ring Mama</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">(Big gear on the front) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMm-IFhdXrqdxPEiJeYaU4mChQ6XSnbCQjWk8A9KzHooEmju3sbBhu8NIUudCWfMXNHQSGgN7r8l4gjEfL_P9299pA9OSIULuZ1Yi9nYR3MESSxXWvLngr6Qva4JNLLfU6sF1fstyIRKVn/s1600-h/Hurry-up-summer-bike-line-c.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344326208984012194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMm-IFhdXrqdxPEiJeYaU4mChQ6XSnbCQjWk8A9KzHooEmju3sbBhu8NIUudCWfMXNHQSGgN7r8l4gjEfL_P9299pA9OSIULuZ1Yi9nYR3MESSxXWvLngr6Qva4JNLLfU6sF1fstyIRKVn/s200/Hurry-up-summer-bike-line-c.jpg" style="float: right; height: 160px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 249px;" /></a><br />
By Martin Kimeldorf</span></span><br />
<br />
Takin the dusty road<br />
full of bee bites<br />
dog bites<br />
tire bites<br />
and strewn with toothless wonders.<br />
<br />
Takin the uphill road<br />
with narrow path<br />
chipped glass<br />
unfair cars <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6PsjzRq_jyGG6D6d0q3tOcuFmtImdAsDJuTj-EDmhiacNTHPhB2iYFOI4grgO1fsDZelV8w4TuR9rVQbUNrxauKT1BsxFBdbeL6bzNXEeCjbTuuPuQGmrkSaZyJS_9m1JEYqP87tY-hk/s1600-h/Martin+Kimeldorf.jpg"></a><br />
and sweaty chests.<br />
<br />
Takin the downtown route<br />
with cars a-plenty<br />
pedestrian sleepers<br />
skating freaks<br />
and sleepless shopping malls.<br />
<br />
Takin the road<br />
I want to travel<br />
with wedding ring<br />
key ring<br />
and my chain ring mama.<br />
<br />
She spins about<br />
in a stylish cycle suit<br />
bobbin’ along<br />
relaxed<br />
knowin’ where<br />
she’s going.<br />
<br />
I wanna tag along<br />
forever.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>Bio</strong>: Over the last 30+ years I’ve written about 30 non-fiction trade and education books (Ten Speed, Petersons, Educational Design, Free Spirit Press, etc). During that time, I also wrote my wife Judy 3 poems a year, and compiled the collection of poems and photo-art this year. I recently began sending out sample poems and photo-art work. The first batch of 15 samples got accepted for publishing online/print within 8 weeks. Now, I’m motivated to try a second batch.<br />
<br />
<strong>Editorial Comment</strong>: The first poem is a bit of an eccentric love poem. The 2nd poem is tough to handle like bicycle steering on a mountainous road full of pebbles; thoughts jumping from one setting or environment to the next; slang broken and used like old bike tire wheels.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Seeking Serenity</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Bobbi Sinha-Morey</span> <br />
<br />
In the pale sky<br />
when daylight begins<br />
you seek serenity<br />
under the aspen tree<br />
its snowy leaves<br />
fluttering around you,<br />
glowing in the sun<br />
like an owl's soft<br />
down. Opening like<br />
a new leaf on a spring<br />
day, you lay cloaked<br />
in the stillness of<br />
the shade. Your skin<br />
like a broad ivory lily<br />
exalting on the first<br />
morning it uncurls.<br />
Listen for the gentle<br />
rhythm as the wind<br />
whispers through<br />
the sweet grass and<br />
hear it quietly say<br />
know the secret<br />
joy within.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>The Mist Of Daybreak</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Bobbi Sinha-Morey </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span>In the mist of daybreak<br />
when the sun eclipses<br />
the waning night sky<br />
I hear the oriole echo<br />
what the blackbird<br />
has began to sing<br />
and waken by the side<br />
of the stream seeing<br />
a pigeon beside me<br />
with transparent wings<br />
and as the sun rises<br />
above red pastures,<br />
bright September casts<br />
no shadow in the old<br />
walnut trees and the<br />
water is so still I can<br />
see the light shine on<br />
its surface saying hello<br />
to the earth this is<br />
from heaven.<br />
<br />
Bio: Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a book reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. Her poetry's appeared in places like Ceremony, Falling Star Magazine, Poet's Espresso, and Smile, among others. Her latest books of poetry, The Quiet Scent Of Jasmine and Stillness In The Garden Of Light, are at ebooksonthe.net. Her e-mail address is <a href="mailto:Isedmorey1@aol.com">Isedmorey1@aol.com</a>.<br />
Editorial Comment: I’m a sucker for natural poems of every day events made special with words. Poems don’t always have to have a start, a plot, a middle ground, characters and a climatic finish point; though, some of these elements are here. Sometimes it relaxes the spirit to unwind with the flow of nature for what it is and nothing more. Feel the images, don’t worry about the structure, just read.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>May Maisy</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Ray Succre</span><br />
<br />
May Maisy, is green all around,<br />
gifted green but rife with color,<br />
and to deny her a porch of<br />
pots and wooden boxes is<br />
to blight her as frost on vines.<br />
She only passes a plant<br />
and its roots will rut deep,<br />
will soon grow as quick<br />
as the hair on her head.<br />
For a week, she has the back<br />
porch, two hands, a trowel,<br />
And a flat of creeping jennies.<br />
She is twenty-two and<br />
a cautious gardener sprite.<br />
Who knew?<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Work in the Ground</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Ray Succre</span><br />
<br />
He was hired for the tilling.<br />
Tires were hiding among the weeds.<br />
His nails were dirty and chipped,<br />
his hands were bruised, but the land turned.<br />
Tired in the lea, he put down his sack,<br />
propped his head on a smooth stone,<br />
and slept beneath it all.<br />
He woke to a dullness, burned napping<br />
in the field by the oven that sunned<br />
from abroad, late afternoon Wisconsin.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Coming Up the Porch</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Ray Succre</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
The geometrid moth I like<br />
gets digested by a white spider.<br />
I see his husk in the web at noon.<br />
That’s a pity, I decide.<br />
Then the<br />
groceries<br />
tear the<br />
bag and<br />
compete<br />
down the<br />
eight<br />
stairs.<br />
You’re a faster pity, I say,<br />
and you, to a bloodied, fighting-fresh<br />
cat, are a heartier one.<br />
I collect and carry, frustrated,<br />
and take the stairs again upward<br />
to shut myself in and let Mishap<br />
venerate her pretty victories.<br />
Inside, I am exponential more of me.<br />
Outside, I barely seem colored<br />
within the lines.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Tidal Bore</em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Ray Succre</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span>In the weedy woods neck wherein I am local,<br />
townster or variant, I eat and am digested,<br />
binge being a sore rose, and fasting<br />
staffing my eye for leaner stalks.<br />
As I wake, I tend to sleep,<br />
and as I stand, I'll often sit.<br />
In cogitating, a citing goat to gigantic<br />
commonwealths, I toy mental, digging<br />
through a ragman's anagrams, writing,<br />
a composition clinking, ink and cling,<br />
as by time spent I mop to coins.<br />
In my sod like head, sudsy and topped<br />
in warm grime, I am asked by my loves<br />
to be steady, repetitious, a rhyme of sorts,<br />
but prefer to be dilator, tidal bore to a bridle.<br />
The days heal one after next. So heal assholes,<br />
hearts, haters, solvers and lovers alike.<br />
I go rapturous, a petrous rig into purgatories,<br />
wherein I am friend and local, at peace last<br />
and satisfactory most.<br />
The sea's currents are created in hiding, you know.<br />
<br />
<strong>Bio: </strong>Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.<br />
<br />
For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: <a href="http://raysuccre.blogspot.com/">http://raysuccre.blogspot.com/</a>.<br />
<br />
<strong>Editorial Comment</strong>: Ray comes as close to my own writings as anyone I have published to date. This will be a compliment or a real cuss word. Ray is in constant need of revision and editing with an image oriented mind that is second to few. I have decided to publish all four of his poems, he can also be seen at Poetic Legacy. Oh, yes, I call Ray: “poetic license man.” Note “townster.”<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: 130%;">20 April 2008</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">By Phillip A. Ellis</span><br />
<br />
The evening that you left<br />
on the northbound train, it rained<br />
so hard the ground shimmered<br />
with the reflected streetlights.<br />
<br />
And something unsaid stopped<br />
you from speaking, a word or phrase<br />
that maybe should have been said<br />
between us, but we were late, sad.<br />
<br />
The rain, as it came, as you turned<br />
your face up to be kissed, fell<br />
amongst tears, it seemed to me<br />
in hindsight, hearing you speak.<br />
<br />
Inconsequential words were all<br />
we said. avoiding silences<br />
like an animal avoiding trees<br />
in the overwhelming evening.<br />
<br />
We spoke of time, but it was time<br />
we spoke of something else, passing<br />
moments, perhaps, or distances<br />
of day's travel or mere millimetres.<br />
<br />
Anything but the promises<br />
that we failed to keep, in our hearts<br />
and safe, lying even hollowly<br />
to ourselves as we said them.<br />
<br />
Did you sit there, passing northwards<br />
through the city, looking out the window<br />
at ephemeral streets, or did you turn<br />
the corner up and read, forgetting me?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Bio: Phillip A. Ellis is studying English Honours at the University of New England, over 2008 and 2009. His work has appeared in a number of countries and publications over the last ten years, including the USA, Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom, Finland, and Fiji. He will also have a chapbook published by Gothic Press in October 2008.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Editorial Comment: I love poems with a story. This is a classical love story, or at the least, someone special. It takes us into the private last moments of a relationship all revealed in a few lines.</span><br />
<br />
Sarah<br />
By Russell H. Grafton<br />
<br />
I cried again last night.<br />
My tears had hardly dried<br />
Since my heart first broke.<br />
And now, you too are gone.<br />
Alone, we shed our tears.<br />
Alone, your babies cry.<br />
You did not want to go,<br />
To leave us here alone.<br />
I could see that in your eyes.<br />
You fought so hard to stay,<br />
While silently and earnestly we prayed.<br />
I could see the struggle in your eyes.<br />
How we wanted you to live!<br />
But you simply could not stay.<br />
I could see that truth in your eyes.<br />
So, reluctantly I kissed you goodbye,<br />
And my heart broke a second time,<br />
As you slowly closed your eyes.<br />
<br />
Wear No Black<br />
By Russell H. Grafton<br />
<br />
Wear no black when I am gone,<br />
For sadness should not define me.<br />
Bright colors you should put on,<br />
Though none that signal glee!<br />
Celebrate with me that I had lived<br />
To see my newborn babies grow,<br />
Who lived and loved and who did give<br />
Such joy before they had to go.<br />
Sing with me a heavenly strain,<br />
With no thought of sorrow endured.<br />
For more I could not hope to gain<br />
Than love, my poor heart to cure.<br />
Wear no black when I am gone,<br />
I wish to see no more crying.<br />
Memories you have to lean upon,<br />
And send me off to my dying.<br />
<br />
The history of my poem "Sarah" started many years ago with the birth of my son, David. David was a victim of Muscular Dystrophy and died in 1990 at the age of 22. He was a remarkable young man. Sarah was my daughter, and was four years younger than David. In 1997 she was a young wife and mother of two young children when she had some cosmetic surgery performed by a doctor whose gross negligence would kill her (He went to prison for criminally negligent homicide). When I first saw Sarah in the hospital after the incident, the thing that caught my eye was that she was so desperately trying to open her eyes and focus on us. But as the few days passed, I could see that she just couldn't fight any more as her brain activity diminished. So, David was my first heartbreak, and Sarah was my second.<br />
<br />
My other poem, "Wear No Black" addresses the feeling I sometimes have that when folks think of me, they have a hard time getting past the things that have caused me heartache. I want them to know that I am no more, and no less than any other person. They should celebrate my life, just as I chose to celebrate my kids lives and not their deaths, as painful as that was. When I die, I want my extended family to see me for what I am - a generally happy person who hopefully contributed to the quality of their lives.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments:I like the poetry but I feel the real person behind them. Life is not always about how academic a poem may sound, but rather the story it tells and the hearts it touches. These two poems, and the bio that accompany them speak a volume about life and the people and memories behind them.<br />
<br />
The Backdoor<br />
By George Anderson<br />
<br />
At the backdoor I wear ice skates,<br />
shiny blue pants with white stripes<br />
red socks pulled to each thigh<br />
and mountains of protective pads.<br />
<br />
By the woodstove you chop wood<br />
the kitchen smells good, of apple pie<br />
and I listen to the crackling fire as<br />
you tug off my skate and then the other.<br />
<br />
I’m still in the park gaining momentum<br />
speeding past the awkward defenseman<br />
dekeing the goalie out of his net and<br />
flipping the puck into the top corner.<br />
<br />
My father sits at the table reading the paper<br />
he grunts unaware his life is about to change<br />
unaware that his entire life of careful<br />
construction will soon come tumbling down.<br />
<br />
Before entering the house I knock the snow<br />
from my skates. My feet are frozen. I want<br />
to sit by the fire and listen to you tell me again<br />
how you found a bunch of 4 leaf clovers in the park.<br />
<br />
Bio: George Anderson grew up in Montreal and presently lives in Wollongong, Australia. He has published hundreds of poems in mainstream and alternative magazines over the last five years. In 2008 the first of his collections will be published through Banksia Press in Sydney. He edits the student poetry journal Ephemeral now in its fifth print edition.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: I’m a sucker for poetic stories, I will admit it. Here again I find a nice story with rich images that keep my mind entertained in a brief but revealing free verse form with a little twist at the very end.<br />
<br />
<br />
Homeless Man 2<br />
By Kathleen Walsh<br />
<br />
Father time sits<br />
On the corner of state<br />
In front of the cafe<br />
Teaching philosophy and<br />
Playing a banjo<br />
With tree-branch fingers<br />
Shaking his head<br />
Along to the music<br />
Causing the flowers he's<br />
Plucked from public displays<br />
That now rest in his head scarves<br />
To shed their petals<br />
They fall into the threads<br />
Of his ragged knit purple sweater<br />
Where they rest and stick<br />
In between the stitches and<br />
Unnoticed, remain there.<br />
<br />
Bio: Kathleen Walsh is a student at Bowdoin Collge in Brunswick, ME where she is studying English and Gender and Women's Studies. When not in school or writing she works as a raft guide on the Kennebec River in Maine.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Kathleen’s play with words forces you to think, to come terms out of your natural lazy state. Here conveyed by wonder images, Kathleen ties life, death, wonderment, and the smallest of details into a tight package picture of a homeless man.<br />
<br />
<br />
Basic training<br />
By Jacqui Dunne<br />
<br />
Crew cut brains<br />
crawl mud fields<br />
barb wire fences off reality<br />
hit the ground, give me five<br />
compassion,<br />
reason,<br />
empathy,<br />
restraint,<br />
fear,<br />
load,<br />
aim,<br />
fire,<br />
die.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bio: Jacqui Dunne is a Liverpool performance poet with a Celtic and European background. She regularly reads her work, which covers a wide range of issues from politics to the female dilemma. Jacqui recently gained an M.A. in Writing Studies. Her work has been aired on the BBC and published on line and in journals and anthologies. For more go to jacquidunne.co.uk<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Jacqui has created here a quick, almost with form, narrowing like life to a tragic<br />
end starting with basic training then rushing downward right to death as the final result. Well said in a very small, form to fit the topic, space.<br />
<br />
<br />
He Was Staring At Something<br />
<br />
Phil was saying how some of the boys in<br />
his platoon killed a Vietcong guerrilla, caught<br />
him murdering innocent civilians so they<br />
stripped him, hung him up<br />
from a tree and blew his balls off.<br />
One of his victims had been a pretty young<br />
pregnant woman he raped, then killed<br />
by stringing her up naked and screaming,<br />
cut open her belly with one of those big<br />
jagged-edged jungle knives, just like that, out<br />
there in the open in the village for all<br />
the others to see. So Phil and the boys<br />
caught the dirty yellow bastard yes indeed,<br />
and strung him up naked like the pregnant<br />
woman, then shot away his balls, watching<br />
him squirm and splutter and scream<br />
his head off, eventually bleeding to death.<br />
And it sounds terrible, certainly, and is<br />
terrible, but they were glad of it, so glad<br />
to watch him die like that. They had to do it,<br />
Phil said, or they'd never be able to live<br />
with themselves, ever. And during the whole<br />
while he was telling the story there was this<br />
glazed over look in his eyes like he was<br />
staring at something far far away that never<br />
really could've happened, ever.<br />
<br />
<br />
Peeking Through Mom’s Drapes<br />
<br />
I blurted out, “What is it!”<br />
in the middle of the night.<br />
“I’m just going to the bathroom honey,<br />
go back to sleep.”<br />
Seems I was in the midst<br />
of a not-so-nice dream,<br />
perhaps even a nightmare,<br />
shadowy figure floating through<br />
our bedroom, but I cannot recall it<br />
completely now: something<br />
about being alone in the old house<br />
I was raised in, around the time<br />
that Daddy died,<br />
in the living room peeking through<br />
mom’s drapes at some strange people<br />
coming slowly, steadily,<br />
towards the front door<br />
from across the lawn.<br />
Dreams, thank goodness, are often<br />
like bubbles caught in the wind.<br />
<br />
Brief bio:<br />
Over the years Michael Estabrook have published a few chapbooks and appeared in some terrific poetry magazines, but you are only as good as your next poem and like a surfer looking for that perfect wave, he is a student of poetry prowling incessantly for that next perfect poem. Right now he is looking for that perfect poem about his wife, who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Michael is another poetic story teller which I am fond of. Since I lived in exile during the Vietnam War, I can relate to horror stories about that American tragedy. This poem, “He Was Staring At Something”, reflects the combination of a horror story, a sense of strange pride, and a nightmare all in one poem. “Peeking Through Mom’s Drapes”, I like as it winds through a small story and pop the dream goes as quickly as it entered. Nice work, Michael.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Lullaby Hours<br />
By Carol Lynn Grellas<br />
<br />
When you love this child−<br />
remember the tang of cough syrup<br />
sliding down a stinging throat;<br />
a stream of maple sugar that veiled the bitter,<br />
as your mother rocked the mattress<br />
counting sheep with strands of your hair.<br />
<br />
When you love this child−<br />
pretend you have a stomach full of gumdrops<br />
but you smell the grenadine of a maraschino cherry<br />
and soon you’ve piled an orchard<br />
in your doll-size mouth, praying no-one<br />
notices, an empty jar in the fridge.<br />
<br />
When you love this child−<br />
listen to clatter as it might claim your soul.<br />
Every jangle a chance some big-foot<br />
is loose in your rickety house,<br />
while snoring prevails in the master bedroom<br />
and silhouettes snatch you from warbled mirrors,<br />
absorbing you inside reflections.<br />
<br />
When you love this child,<br />
think of eating rhododendrons in the rain,<br />
teddy bear in toe needing extra clouds<br />
of tuft, to make him look new again.<br />
Feel the binding near your face<br />
of powder-soft satin, from the coverlet<br />
that’s scented with the songs of carousels−<br />
<br />
because you can breathe music,<br />
taste color and listen for love,<br />
without ever hearing a thing.<br />
<br />
Bio: Carol Lynn Grellas is a Northern California-based writer. She attended Santa Clara University where she was an English and Art major. She has had numerous poems appear in magazines and online journals, including most recently, The Oasis Ezine and The Oasis Online, Las Cruces for Poets and Writers, Munyori Poetry Journal, Words on Paper, The Pregnant Moon Review, Moondance, Dogzplots and Twilight Musings Anthology. She has poems forthcoming in, MSU Great Falls Literary Guild, The Storyteller Magazine and The Verse Marauder. She has one book published titled, I'm Packing Things for Heaven. She lives with her husband, five children, three talking birds and a blind dog named Ginger, who inspire much of her poetry.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Again, I like the story telling element in this poetic work; the personal touch of real life that one can’t escape from. The poem is a poem, but it is real, and a real life experience.<br />
<br />
<br />
Listen to Me<br />
By Suzanne Nielsen<br />
<br />
Toby Walker had listened to everyone<br />
around him for his entire 43 years. One<br />
day he woke up and realized living in Taipei<br />
proved healthy as far as diet was concerned<br />
however he has never spoken Mandarin<br />
and does not have any idea what people are saying.<br />
<br />
I look at their faces and that is my translation,<br />
he said in an interview. I reminded him what<br />
Stein said so many years ago when living in<br />
Paris: “Let me listen to me and not to them.”<br />
<br />
He has no idea what I meant. I watched him<br />
walk away and noticed him searching the faces<br />
of the strangers he passed. After passing a woman<br />
with a lollipop, he turned to face me and was smiling.<br />
<br />
Web of Life<br />
By Suzanne Nielsen<br />
<br />
Last evening Miriam raced home from work<br />
after a quick detour into the corner gift shop<br />
that had signs in the window: 80% off. The<br />
miniature hand-carved Italian nativity that she’d<br />
been eyeing for two years was now 40.00. Christ,<br />
she wanted that, but knew money was tight for<br />
the next several weeks. Miriam took the tiny wooden<br />
baby from the manger and hid it in the corner by the<br />
children’s books. If she couldn’t have it no one could.<br />
On her way home she felt guilt and remorse<br />
so she called the store from her cell phone to notify the owner<br />
where the orphan rested. She was referred to an automated<br />
recording instructing her to go directly to www.freebabyjesus.com<br />
for further instructions on leaving a message. In the background<br />
she could hear the soft cooing of the wooden infant<br />
that she would rename Pinocchio.<br />
<br />
Bio: Suzanne Nielsen, a native of St. Paul, Minnesota, teaches writing at Metropolitan State University. Her poetry, fiction and essays appear in literary journals nationally and internationally; some of these include The Comstock Review, The Copperfield Review, Mid-America Poetry Review, Foliate Oak, Identity Theory, The Pedestal, Pindeldyboz, Rosebud, Rumble, Thunder Sandwich, Word Riot and 580 Split. So’ham Books released her collection of poetry titled “East of the River,” in December 2005. So’ham will publish her collection of short fiction in September of 2007, titled “The Moon Behind the 8-Ball & Other Stories.”<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: I love poetic stories, Suzanne, does a nice job; I pick these poems since it caught my fancy. I think there is a misunderstanding about free verse having no form. These poem are examples of free verse with a natural story form. It allows the freedom to write the stories naturally.<br />
<br />
<br />
Dissimilarities Within One<br />
By Felino Soriano<br />
<br />
I walked in silence<br />
slouching near the bending of<br />
a white oak, whose branches<br />
resembled gnarled tiredness,<br />
yet also resembled a posing<br />
martial artist,<br />
masterfully<br />
exhibiting multiple styles of<br />
avifauna perched within its splayed<br />
and peeling branches.<br />
<br />
Bio: Felino Soriano, from California, is a case manager working with developmentally disabled adults. He is also a philosophy student. The existence of being a classic and avant-garde jazz enthusiast juxtaposed with his philosophical studies, one can ascertain his poetic inspirations. His poetry appears widely in print and online.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: I picked this poem because of a balance of the abstract nature and notions of life; combined, blended with concrete images that display concretely the realities.<br />
<br />
<br />
daylight saving<br />
By Richard Lighthouse<br />
<br />
<br />
within each brain clock<br />
we shift with the sun,<br />
tide with the moon,<br />
and hang at evening's edge.<br />
<br />
cheating the ticking gods<br />
of things miss understood.<br />
sacred in our cycle.<br />
blessed rhythm of sequence.<br />
<br />
and when we leap forward<br />
stealing minutes<br />
of convenience, does the moon<br />
wince in despair?<br />
<br />
begging - how much can we<br />
borrow and still give back?<br />
even the owl wants<br />
to know.<br />
<br />
<br />
tequila shakes<br />
Richard Lighthouse<br />
<br />
mix 2 parts anxiety<br />
1 heap ice cream<br />
4 ounces tequila.<br />
shake vigorously. (the drink,<br />
not yourself.)<br />
<br />
repeat until<br />
you<br />
shake<br />
vigorously.<br />
<br />
Bio: Richard Lighthouse is a contemporary writer and poet. He holds an M.S. from Stanford University.<br />
His work has been published in: The Penwood Review, West Hills Review, Mudfish, and many others worldwide.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Richard has a way with free verse that has it’s own sense of form within his moment; he has a style that is his, breaks that come in nearly regular places-but the free verse form (contradiction of sort) is not contrived.<br />
<br />
<br />
Good Bread<br />
By Lauren Scharhag<br />
<br />
Good woman, good bread,<br />
snug in waxed paper,<br />
clean sheets on the bed.<br />
<br />
Soft hands worn dry by years<br />
of kneading and folding.<br />
Little spurs catch flesh on fabric.<br />
<br />
The arts are not wholly lost,<br />
the hearth secrets.<br />
<br />
To know the heft of things,<br />
as well as scent and flavor.<br />
<br />
We were the ones who looked at the moon<br />
and baked bread round.<br />
<br />
Bio:<br />
Lauren Scharhag was born and raised in Kansas City, MO. Her poetry has appeared in KC magazines Novum Ovum and The Mutiny, and in New Wine and Compass Rose. She is also a screenwriter, as well as a fiction writer. She is currently at work on a novel.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: This poem is wonderful. A lady after my own style. Rich with rewarding imagery.<br />
She is a star in my poetry eye.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.com0