POETRY PACIFIC
[Vol. 13, 2024 edition]
 |
| Cover art by Helena Qi Hong |
Sunday, 5 May 2024
PP: Editors' Notes
dear All PP Patrons,
towards the end of last year, several authors published on our website asked us whether we were going to make any nominiations for pubshcart prize and/or 'best of the net'. we told them that as a rule we had never done so regularly, nor would we in the future. the reason is simple: our site is, as indicated explicitly under the name of our e.zine, 'a publication for true lovers of words and wisdom'. indeed, while most, if not all, authors, magazines and presses, may turn out to be pursurers of fame and wealth to varying degrees, our platform cares about neither. it's purely a labor of love.
one thing interesting to note is, though, that since we reduced PP from a biannual into an annual publication in 2020, we have had more pageviewers than before, averaging about 7,500 at least per month. most noticeably, in march 2024, our monthly pageviewers hit a record high, which reached 27,124, a sudden huge jump still unexplanable. on april 5 alone, our pageviewers reached as many as 2,042. compared to other literary/poetic sites (including some university/college-run ones), this achievement is certainly satisfactory. after all, PP is basically a solo performance by an old village boy whose time, energy, health and computer skills are all extremely limited. (we had a statistic report about our site in 2016, and will do so again in 2026, just to see the changes.)
in this annual edition, we are honored to present 70 poetry authors and 4 visual/graphic artists.
enjoy reading/viewing,
with all best wishes for a more rational, peaceful and prosperous time to come...
- eds. at PP
Call for Submissions - Guidelines
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES [Revised]
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty. At the same time, the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed year round on a rolling basis for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market, but a literary project as a labor of lovepresented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems each time by pasting them all together with a brief 3rd person bio note
within the body of your email (Textual subs with attachments will automatically be deleted unread)to editors.pp@gmail.com, But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance, your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together with a literary tv or professional bio
Basic Guidelines for Preparing a Manuscript
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.2. Single-space all the textual content;3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;11. Provide an ‘author page’;12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
MANY THANKS FOR YOUR KIND COOPERATION!
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that
s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that
s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and
hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss,
damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims,
whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly
from breach of this warranty. At the same time,
the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use
part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses
to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or
other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed
year round on a rolling basis
for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work,
are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market,
but a literary project as a labor of love
presented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems each time
by pasting them all together with a brief 3rd person bio note
within the body of your email
within the body of your email
(Textual subs with attachments will automatically be deleted unread)
to editors.pp@gmail.com,
But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance,
your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &
only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,
but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together
send us a brief description together
with a literary tv or professional bio
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.
2. Single-space all the textual content;
3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;
4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;
5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;
6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);
7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);
8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);
9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;
10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;
11. Provide an ‘author page’;
12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
5 Poems by Gemma Mathewson
Cliff Dweller
One palm
and both arches
slapping rungs,
mother’s rhythm
of ascent.
The child
cocooned
to her back
lurches sideways
snatching at
a zigzag motion
interrupting
the turquoise sky.
Counterbalancing,
the water vessel
slips from mother’s
other hand.
She laughs,
already contriving
a new design
to be painted on
a replacement jug -
a pattern of
fluttering wings -
before the old pot
clatters to
wet fragments
in the valley
below.
The Dreams of Monotremes Revisited
and both arches
slapping rungs,
mother’s rhythm
of ascent.
The child
cocooned
to her back
lurches sideways
snatching at
a zigzag motion
interrupting
the turquoise sky.
Counterbalancing,
the water vessel
slips from mother’s
other hand.
She laughs,
already contriving
a new design
to be painted on
a replacement jug -
a pattern of
fluttering wings -
before the old pot
clatters to
wet fragments
in the valley
below.
The Dreams of Monotremes Revisited
Mammalian, yet without a teat
in grooves abdominally neat
collecting mother’s milk discreet
her furless babe laps up the treat
while swimming up Australian streams
her snout collecting sensory beams
to electro-locate shrimps and breams
and feast with dreaming monotremes
From reptilian genes, in fact
if jealous male suspects attack
with venomous spur he will extract
a pain exquisite and exact
And generating countless reams
I’d scrawl out am’rous giddy themes
seductive sensual supremes
erotic dreams of monotremes
Avian chromosomes decree
five xy pairs the male will be
but just her left side ovary
produces eggs, from one to three
Biologist skeptics searched for seams
in taxidermic samplings
unlikely hoax they must have seemed
to dream up dreaming monotremes
Orificial nomenclature states
one perforation indicates
they eliminate and defecate
precisely where they procreate
blueprint outrageous, it beeseems
A fine economy redeems
designing principles esteem
the pipe dream form of monotremes
in grooves abdominally neat
collecting mother’s milk discreet
her furless babe laps up the treat
while swimming up Australian streams
her snout collecting sensory beams
to electro-locate shrimps and breams
and feast with dreaming monotremes
From reptilian genes, in fact
if jealous male suspects attack
with venomous spur he will extract
a pain exquisite and exact
And generating countless reams
I’d scrawl out am’rous giddy themes
seductive sensual supremes
erotic dreams of monotremes
Avian chromosomes decree
five xy pairs the male will be
but just her left side ovary
produces eggs, from one to three
Biologist skeptics searched for seams
in taxidermic samplings
unlikely hoax they must have seemed
to dream up dreaming monotremes
Orificial nomenclature states
one perforation indicates
they eliminate and defecate
precisely where they procreate
blueprint outrageous, it beeseems
A fine economy redeems
designing principles esteem
the pipe dream form of monotremes
Let my symbolic third wish be
to dream what platypuses see
in REM, the genome tree
and each potentiality
mapped deftly to infinity
or to, at least “here dragons be”.
and every path not taken, me.
Rejecting higher branching beams
from evolutionary schemes
and forking alternate extremes
while dreaming dreams of monotremes.
******12 years pass******
This monotreme’s re-emergence
as a creature of resplendence
centers on her fur’s quintessence -
cool blue-green bio-florescence!
She swims unscathed - her fur’s proclivity
confounds her predator’s ability
while she hunts with sure agility
in Tasmanian twilight tranquility.
Zoologists, as they will and must,
submit new research to discuss
as I, with glowing wondrousness
dream dreams of duckbilled platypus!
Because a Fire
Because a fire was in my head*
igniting was my waking aim
no room for doubt, regret, nor dread
because a fire was in my head
Because a fire was in my blood
restlessness seared through my veins
each night I built the past day’s pyre
to fuel the fire that was my blood
Because a fire was in my eyes
stars reconfigured in the void
constellations blazed my fate
scried from fire within my eyes
Because a fire was in my breath
I learned to sing the dragon’s song
discordance scorched thoracic scales
with fire bellowed from my breath
Because a fire was in my lips
I fanned the embers with a kiss
in sleepless vigil tended hearth
from blistering fire inside my lips
Because a fire was in my heart
was passion suckled from my breast
as earth enriched with lava flow
desire the tinder in my heart
Because a fire was in my hands
my merest touch reduced to ash
the ones I hungered to caress
the fire a Midas in my hands
Because a fire was in my loins
I grappled with the world in flames
then yielded molten inner core
to stoke the fire in my loins
Because a fire was in my bones
incandescence bore me up
ropelled me ‘til I self consumed
by fire that guttered in my bones
*because a fire was in my head 2nd line from W.B. Yeats Song of the Wandering Aengus
The Skeptic
In the backseat
jouncing up Amherst Main Street
to the hill’s crest
My granddaughter leaned sideways
affording as much confidence
as the carseat restraint allowed.
Gesturing behind her
beyond a white picket fence
toward a grand oak-shaded yellow homestead
she whispered:
to dream what platypuses see
in REM, the genome tree
and each potentiality
mapped deftly to infinity
or to, at least “here dragons be”.
and every path not taken, me.
Rejecting higher branching beams
from evolutionary schemes
and forking alternate extremes
while dreaming dreams of monotremes.
******12 years pass******
This monotreme’s re-emergence
as a creature of resplendence
centers on her fur’s quintessence -
cool blue-green bio-florescence!
She swims unscathed - her fur’s proclivity
confounds her predator’s ability
while she hunts with sure agility
in Tasmanian twilight tranquility.
Zoologists, as they will and must,
submit new research to discuss
as I, with glowing wondrousness
dream dreams of duckbilled platypus!
Because a Fire
Because a fire was in my head*
igniting was my waking aim
no room for doubt, regret, nor dread
because a fire was in my head
Because a fire was in my blood
restlessness seared through my veins
each night I built the past day’s pyre
to fuel the fire that was my blood
Because a fire was in my eyes
stars reconfigured in the void
constellations blazed my fate
scried from fire within my eyes
Because a fire was in my breath
I learned to sing the dragon’s song
discordance scorched thoracic scales
with fire bellowed from my breath
Because a fire was in my lips
I fanned the embers with a kiss
in sleepless vigil tended hearth
from blistering fire inside my lips
Because a fire was in my heart
was passion suckled from my breast
as earth enriched with lava flow
desire the tinder in my heart
Because a fire was in my hands
my merest touch reduced to ash
the ones I hungered to caress
the fire a Midas in my hands
Because a fire was in my loins
I grappled with the world in flames
then yielded molten inner core
to stoke the fire in my loins
Because a fire was in my bones
incandescence bore me up
ropelled me ‘til I self consumed
by fire that guttered in my bones
*because a fire was in my head 2nd line from W.B. Yeats Song of the Wandering Aengus
The Skeptic
In the backseat
jouncing up Amherst Main Street
to the hill’s crest
My granddaughter leaned sideways
affording as much confidence
as the carseat restraint allowed.
Gesturing behind her
beyond a white picket fence
toward a grand oak-shaded yellow homestead
she whispered:
You know, Grammy
That lady who lived up there?
Emily Dickenchicken?
Never left her house!
… Do you think that could be TRUE?
What reasonable response
convinces a budding skeptic
approaching four?
Well, I think she liked to be at home,
I ventured,
but the raised eyebrow volleyed back -
Didn’t Emily ever want to go out
to play with her friends?
That lady who lived up there?
Emily Dickenchicken?
Never left her house!
… Do you think that could be TRUE?
What reasonable response
convinces a budding skeptic
approaching four?
Well, I think she liked to be at home,
I ventured,
but the raised eyebrow volleyed back -
Didn’t Emily ever want to go out
to play with her friends?
One afternoon that summer,
after weeding their garden
and feeding their four hens,
my daughter, the skeptic granddaughter
and her older sister and I
toured the Dickinson Homestead.
Once admitted with a small group
we were enlightened and entertained
by the elderly Emily-fan-boy docent
with his erudite narrative.
Family pictures and history in the parlor,
Her bedroom where she wrote
at an implausibly tiny desk,
Her ingenious either - or notation
for when she simply could not choose between words -
The kitchen where she liked to bake.
(a few tailored asides here and there to entertain
the well behaved granddaughters)
how she liked to dangle a basket of cookies
from a rope out the window
for neighborhood children waiting beneath.
Wrapping it up
the docent invited anyone interested
to visit, on our own, a replica of the garden
Emily spent much time tending.
The Skeptic made a beeline
meticulously examining every flowerbed
abuzz with actual bees on an array
of heirloom blossoms
Satisfied, she turned to me.
Vindicated.
See, Grammy?
NO VEGETABLES!
She would at least
have to go to the grocery store
for vegetables.
The Meidas RIng
The thing was, to dodge
getting clobbered with it
like brass knuckles, I guess
only more dainty
The ring was weighty -
realistically tooth shaped
as if punk jewelry
had been invented
by an affectionate dentist in the 1940s
who prised 22K gold fillings
From many rotten teeth
he extracted from his patients
after weeding their garden
and feeding their four hens,
my daughter, the skeptic granddaughter
and her older sister and I
toured the Dickinson Homestead.
Once admitted with a small group
we were enlightened and entertained
by the elderly Emily-fan-boy docent
with his erudite narrative.
Family pictures and history in the parlor,
Her bedroom where she wrote
at an implausibly tiny desk,
Her ingenious either - or notation
for when she simply could not choose between words -
The kitchen where she liked to bake.
(a few tailored asides here and there to entertain
the well behaved granddaughters)
how she liked to dangle a basket of cookies
from a rope out the window
for neighborhood children waiting beneath.
Wrapping it up
the docent invited anyone interested
to visit, on our own, a replica of the garden
Emily spent much time tending.
The Skeptic made a beeline
meticulously examining every flowerbed
abuzz with actual bees on an array
of heirloom blossoms
Satisfied, she turned to me.
Vindicated.
See, Grammy?
NO VEGETABLES!
She would at least
have to go to the grocery store
for vegetables.
The Meidas RIng
The thing was, to dodge
getting clobbered with it
like brass knuckles, I guess
only more dainty
The ring was weighty -
realistically tooth shaped
as if punk jewelry
had been invented
by an affectionate dentist in the 1940s
who prised 22K gold fillings
From many rotten teeth
he extracted from his patients
My Dad melted them down
in his crucible
centrifugally forced the liquid gold
into his impression of a four-point molar
which my Mother wore proudly
on her ring finger
and randomly back-handed at us kids
when we rolled our eyes at her
talked back, or acted out
with typical childhood expressions
I suggested - just before her funeral -
she be buried wearing it
but my brother intervened
“she promised it to me”
I never saw it again
I don’t care to know where he keeps it
Bionote
Gemma Mathewson
biography in monosyllabic pairs:
birth - down and out
childhood - black and blue
adolescence - sturm und drang
high school - hard to take
college - rag and bone
education - hit or miss
social life - hide and seek
friendships - ebb and flow
saving grace - rock and roll
downfall - rise and shine
marriage - give and take
children - first and last
cars - scratch and dent
grandchildren - hug and kiss
heart - ice and fire
temper - hot and sour
ambition - slim to none
standards - hard to please
fear - wrack and ruin
joy - hear to heart
style - denim and lace
entertainments - read and weep - hunt and peck - point and click
energy - dribs and drabs
strategy - hand to mouth
motto - “each by each”
yearnings - far and wide
finale - wait and see
in his crucible
centrifugally forced the liquid gold
into his impression of a four-point molar
which my Mother wore proudly
on her ring finger
and randomly back-handed at us kids
when we rolled our eyes at her
talked back, or acted out
with typical childhood expressions
I suggested - just before her funeral -
she be buried wearing it
but my brother intervened
“she promised it to me”
I never saw it again
I don’t care to know where he keeps it
Bionote
Gemma Mathewson
biography in monosyllabic pairs:
birth - down and out
childhood - black and blue
adolescence - sturm und drang
high school - hard to take
college - rag and bone
education - hit or miss
social life - hide and seek
friendships - ebb and flow
saving grace - rock and roll
downfall - rise and shine
marriage - give and take
children - first and last
cars - scratch and dent
grandchildren - hug and kiss
heart - ice and fire
temper - hot and sour
ambition - slim to none
standards - hard to please
fear - wrack and ruin
joy - hear to heart
style - denim and lace
entertainments - read and weep - hunt and peck - point and click
energy - dribs and drabs
strategy - hand to mouth
motto - “each by each”
yearnings - far and wide
finale - wait and see
Gemma co-hosted Poetry Institute, aka Pi (an eclectic poetry featured-reader and open mic venue) with Mark McGuire Schwartz at New Haven’s Institute Library, and co-produces Poetry Of Immigrants, and the Art of Poetry with Frank Crowley on local public access TV. in CT shoreline area. Her first book of poetry, The Museum of Rain was published in 2019. Her poetry, most with her accompanying photos, can be found in reverse chronological order on her Wordpress.com website also called The Museum of Rain.
5 poems by Ryan Brennan
At The Cemetery
Her headstone
whispered
with a voice
made of
memory.
Dried Flowers
After hours spent
with our girls
in the sun
their shoulders,
cheeks, and
noses
all now painted
a summers
pink
I take the
flower
that this day has
bloomed
and fold it
delicately
between the
pages
where we wrote
it’s story
Well After Dusk
For Delia
Six bushels sit
stacked
Beneath an apple
tree
Empty now
But for the stars
Storms
She slides open the
curtain
of her dainty summer
dress
to the rain soaked
windows
her body passes
through
like a storm
of summer bloomed
lightning
Ravine
We should raise
our smiles in spite
of what we were
like droughted
ravines growing
wildflowers
in the absence of
water.
Bionote
Ryan Brennan lives in the Catskill Mountains with both a witch and a cat. He has recent or forthcoming work in Cider Press Review, Brazos River Review, Pif Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Mantle, One Sentence Poems, amongst others.
5 Digital Paintings by Edward Lee
 |
| a gentle sorrowing |
 |
| no freedom from this |
 |
| moon of the day |
 |
| the moon did not rise |
 |
| the universe in you |
Bionote
Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
5 Paintings by David Boyle
I began painting desert scenes and jungles as I was fascinated by these when my mother took me to visit friends in the sixties and there would be foreign pictures and sculptures of more exotic locales than my home in New Zealand. These(now retro) black woman and African landscapes fascinated me and I found myself returning to these art forms when I started with the oils in the mid nineties as I felt they still retained that mystical draw. Having owned ten motorbikes and scooters I soon drew on this passion and had my woman riding large bikes and sidecars through these landscapes. Over the years I made a whole other world in my art with skeletons on motorcycles, old fashioned British policemen, witches, a giant black cat, nuns, and The Elephant Queen an elephant that accompanied many of these characters. It’s nearly always women that purchase the Motorcycle women and some people buy the art for their children who grow up with them and take the canvases when they leave the nest. I hope to put together some children’s books using these images one day. My website is boyleswellington
Bionote
David Boyle has painted many oil paintings since the mid-nineties which have sold well in Wellington, Palmerston Nth and have sold my sculptures fromHastings City gallery New Zealand. David’s art has been seen in online magazines and paperbacks such as Last leaves, The Woodward Review, Five on the Fifth, Radar Poetry and Zoetic Press. I have been inspired by the black humour of the horror writer Shaun Hutson and Neil Cross the thriller author also humourists like Ben Elton. David entered a short story about a were/rat into The Rangitawa Collection of Short Stories by New Zealand Authors 2013 and Twisted Tax Tales Short Story in Australia and both published this in their books of short stories. Zoetic Press. My website is boyleswellington.
3 Poems by Carmine Lombardo
READ ME, LOVE
Read my eyes,
mirrors of my soul,
my joyful heart
you tenderly hold,
my lips repeating
forever love you,
my kiss, my touch
faithful and true,
my walking, talking,
integrity.
Read me, Love,
the picture of me.
THE ARTIST
Shimmering, a lake
below a mountain’s peak,
waterfalls, meadows,
a rippling creek.
Canyons, plateaus,
flowers, birds, the river line,
willow, oak, snowy pine,
floating clouds, puffy white,
background blue.
Each and awesome scene –
a magical view.
The mind, the heart,
the brush in hand
scans the beauty of the land.,
Somewhere a face,
one of a kind. –
the world, a stage
to paint and find
each stroke reveals
the sensory picture the artist feels -
classic to abstract,
all styles a noble fact –
acrylic, oil, pastel in frame,
artists reflect and praise
God’s Holy name.
Common Sense
mirrors of my soul,
my joyful heart
you tenderly hold,
my lips repeating
forever love you,
my kiss, my touch
faithful and true,
my walking, talking,
integrity.
Read me, Love,
the picture of me.
THE ARTIST
Shimmering, a lake
below a mountain’s peak,
waterfalls, meadows,
a rippling creek.
Canyons, plateaus,
flowers, birds, the river line,
willow, oak, snowy pine,
floating clouds, puffy white,
background blue.
Each and awesome scene –
a magical view.
The mind, the heart,
the brush in hand
scans the beauty of the land.,
Somewhere a face,
one of a kind. –
the world, a stage
to paint and find
each stroke reveals
the sensory picture the artist feels -
classic to abstract,
all styles a noble fact –
acrylic, oil, pastel in frame,
artists reflect and praise
God’s Holy name.
Common Sense
A man can have much learning.
His knowledge be immense,
but what a waste
without a taste
of simple common sense.
Bionote
CARMINE LOMBARDO – 2009 SENIOR POET LAUREATE OF FLORIDA, AUTHOR, LIBRETTIST, LYRICIST, MUSICIAN/ Carmine began his writing career at age 16 and to date has written twelve children’s books, many poems which have been published in magazines, newspapers and anthologies, twelve musicals with VIZHON, the Magical Musical being nominated best musical, best score, best director of the Sarasota, Fl area, 2018 plus memoirs, short stories and over three hundred songs, many recorded which became hits. I HUNG JESUS, a story based on the death of Jesus Christ as told through the eyes of the tree that became the implement of Jesus’ death, has been published and can be obtained online through Barnes and Noble. In 2009, the 17th Annual Senior Poets Laureate Award, sponsored by Amy Kitchener’s Angels Without Wings Foundation, honored him as Poet Laureate of Florida. Blessed with a wonderful family, he now lives in Cape Coral, FL with his wife, Dorayne aka Lydia Ann Cummings
His knowledge be immense,
but what a waste
without a taste
of simple common sense.
Bionote
CARMINE LOMBARDO – 2009 SENIOR POET LAUREATE OF FLORIDA, AUTHOR, LIBRETTIST, LYRICIST, MUSICIAN/ Carmine began his writing career at age 16 and to date has written twelve children’s books, many poems which have been published in magazines, newspapers and anthologies, twelve musicals with VIZHON, the Magical Musical being nominated best musical, best score, best director of the Sarasota, Fl area, 2018 plus memoirs, short stories and over three hundred songs, many recorded which became hits. I HUNG JESUS, a story based on the death of Jesus Christ as told through the eyes of the tree that became the implement of Jesus’ death, has been published and can be obtained online through Barnes and Noble. In 2009, the 17th Annual Senior Poets Laureate Award, sponsored by Amy Kitchener’s Angels Without Wings Foundation, honored him as Poet Laureate of Florida. Blessed with a wonderful family, he now lives in Cape Coral, FL with his wife, Dorayne aka Lydia Ann Cummings
5 Poems by Allen Yuan
Every Youthful Moment
Paving his ownRoad, never backing
Down,
He does what he wants,
How he wants,
When he wants,
Making the light shine.
He has faith
In
The future
He’s facing towards.
Enjoying the golden age,
Remembering every page,
Of his life,
Written or unwritten,
He gives it his all, hoping he will not
Fall,
To
Every youthful moment.
---
Here in This … Antlike Moment
Here … in this … antlike moment
Arise … my spirits
Illuminating… my own shadow
They’re up… against the dark cloud
Ready to join… in a heavy storm
Shooting… like… a thunder
Now I see… the unlimited sky
Besides …the cracking light
Now …I know…… my ………fate
Pardon My French: “America Is the Earth Fucker”
As soon as the Indian summer is over
A newly old Turk
Who always talks in plain English
(About anything as American as apple pie)
Will put an end to this Mexican standoff
(By way of a deep French kiss?)
Before taking French leave
And then going Dutch
(With Dutch courage, of course)
For some real black Russian
Despite all those Chinese whispers
Which are totally Greek to him
Even if he has to take a slow boat to China
Where there’re simply too many chefs
And not enough Indians
Diphthongs Deconstructed
Wakie wacky, you dum dum
Stop dillying dallying, &
Don’t wishy washy
Or shilly shally
But chop chop
Let’s leave the hurly burly
All the wishy washy, or
Whim whams of this market
And join each other inside out
Becoming lovey dovey
Even palsy walsy
To complete our souls with hocus pocus
Freegments: 10 Random Reflections
1/
The biggest success for me
Is to live an enjoyable life
2/
The meaning of life, if any at all
Is yet to create one for yourself
3/
Poetry is truth, good or beauty
Perceived beyond immediacy
4/
The most fascinating fact of my life : All I have
Gone through are published as poetry or fiction
5/
A smile on your face can drop on the ground anytime
Only an inner joy will keep your soul uplifted forever
6/
Skin pleasure is strong, bone pleasure enduring
While spiritual pleasure is as strong as enduring
7/
It’s not the wind but the lost souls rising from under-
Ground that are storming through the cement forests
8/
Go dream a bluish dream, where
I will join you in body as in soul
9/
So many black tears are contained in the red-hearted
Melon as if we’re all imprisoned in a sweet universe
10/
The highest ability is to live a simple life
After one has undergone all complications
Bionote
Allen Yuan, author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and 2-time Best of the Net nominee. A co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen currently works as a financial analyst in Vancouver. Since grade 10, Allen has had poetry appear in more than 70 literary publications across 16 countries, which include Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Poetry Scotland, Shampoo and Spillway.
1/
The biggest success for me
Is to live an enjoyable life
2/
The meaning of life, if any at all
Is yet to create one for yourself
3/
Poetry is truth, good or beauty
Perceived beyond immediacy
4/
The most fascinating fact of my life : All I have
Gone through are published as poetry or fiction
5/
A smile on your face can drop on the ground anytime
Only an inner joy will keep your soul uplifted forever
6/
Skin pleasure is strong, bone pleasure enduring
While spiritual pleasure is as strong as enduring
7/
It’s not the wind but the lost souls rising from under-
Ground that are storming through the cement forests
8/
Go dream a bluish dream, where
I will join you in body as in soul
9/
So many black tears are contained in the red-hearted
Melon as if we’re all imprisoned in a sweet universe
10/
The highest ability is to live a simple life
After one has undergone all complications
Bionote
Allen Yuan, author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and 2-time Best of the Net nominee. A co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen currently works as a financial analyst in Vancouver. Since grade 10, Allen has had poetry appear in more than 70 literary publications across 16 countries, which include Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Poetry Scotland, Shampoo and Spillway.
2 Poems by Maria Berardi
In the Detritus and Duff
(after alcohol poisoning)
So sick soul sick fear
fear and trembling
self quite self-murdered
self a flayed baby pathetic
repulsive on a bed
skinless so the air is bright hurt.
The television screaming through the walls of the next room.
Only want darkness.
Only want silence.
The strangest thing there
in the bed
in the mind
a hushed, early, very early,
spring forest, dark, damp;
and a white-green stick of wood orchid pushing out of muck.
Despise
The I, I, I, I,
scalpel slashes chicken scratches
(notebooks full of abasement)
each capital a nail
on which to hang a sentence's structure,
a hook on which to tether meaning
(rhymes with
lie and lye,
caustic, desolate,
looking for a place
to unwind, recline,
to be done; to rest.)
This slit
sees, narrowly,
blinkers, parentheses,
in a recursive tunnel,
down and down,
torch, laser,
uncovers only
charcoal outlined against ink black,
crude map, nonsense.
(rhymes with,
also, a part of, light,
a skein, a ribbon unfurling
forward, never back,
through and through darkness
destination night.)
Bionote
Maria Berardi's poems appear online, in print, in university journals, meditation magazines, newspapers, and art galleries. Her first book, Cassandra Gifts, was published in 2013 and she is shopping around her
second, entitled Pagan. She can be reached at maria-berardi.com.
fear and trembling
self quite self-murdered
self a flayed baby pathetic
repulsive on a bed
skinless so the air is bright hurt.
The television screaming through the walls of the next room.
Only want darkness.
Only want silence.
The strangest thing there
in the bed
in the mind
a hushed, early, very early,
spring forest, dark, damp;
and a white-green stick of wood orchid pushing out of muck.
Despise
The I, I, I, I,
scalpel slashes chicken scratches
(notebooks full of abasement)
each capital a nail
on which to hang a sentence's structure,
a hook on which to tether meaning
(rhymes with
lie and lye,
caustic, desolate,
looking for a place
to unwind, recline,
to be done; to rest.)
This slit
sees, narrowly,
blinkers, parentheses,
in a recursive tunnel,
down and down,
torch, laser,
uncovers only
charcoal outlined against ink black,
crude map, nonsense.
(rhymes with,
also, a part of, light,
a skein, a ribbon unfurling
forward, never back,
through and through darkness
destination night.)
Bionote
Maria Berardi's poems appear online, in print, in university journals, meditation magazines, newspapers, and art galleries. Her first book, Cassandra Gifts, was published in 2013 and she is shopping around her
second, entitled Pagan. She can be reached at maria-berardi.com.
3 Poems by Gary Kissick
Dawn at Halape Oasis
The night has worn out. It was my blanketand consolation. Whenever I opened my eyes,
the dark was thick with night sky stars.
Whenever I turned my body, makai or mauka,
it buoyed my body with darkness
and constellations. Of a multitude,
one star remains. The calm pulse of its light
beats in the tidal pool.
Rain Quietude
In sleep made of sleep and remembrance, a few raindrops
sound in the dark. Like a chieftain, the wind moves through leaves,
then the raindrops fall. But I am deceived by other
nights and desires; these are only small hands
shaken from the sky. No rainfall follows
the path through the woods, the night is clear of its sound,
and I can hear the ocean open
like a palm among small rocks.
I think of days when some ghost undulation
moved through stillborn
rain on the ocean.
I have seen that same blown curtain in the changing tones of sea
seen from a great height on clear days; and in clouds paled
by wind on the pali; and in a woman’s distraction
when buoyed by love past dusk to darkness,
she finds an unfamiliar light illuminates
a world still moving, but moving less,
as she lies wet and hesitates
to wonder what love will remain
when she has handed it down to herself through the years
and her hands have changed it,
when even now it is strangely unapproachable,
an arrangement in perfect balance,
and, offhandedly, she says,
“I think it’s going to rain.”
A Pact With Spirits
It is a pact I have made with spirits.
They will not reveal themselves.
When I turn to examine an echo,
I’ll see no old Chinaman
forlorn in an overcoat
worn thin by moonlight.
When I sleep in the woods,
I’ll hear no ancient songs, no women crying
where there are none. The desolate
babies in the graveyard
will be cats. The clack of bamboo
only that.
Coat hangers
will not rattle in the closet,
the lock will not come undone,
nor will the rocking chair
rock of its own accord.
I, in return, will believe in them.
Bionote
Gary Kissick, a past editor of Hawaii Review, is the winner of the Pacific Poetry Prize for Outer Islands (U. of Hawaii Press, 1984), The Honolulu Poetry Prize, and a National Endowment of the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship. In addition to Outer Islands, he has also published Another Kissing Couple Has Exploded (Gatehouse Press, 2007) as well as the novel Winter in Volcano (Random House UK, 1999). His work has appeared in Antioch Review, Appalachian Review, Best of Bamboo Ridge, Esquire, Manoa, The Nation, Poetry Now, Prairie Schooner, Rolling Stone, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Village Voice, White Noise and elsewhere. He is a graduate of both the University of Iowa Writers Workshop and the University of East Anglia (UK). He is a Professor Emeritus of English with the University of Maryland Global Campus.
3 poems by Margaret Pearce
DEPRESSION
From the far lonely reaches of my fears,Incubating from the blackness below
Depression stirs, that carrion crow
An obscene shape across unshed tears.
Sensing the failing confidence crying,
Circling to the summons of silent screams,
Tearing at the entrails of broken dreams
Spilling unborn hopes from corpse still dying.
Gorging on the malice of transient friends
Unsated the feral weed of paranoia thrives
Choking fragile reason from despairing lives
Breaks through at last, and into reality blends.
And that dense black shadow across my years,
Feeds monstrous life into those carrion fears.
A BIRD UNIQUE
Hoo hoo hoo, and he haw hay
Laughed the Kooka on his way.
Afer him the Magpies chased
Winging past in reckless haste.
What was it that the Kooka heard
To cause the Magpies get so stirred?
An ornithologist rushed to meet
A Magpie walking on two sore feet.
‘I’m scared to fly,’the Magpie wailed
They laughed at me because I failed.’
He then limped on, a bird unique
An unhappy agoraphobic freak.
A version of this published Swag of Verse 2007 one use only
A version of this published Geelong Writers 2016 one use only
A version of this published freexpression magazine, February 2021 one use only
ANALYSIS
Do I resent the chains around me
Bound by habit
Imbedded so deeply in my soul
That all eternity will show the mark?
Where love and hate each in their turn
Strengthen bondage with their grasp
Twin warders guarding front and back doors
Every loophole and every crevice.
Self chosen prison confining flesh
Torn apart by inward storms
Treacherous currents of indecision
Cowed to stillness by convention.
Cringing back from duty’s lashes
Lost forever is the key
The price for cowards is too high
Leaving lurking in the shadows
The lonely captive snatching
Fleeting glimpses of freedom
Yearningly
Through self barred windows.
Bionote
I was a sickly child and an omnivorous reader which made for a harmonious and pleasant substitute for most of the schools I was supposed to attend. My love of fantasy started at seven years of age when all magazines with lurid covers kept getting snatched off me. Launched on an unsuspecting commercial world I ended up copywriting in an advertising department. I took to writing instead of drink when raising children. Said children embarrassed at me getting published. You never run out of material when knee deep in children. I completed an Arts Degree at Monash University as a mature age student. I have mainly had published children's and teenage novels print and ebooks as currently listed on Amazon, Book Depository, Kindle and writers-exchange.com
I was a sickly child and an omnivorous reader which made for a harmonious and pleasant substitute for most of the schools I was supposed to attend. My love of fantasy started at seven years of age when all magazines with lurid covers kept getting snatched off me. Launched on an unsuspecting commercial world I ended up copywriting in an advertising department. I took to writing instead of drink when raising children. Said children embarrassed at me getting published. You never run out of material when knee deep in children. I completed an Arts Degree at Monash University as a mature age student. I have mainly had published children's and teenage novels print and ebooks as currently listed on Amazon, Book Depository, Kindle and writers-exchange.com
3 Poems by Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka
Lake Patzcuaro: Before All Saints' Eve on Janitzio Island
The lake where fishermen catch lightin butterfly nets. Shadows sit on the sunny
side. Mountains last for only a splash
of the boat turned around by the whistle
of the guitar player on the pier.
Glimmers skip on green floats,
upright egrets double upside-down,
ridges mingle with clouds
lured to sink with the sun
into the abyss of legends.
After the last boat departs, the water
takes on a tarnished, wrinkled
countenance, sighs to the lingering
cloud and closes up.
On All Saints' Eve the souls emerge,
share pan de los muertos on festive graves,
and then, flickering candle flames—
to air and water they return.
--first published in Little Patuxent Review
On Earth
From the imperceptible tap water flows in.
I am sixteen. I gaze at the Big Dipper,
dream of being an astronaut,
garner stars.
I am forty. I visit Orion, bright nebula
in his sword. All monsters conquered,
no injustice allowed. I hold matter and spark.
The pool fills up.
I am ninety. The people who were to die
did. The Red Planet is at its closest
to Earth. I reach.
I am three again. The Sun plays tricks
with colors to defer the night.
I ask to stay awake.
The water stills, merges with forever.
--first published in The Comstock Review
The Ocean Is Watching
Today I cannot win with myself,
an “o” against an “x”
call it “tick-tack-toe” or
“kółko i krzyżyk,”
“a circle and a cross”
drawn with a shell
on nine squares, between four lines
on hardened sand
tinted by the six o’clock sun.
The other player, the other I,
does not make a mistake in this game,
nor do I.
--first published in Spillway
Bionote
Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka is the author of two books: Face Half-Illuminated (Apprentice House) and Oblige the Light (CityLit Press), winner of the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize. She is also the translator for four books by Lidia Kosk. Her works have appeared in Pirene’s Fountain, Spillway, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. Poetry Translations Editor at Loch Raven Review, she grew up in Poland and now lives in Maryland, USA. More at: danutakk.wordpress.com
2 Poems by Michael Carrino
Night Walk Down a Narrow Street
— Don’t confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them
-Jackson Brown
On cobblestone under moonlight
away from all
the chilling babble I navigate
with my slippery
imagination as I conjure one rough
gemstone of tourmaline
a faded page in a favorite book
I've not read in a while
My long-missing friend always
forcefully insisting
I was avoiding the last best image
clearly available
beyond my hesitant reach
The Way of It
There will be cruel edicts. A feral rumpus
will ensue. Next, a timeless
span of mystical
retreat, much lament,
a deep ache.
The air will be thick. Steel gray. Not one
owl or possum or bear
to be found. No tree, no rock, no sky.
Voices will whisper, “What
can we do?” When
the voices fade
there will be jazz.
An Art Tatum Quartet, playing
“Where or When”
Tatum will glance
over his shoulder, find
within the blue haze
of cigarette smoke, one pale
friend or two at a table
back near a warm
white wall and know
where everyone has gone.
Bionote
Michael Carrino is a 1971 SUNY Plattsburgh graduate and retired English lecturer from the State University College at Plattsburgh, New York. He was co-founder and poetry editor of the University’s literary journal, Saranac Review and a long-time reader for Inanna Press, Toronto, Canada. His publications include Some Rescues, (New Poets Series, Inc.) Under This Combustible Sky, (Mellen Poetry Press), Café Sonata, (Brown Pepper Press), Autumn’s Return to the Maple Pavilion (Conestoga Press), By Available Light (Guernica Editions), Always Close, Forever Careless (Kelsay Books), Until I’ve Forgotten, Until I’m Stunned (Kelsay Books), In No Hurry (Kelsay Books), and soon to be published, Natural Light (Kelsay Books), as well as individual poems in numerous journals and reviews.
I had not forgotten them
-Jackson Brown
On cobblestone under moonlight
away from all
the chilling babble I navigate
with my slippery
imagination as I conjure one rough
gemstone of tourmaline
a faded page in a favorite book
I've not read in a while
My long-missing friend always
forcefully insisting
I was avoiding the last best image
clearly available
beyond my hesitant reach
The Way of It
There will be cruel edicts. A feral rumpus
will ensue. Next, a timeless
span of mystical
retreat, much lament,
a deep ache.
The air will be thick. Steel gray. Not one
owl or possum or bear
to be found. No tree, no rock, no sky.
Voices will whisper, “What
can we do?” When
the voices fade
there will be jazz.
An Art Tatum Quartet, playing
“Where or When”
Tatum will glance
over his shoulder, find
within the blue haze
of cigarette smoke, one pale
friend or two at a table
back near a warm
white wall and know
where everyone has gone.
Bionote
Michael Carrino is a 1971 SUNY Plattsburgh graduate and retired English lecturer from the State University College at Plattsburgh, New York. He was co-founder and poetry editor of the University’s literary journal, Saranac Review and a long-time reader for Inanna Press, Toronto, Canada. His publications include Some Rescues, (New Poets Series, Inc.) Under This Combustible Sky, (Mellen Poetry Press), Café Sonata, (Brown Pepper Press), Autumn’s Return to the Maple Pavilion (Conestoga Press), By Available Light (Guernica Editions), Always Close, Forever Careless (Kelsay Books), Until I’ve Forgotten, Until I’m Stunned (Kelsay Books), In No Hurry (Kelsay Books), and soon to be published, Natural Light (Kelsay Books), as well as individual poems in numerous journals and reviews.
2 Poems by Sheryl Guterl
Dust
Desert dwellers learnto live with dust--on lamps,
floors, countertops, shelves.
Dust breezes under
windows and around doors.
These particles may be
our ancestors visiting.
What if we collected them,
stored them in painted pots,
displayed them on our mantles,
lit candles before them,
uttered incantations
or hummed chants to them?
Instead, these bits are swept
or wiped away, dumped
in a bin to be landfilled,
where dessicated bones
are bulldozed to obscurity.
Listen to the Lake
Waters of an ancient mountain lake
are ruffled by stiff breeze.
Sunlight dances off
each miniature wave.
If this lake were making a sound,
it would be the tinkling
of a thousand silver bells
If it had a voice, it would say,
“Come to me for peace.”
A swimmer slips between
watery silk sheets
and glides toward rocky shore.
Bionote
Sheryl Guterl claims these titles: mother, grandmother, former English teacher, former elementary school counselor, Albuquerque Museum Docent, alto, bookworm. In the summer, she writes poetry from a New Hampshire cabin, surrounded by water, birds, tall pines, and campfire smoke. In the winter months, in New Mexico, lizards, sandhill cranes, and a rich cultural landscape inspire her. Sheryl’s recent poems are in Capsule Stories, The Bluebird Word, Clerestory, SLAB, Zephyr Review, Parks & Points, Public Sector Poetry, and several local anthologies.
are ruffled by stiff breeze.
Sunlight dances off
each miniature wave.
If this lake were making a sound,
it would be the tinkling
of a thousand silver bells
If it had a voice, it would say,
“Come to me for peace.”
A swimmer slips between
watery silk sheets
and glides toward rocky shore.
Bionote
Sheryl Guterl claims these titles: mother, grandmother, former English teacher, former elementary school counselor, Albuquerque Museum Docent, alto, bookworm. In the summer, she writes poetry from a New Hampshire cabin, surrounded by water, birds, tall pines, and campfire smoke. In the winter months, in New Mexico, lizards, sandhill cranes, and a rich cultural landscape inspire her. Sheryl’s recent poems are in Capsule Stories, The Bluebird Word, Clerestory, SLAB, Zephyr Review, Parks & Points, Public Sector Poetry, and several local anthologies.
2 Poems by D. R. James
Kingdom of Gauze
A frothed fog enshrouds the loud melodies
of these woods: pileateds’ sniggering,
the squawks and meows of crow and catbird.
Their row refracts through pluming detachment
from swing, lane, foothills, the world. Unperturbed,
bloused in this low-slung ceiling, by non-speed
I’m borne, desperate for nothing obscured here—
nor certifiable forgiveness, nor
angling prophecies, nor the typhooning
bouquet of some charlatan’s ‘ministry.’
—first published in Thin Air Magazine
of these woods: pileateds’ sniggering,
the squawks and meows of crow and catbird.
Their row refracts through pluming detachment
from swing, lane, foothills, the world. Unperturbed,
bloused in this low-slung ceiling, by non-speed
I’m borne, desperate for nothing obscured here—
nor certifiable forgiveness, nor
angling prophecies, nor the typhooning
bouquet of some charlatan’s ‘ministry.’
—first published in Thin Air Magazine
Wait for It
The forecast hovers between soggy and
gratitude, verges on awe, balances
muted light against lopsided gladness.
Meanwhile (though Cosmos clatters its remote
stones, and Existence casts its Theater
of the Unheard from among the docile),
the man’s morning’s pouring itself into
day—and he stares off, fathoming the frayed
front sliding past outside has flagged in him
imponderable streaks of fleeting joy.
—first published in Red River Review
Bionote
D. R. James, recently retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives, writes, bird-watches, and cycles with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan, USA. His latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared internationally in a wide variety of print and online anthologies and journals.
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage
The forecast hovers between soggy and
gratitude, verges on awe, balances
muted light against lopsided gladness.
Meanwhile (though Cosmos clatters its remote
stones, and Existence casts its Theater
of the Unheard from among the docile),
the man’s morning’s pouring itself into
day—and he stares off, fathoming the frayed
front sliding past outside has flagged in him
imponderable streaks of fleeting joy.
—first published in Red River Review
Bionote
D. R. James, recently retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives, writes, bird-watches, and cycles with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan, USA. His latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared internationally in a wide variety of print and online anthologies and journals.
https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage
2 Poems by Anthony David Vernon
Eh
lease be aware
That the earth doesn't care
About your despair
Nor your petty wares
Or whatever it is you have to share
Water Wells
You could see within our wishing well
Countless stars and endless waterfalls
But one drop taints the well
And now we only see ourselves in free falls
Bionote
Anthony David Vernon is a Cuban-American literary writer who earned his master's degree in philosophy at the University of New Mexico. He is a regularly published author of poetry along with short stories and philosophical articles in various outlets. His premiere book is The Assumption of Death (Alien Buddha Press) a hybrid work of poetry, short stories, and philosophical musings. His second book is entitled Flings on Flings (gnOme Books).
3 Pictures by Michael Moreth
 |
| devoted |
 |
| enticing |
 |
| fifelity |
Here are a couple of egg tempera pictures I made. I hope you like them.
Bionote
Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois, USA
2 Poems by Jessamyn Rains
Shelter
Birds fluff their feathers,
bugs crawl beneath curved leaves;
small woodland creatures peer
out of the holes in their hollowed
out trees and watch the water
slash the green, stir up the mud,
fill up the creek till it sloshes
against its banks and flows
ever downward in rivulets
and streams. Somewhere in a stone
house in the middle of a town
a middle-aged woman
puts a kettle on, grinds
her coffee beans, sits
by the rain-splattered window
turns the pages and reads,
slowly, reverently–some old and dusty thing–
Eliot or Trollope, Chesterton or Hardy.
When You’ve Reached Middle Age
Your poetry turns to prose,
your marginalia to shopping lists.
You beat your clever barbs
into safety pins
and save your sarcasm
for restaurant reviews.
You are too tired to join the cult
When they come knocking
on your door,
though you search for some utopia
more desperately than ever.
Time to the young is something to kill–
to overfill, or to manage, to divide–
but moments to you are gold
sifted from endless mud,
lifted from the clear stream of life
ever flowing in this world.
Bionote
Jessamyn Rains is a mother of small children who writes and makes music. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in various publications, including Foreshadow, Dappled Things, InScribe, Amethyst Review, and Trampoline. She lives with her family in Tennessee.
2 Poems by Ave Jeanne Ventresca
SELF-PORTRAIT / Native American poet in the mirror
still naming the ingredients in his face,so predominant are the flavors of wind
and juniper berries. see how his
hair begins to gray as it forgets those
days when young was the pattern. he
seems to recall his gardens, where
aromas were sculpted throw hoe
and rake. many family members called
upon their hands and fingers to forecast
evening’s meal. today he is thinking
of these scars upon his skin. each one
like some long ago story where coyotes
upon the desert ran free, and offerings
from ancestors were retold. this weathered
hat upon his head evokes a season when
bird feathers upon it were clean and bright.
PORTRAIT IN PASTELS / Native American Woman
somewhere in a field of green she straightly
sits, with hair as dark as midnight, that finds
her shining, beneath its straightness and soft.
upon her neck, beads of many seasons, sizes
and hues, reflect their images upon the still
water. she thinks of grandfather’s stories.
pictures him at the river’s edge. in a pasture,
bending for corn, squash, firm beans. today,
this land no longer holds their home. sorrow
consumes her day, each hour longs to see
grandfather’s shadow once again. her eyes,
ebony and alone, call to the waters to
comfort her limbs and heart. these four
feathers behind her ear are at a fade, and she
is pulled into this hungry river’s mouth.
Bionote
Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry reflecting social and environmental concerns. Poetry from her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019. Her award winning poetry has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. She edited the acclaimed literary / artwork magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years.
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