tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44816411550636571922024-03-18T07:34:30.980-07:00POETRY PACIFICa literary publication for true lovers of words & wisdom poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.comBlogger1564125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-71394636793293068262023-05-05T07:50:00.002-07:002023-05-05T11:04:01.866-07:00Poetry Pacific (Vol.12): Cover Art<p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: xx-large;"> POETRY PACIFIC</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <span> </span> [Vol. 12, 2023 edition]</span></b></div></div><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmgqDsZYyPbm5oUIXj0rHIheV-fQoavk3b6y2yeTRMEG1YA-9mPOv_ocYPR-CVDixkKZlnpDrMr2scLnm7jq379oPNSAp1QakCs5oycecC232Xq1LDPJxGxizzGqJ9kpo2r724lX8Ii8pximfq4GEgu7m2BBvzm2eAerxXUmyzaLXoi8JlXEcn_CU/s2500/102010_Mother_T033.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2500" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJmgqDsZYyPbm5oUIXj0rHIheV-fQoavk3b6y2yeTRMEG1YA-9mPOv_ocYPR-CVDixkKZlnpDrMr2scLnm7jq379oPNSAp1QakCs5oycecC232Xq1LDPJxGxizzGqJ9kpo2r724lX8Ii8pximfq4GEgu7m2BBvzm2eAerxXUmyzaLXoi8JlXEcn_CU/w640-h482/102010_Mother_T033.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div style="font-family: times; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><strong>Cover Art by Doug Johnson: Mother Teresa- Pray Today<br /></strong>Offering her services to the dying she let us all know how much more we could do for peace </div><div style="font-family: times; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">when it seems that there is no hope.</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-26264994840167305402023-05-05T07:46:00.006-07:002023-05-14T15:21:19.033-07:00Editor's Notes / Call for Submissions<p> <b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">dear All PP Patrons,</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">as the covid-19 pandemic situation improves, we hope this fourth annual edition of <i>PP</i> finds every one of you well and happy in the springtime, a season much more pleasant in most parts of this virus/war-plagued world!</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">this year, we are returning to our former format: statistics show that website publication or e.anthology has much more readerly exposure than the print form only, or the mixed print-online format we experimented with for our 2022 edition. Technically, some of our readers have kindly suggested we purchase a domain and upgrade or professionalize our website, but we are committed to our blog-based model, since all the content would be totally lost once the domain is not maintained fiancially or personally. In other words, to maximize our exposure and keep our content permanently online (with google of course), we will row our little boat ahead in our preferred way. With no financial support from either government or individuals, we believe that "true lovers of words and wisdom" understand why we don't hire professionals to beautify our web presentations. As Shakespeare and an ancient Chinese proverb have put it: “good wine needs no bush."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">we're aware that many submitters pay no attention to our 'guidelines' or suggestions, but mainly for spam and technical concerns, we insist they send their textual content - both their poems and bio notes - in the body of their emails. Unless we ask for them, we will delete all emails with attachments unread, except visual artworks. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">another note to all submitters: while we are deeply grateful for your (continuing) support, please wait a period of four months, or at least two issues/years (in the case of acceptance by <i>PP</i>), before submitting new work to us. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">One last point: we never send any "reject"emails. So, whoever receives no response within 12 weeks after sending their work our way, please feel encouraged to explore other publication opportunities, which are widely available out there. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">in this annual edition, we are honored to present 68 authors and 5 artists.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />happy poetrying/picturing,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">with all best wishes for the better yet to come... <br /><br /><b>- eds. at PP</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><br /></b></span></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">SUBMISSION GUIDELINES [Revised]</h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"></h2><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviOrHDhqW27w66LIm8i2_MzamxUooZDew_u6VsbbilcCcdg7dKts_YU_FqWBKD8AbMwe452QailhNP5eGFkcbvCQAb2vjKW1vrWMMVcprMqz5TUTLXLZ9BxUJlBUEFhL2FN-MD8nuOuY/s1600/Poetry+Pacific.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviOrHDhqW27w66LIm8i2_MzamxUooZDew_u6VsbbilcCcdg7dKts_YU_FqWBKD8AbMwe452QailhNP5eGFkcbvCQAb2vjKW1vrWMMVcprMqz5TUTLXLZ9BxUJlBUEFhL2FN-MD8nuOuY/s1600/Poetry+Pacific.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>WARRANTY & AGREEMENT </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that </div><div style="text-align: center;">s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that </div><div style="text-align: center;">s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and </div><div style="text-align: center;">hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss,</div><div style="text-align: center;"> damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, </div><div style="text-align: center;">whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly </div><div style="text-align: center;">from breach of this warranty. At the same time, </div><div style="text-align: center;">the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use </div><div style="text-align: center;">part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses </div><div style="text-align: center;">to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or </div><div style="text-align: center;">other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed </div><div style="text-align: center;">year round on a rolling basis </div><div style="text-align: center;">for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, </div><div style="text-align: center;">are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* <b>s</b>orry, this is not a paying market, </div><div style="text-align: center;">but a literary project as a labor of love</div><div style="text-align: center;">presented to true lovers of words and wisdom;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* <u><b>Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems each time </b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b>by pasting them all<i> <span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">together with a brief 3rd person bio note</span></i></b></u><br /><u><b>within the body of your email </b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><b>(Textual subs with attachments will automatically be deleted unread)</b></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>to editors.pp@gmail.com</b>, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance, </div><div style="text-align: center;">your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4481641155063657192" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">* <b><u><i>Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that,</i> &</u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>only those accepted will get a reply<i>;</i></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,</div><div style="text-align: center;">but your mentioning would be much appreciated;<br /><br /><b><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><u>Once accepted by PP, please <i>allow at least two years/issues</i></u></span></b><br /><b><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><u>before submitting new work to us</u></span></b><br /><br />- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">********************</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><span><u>for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions </u></span></b><br /><b><span><u>send us a brief description together </u></span></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><span><u>with a literary tv or professional bio</u></span></b></i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><span><u><br /></u></span></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><span><u><br /></u></span></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Basic Guidelines for Preparing a Manuscript</b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.</div><div style="text-align: left;">2. Single-space all the textual content;</div><div style="text-align: left;">3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;</div><div style="text-align: left;">4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;</div><div style="text-align: left;">5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;</div><div style="text-align: left;">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);</div><div style="text-align: left;">7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);</div><div style="text-align: left;">8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);</div><div style="text-align: left;">9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;</div><div style="text-align: left;">10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;</div><div style="text-align: left;">11. Provide an ‘author page’;</div><div style="text-align: left;">12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>MANY THANKS FOR YOUR KIND COOPERATION!<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 1.3pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 1.3pt; margin: 1.3pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: auto;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">friendly back link:: </span><a href="https://www.cavemoonpress.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;" target="_blank"><b>Cave Moon Press</b></a></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-39118213148861178812023-05-05T07:45:00.004-07:002023-05-05T07:51:48.834-07:005 Poems by Scott Owens<div><b><u>Used</u></b></div><div><b><u><br /></u></b>I want to be used up by life,<br />all resources expended,<br />all reserves exhausted,<br />thistle picked clean,<br />river run dry.<br />I want to work to the last<br />minute at making and giving,<br />and take nothing with me.<br /><br />After my last breath,<br />if there is anything left<br />unused, I’ll feel I’ve failed,<br />and will only be saved by those<br />who need what I have<br />coming to carry it away.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Looking for Faces in the Night Sky</u></b><br /><br />These are things anyone could have made<br />up. The stars are nothing but stars,<br />and playing dot-to-dot in the night<br />sky makes anything possible.<br />Years ago from the stone porch<br />my grandfather pointed them out:<br />the lion, the great bear, the hunter’s sword.<br />This one he called Mary and showed me<br />how the stars made a woman’s face.<br /><br />Looking for faces in the night sky<br />we string stars into shapes of things<br />we fear or long to remember.<br />I see spider, sparrowhawk, bobwhite.<br />This one I’ll call woman becoming<br />an angel, the grotesque buds of wings<br />sprouting in her back.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Through</u></b><br /><br />The old oak<br />has lost<br />more leaves<br />than most,<br />has learned <br />to let <br />more light<br />shine through.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Yes Motherfucker</u></b><br /><br />So there was this squirrel-necked<br />four-eyed motherfucker who said I<br />shouldn’t use the word motherfucker<br />in a poem because it might offend<br />all the mothers who might not<br />to mention all the fuckers who<br />might not knowing any better<br />choose to read the poem and I<br />said yes but it expresses just<br />the sort of feeling I was feeling<br />towards the motherfucker in the poem<br />when I wrote the poem and he said yes<br />but certainly there are other<br />words that mean the same thing<br />that you could use and aren’t<br />you really just using the word<br />motherfucker just because it is<br />the word motherfucker and I said<br />yes and oh by the way<br />when I use the word yes<br />I use the word yes just because<br />it is the word yes, motherfucker.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Common Ground</u></b><br /><br />My brother has never kept a single lake,<br />a single lost grave to himself.<br />Always he calls, then waits until I<br />can come, lets me lead the way,<br />find it like the first time,<br />proclaiming the names I know, the shapes<br />of bird and stone, cloud and tree.<br /><br />Once in the same day I saw<br />a kestrel, a mantis, an arrowhead<br />and took it as a sign, though since<br />I have seen each in their own days<br />and miles away from each other. <br /><br />I do not believe God will bend<br />to kiss this mouth. I do not believe<br />the wine will turn to blood. But something<br />knows the moment of sunflower,<br />the time of crow’s open wing,<br />the span of moss growing on rock,<br />and water washing it away.<br /><br />In the pictures I remember, there is you<br />letting me stand on the fallen tree<br />as if it were mine. There is you<br />letting my arm rest on top of yours<br />around our mother. There is you<br />lifting me up to the limb I couldn’t reach.<br /><br />This is the faith I’ve wanted, to know,<br />that even now we are capable of such<br />sacrifice, such willingness to love.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Scott Owens is the author of 18 collections of poetry and recipient of awards from the Academy of American Poets, the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Next Generation/Indie Lit Awards, the NC Writers Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. His poems have been featured on <i>The Writer’s Almanac</i> 8 times, and his articles about writing poetry have been used in Poet’s Market 4 times. Owens holds degrees from Ohio University, UNC Charlotte, and UNC Greensboro. He is Professor of Poetry at <i>Lenoir Rhyne University</i>, and former editor of <i>Wild Goose Poetry Review </i>and<i> Southern Poetry Review</i>. He owns and operates Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse and Gallery and coordinates Poetry Hickory in Hickory, NC. </div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-89485100036095231262023-05-05T07:45:00.003-07:002023-05-05T07:45:42.490-07:006 Paintings by Doug Johnson <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWE-_aj6he8z-48cG-NQTnIxQlFi2DBoh0MbdJmfZsucWsP_7njoIEYdbsm2eycjtPpZYikVBNssl2cz7Uke9rD6URsBqY5pD5ZiuyYgVxxJlccgFbMntCKfj4M2mDaxf0N5zbo3IaPwLaMvBgH31wkL4IOpq7x-LDVeVLo7GcWUrNeG5erzCXkLZw/s1103/Malala-Don't_Ignore_Us_Alfredo_Arreguin_5MB.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1103" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWE-_aj6he8z-48cG-NQTnIxQlFi2DBoh0MbdJmfZsucWsP_7njoIEYdbsm2eycjtPpZYikVBNssl2cz7Uke9rD6URsBqY5pD5ZiuyYgVxxJlccgFbMntCKfj4M2mDaxf0N5zbo3IaPwLaMvBgH31wkL4IOpq7x-LDVeVLo7GcWUrNeG5erzCXkLZw/w436-h640/Malala-Don't_Ignore_Us_Alfredo_Arreguin_5MB.jpg" width="436" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; text-align: start;"><strong>Malala: Don't Ignore Us</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px; text-align: start;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">20" x 28" image</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Pen and Ink on Paper</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">$2500</p></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFVrNWv7K6YZnmftRYBt11p7GFPR2iBgUEXD7uKxn9I24E9i7qrh_yfrSVMPtbAYedeSfJutDYjdBKGjWxeSoKzJNxTsWgfJG9vzOFL1iXv71aUAtnN2lvuAE87W8oBDfJ8FQC1fNcXLuuBCw9pOOKSLonHmRUH9Vdd8ub3WU-27Q6IFgwPZOizBm/s3125/Santanas_Sacred_Fire_Alfredo_Arregu%C3%ADn.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3125" data-original-width="2500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFVrNWv7K6YZnmftRYBt11p7GFPR2iBgUEXD7uKxn9I24E9i7qrh_yfrSVMPtbAYedeSfJutDYjdBKGjWxeSoKzJNxTsWgfJG9vzOFL1iXv71aUAtnN2lvuAE87W8oBDfJ8FQC1fNcXLuuBCw9pOOKSLonHmRUH9Vdd8ub3WU-27Q6IFgwPZOizBm/w512-h640/Santanas_Sacred_Fire_Alfredo_Arregu%C3%ADn.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; text-align: start;"><strong>Santana's Sacred Fire</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px; text-align: start;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">30" x 40"</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Oil on Canvas-2017</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">$1000</p></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDPFMzxogh71GsGzAjvbJKFdFxoXYySvufo4vw0QnW6c2X6A3P1NW2TUw_Eqt3Nzh1AefDBpZksVrEAUxWjIOR4MxiCEtTefW-L-XQyLzQ674QtBuwqG6x8D3wgcdQ8PYWDEgxrGENpW4tUAUEnamjy9_xq99NR-IwTrm6g3afkTe7miBJyREjPv2/s3437/Juan_Rulfo_SDA_5MB.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3437" data-original-width="2500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDPFMzxogh71GsGzAjvbJKFdFxoXYySvufo4vw0QnW6c2X6A3P1NW2TUw_Eqt3Nzh1AefDBpZksVrEAUxWjIOR4MxiCEtTefW-L-XQyLzQ674QtBuwqG6x8D3wgcdQ8PYWDEgxrGENpW4tUAUEnamjy9_xq99NR-IwTrm6g3afkTe7miBJyREjPv2/w466-h640/Juan_Rulfo_SDA_5MB.jpg" width="466" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; text-align: start;"><strong>Juan Rulfo</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px; text-align: start;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">"10.5 x 14.5"</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Pen and Ink on Paper</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">$200</p></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKXEw_-OEVcg4T9GP9vpEi75-V-bEtijEiM2Jz0m4jylcZOxzSfdoTFNWhTHhzGoRbdpE7tJthLG2GDIKNNTi-oL8Wrck-dOLvyMS_DTeU3NzCTqGwGLUTmmv5rEPwbgoMl5dRH4q5e8ezEg3tUyhR2xnVV2dNnFFY0CPjpz_IqgONAL7sJIY9NHt/s1000/Maestro_Alfredo_Arrreguin-web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1000" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKXEw_-OEVcg4T9GP9vpEi75-V-bEtijEiM2Jz0m4jylcZOxzSfdoTFNWhTHhzGoRbdpE7tJthLG2GDIKNNTi-oL8Wrck-dOLvyMS_DTeU3NzCTqGwGLUTmmv5rEPwbgoMl5dRH4q5e8ezEg3tUyhR2xnVV2dNnFFY0CPjpz_IqgONAL7sJIY9NHt/w640-h460/Maestro_Alfredo_Arrreguin-web.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px;"><strong>Maestro</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">28" x 20"</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Pen and Ink on Paper- 2016</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">NFS-Private Collection</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Uli_knIRXy1glMbeNBuYp1G4KDUI5o-JYcj8X-OnQERbOGWF-n-yiFhmK4W5k3pnJmRmLomdUGrXXQJZ6beKiJpVoNNlB-52Cvogx2E6iCsB55LUBcKm8qVFwBFxS-CDJUsDzGTVq0v_KkVjAVBy0zmp5kP3CNIl-gaEt55l6AZz-U4UFVa7EFrK/s2500/LiBifeng_Invisible_Walls_Whose_Walls_SDA_5MB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="2500" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Uli_knIRXy1glMbeNBuYp1G4KDUI5o-JYcj8X-OnQERbOGWF-n-yiFhmK4W5k3pnJmRmLomdUGrXXQJZ6beKiJpVoNNlB-52Cvogx2E6iCsB55LUBcKm8qVFwBFxS-CDJUsDzGTVq0v_KkVjAVBy0zmp5kP3CNIl-gaEt55l6AZz-U4UFVa7EFrK/w640-h480/LiBifeng_Invisible_Walls_Whose_Walls_SDA_5MB.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; text-align: start;"><strong>LiBiFeng: Invisible Walls, Whose Walls?</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px; text-align: start;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">27" by 20"</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Pen and Ink on Paper</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">$2000</p></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMskIOR9MgAtz9ubOYGRVDFaGWz2N5GN-m_cfhYXe-O7uQtwobSSPronfsySMTlqtV2H23mTRzpGWc3ygEmgVD0Kd-c_Y_bCinXctjEdvKVCiASvRpTBF4ZnQg8AoFbNck_HO6LX4iN9WGZB523z9dYJu-bvBSTTt_q7sSwQotOF-u9ZQkM9QR3rN/s679/10000+Caras+son+una+SDA-web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMskIOR9MgAtz9ubOYGRVDFaGWz2N5GN-m_cfhYXe-O7uQtwobSSPronfsySMTlqtV2H23mTRzpGWc3ygEmgVD0Kd-c_Y_bCinXctjEdvKVCiASvRpTBF4ZnQg8AoFbNck_HO6LX4iN9WGZB523z9dYJu-bvBSTTt_q7sSwQotOF-u9ZQkM9QR3rN/w472-h640/10000+Caras+son+una+SDA-web.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><div class="image-title" style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px;"><strong>10,000 Caras son Uno</strong></div><div class="image-desc" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.28px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;"><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">26" x 33"</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">Pen and Ink on Paper- 2015</p><p style="font-size: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.02em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">$2500 </p></div><b><u><div><b><u><br /></u></b></div>Artist's Statement:</u></b><br /><br />Peace + Art = Pazarte.<br /><br />Creating art and creating peace both bring about a new vision. Mandela knew that. Gandhi knew that. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., knew that. Malala knows that. Pazarte is a project to celebrate the leaders of peace in our time, by illustrating their person and power through art. This site also celebrates and illustrates the peace brought about by humans balancing their role in nature.<br /><br />Doug Johnson is an artist, composer, writer and publisher that loves to collaborate. These pieces have shown nationally as of late, and the series follows his internationally acclaimed mentor, <a href="http://www.alfredoarreguin.com/">Alfredo Arreguin</a>, who has his own pieces in the Smithsonian, honoring the Civil Rights Movement. This entire collection is the Sombra de Arreguin series. A portion of each sale goes toward a specific non-profit that helps bring peace. Malala to Malala's Fund. Carlos Santana to the Milagro Foundation. You get the idea.<br /><br />Stay tuned for a book from <a href="http://www.cavemoonpress.com/">Cave Moon Press</a> to help a fellow artist Christie Tirado <br /><br />Contact pazarteproject[at]<a href="http://gmail.com/">gmail.com</a> for more information on projects, commissions and sales.<div><br /></div><div><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Doug Johnson is a polymath and member of American Mensa, who chose to apply his gifts in the arts and teaching. In his 32nd year as a public educator, he remains a high school English teacher while running a literary press to "Make the World a Better Place One Book at a Time." Cave Moon Press continues to publish books aimed at museums, universities, poets and children to advance causes for peace. Besides the art pieces you see here you can Google his other projects at Cave Moon Press and Cave Moon Productions. Please contact him for collaboration opportunities at cavemoonpress[at]<a href="http://gmail.com/">gmail.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p></p></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-12516059529363467542023-05-05T07:44:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:44:39.617-07:005 Poems by Tim Peeler<div><b><u>One Tin Soldier</u></b></div><br />I’ve thought an awful lot<br />About white rimmed shades<br />On a biker’s round face<br />With circular facial hair<br />How much the camera<br />Asked us to hate him<br />Displaying his bastardy<br />How clean how perfect<br />They broke when Billy Jack<br />Shot him between the eyes<br />With a thirty-eight<br />How the blood waited<br />Seconds before it fountained<br />Over the handle bars<br />Of his Harley-Davidson<br />I thought a lot about<br />His evil bully smile<br />How the bad guys<br />Are always surprised<br /><br />By their demise.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Flash Flood</u></b><br /><br />It was raining harder than he’d ever seen and he was an old man and he’d seen a lot of rain. He heard it hit the cabin’s metal roof and saw it rush right across the gutters, pounding the deck. He saw little waterfalls splashing down the twenty steps to the driveway, but it was workout morning and he would drive the twenty miles there and sit in the hot tub, and he would walk a little and lift some weight, a lot of weight for a man his age, and he would talk to his retiree buddies, and they would watch the young women on the elliptical runners and the treadmills, or he might walk into the aerobic room and move in time to the party music for a few minutes. Then he would grab some fresh towels and head for the sauna because Dr. Oz said that was the best way for a man of his age to end his workout. <br /><br />When he backed the Jetta out of the drive, his dog chased him again, but he didn’t feel like reaching into the back floorboard for the ammonia spray, so he drove on up the hill with her following till he reached thirty mph. The rain had slacked some as he drove past the road that cut off toward the emerald mine and headed through the little town with its one stoplight, store and post office. Then he was on open road descending the several miles to the river and the eighty year old dam that held back the river and created real estate for the doctors and dentists and mill owners and such. He tried to listen to Rush Limbaugh who was talking endlessly about the radio conglomerate that was trying to screw him and how his show would be stronger in the end. He knew this was true because Rush was the only person in the media who had the guts to tell the unvarnished truth. He could count on Rush even when he couldn’t count on himself or when he felt himself slipping in some way.<br /><br />But this morning he was having trouble hearing Rush because the rain had caught another gear, and it was raining harder and harder the farther south he drove. Finally he crossed the river, and the 28 foot gates were wide open near the top, water gushing through like madness. And the local radio interrupted Rush to give a flash flood warning. All this happened as he slowed to 20 mph. The water came across his car, endless waves of it, and he could barely see. There was nowhere to pull over and he was sure he’d make it anyway. He always did. Water surged down the hill toward his car, but the Jetta stuck to the road, and he continued forward. He was almost to the first turn off though he was fighting for visibility since the wipers could not keep up with the deluge. Rush was talking about Trayvon Martin again, and he tried to listen even as the car fish tailed a bit as he crested the hill.<br /><br />Suddenly another car came flying around him, traveling 50 or more with no lights on. He watched it in disbelief. How could anybody be that stupid and be that much of an asshole, he thought. As he was thinking that, the car began to turn right into the cut through road , hydroplaned in two spectacular circles and flipped into the ditch. He pulled left of it when he turned, then refixed himself in the right lane. The rain was even more furious and he wasn’t about to stop for that speeding asshole. Rush was talking about how George Zimmerman should be treated as an American hero, and he knew that was right. He checked to make sure he had his pistol in his pants pocket and he did. He always did. You never knew what might happen out here. Rush was calling Trayvon a drug head and a thug and a poor representative of his race. He knew this was true just as he knew there were worse things out there than flash floods and assholes turned upside down in ditches. And though he hadn’t done it in a very long time, he said a quick prayer thanking God for not making him an asshole.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Hoe Boy Pauses on the Lawnmower</u></b><br /><br />He is thinking of silos<br />beside long dirt roads,<br />mountainside creeks<br />where gold might lie,<br />guiding a bull's powerful<br />shoulders, pasture to pen,<br />the first time he wore<br />football pads, leaned into<br />a stance and locked<br />a scared boy's eyes,<br />moonlight through the<br />Torino's window,<br />soft white flesh of the first<br />girl he thought was the one,<br />a beach song he never forgot<br />even after college turned him,<br />these lonely unplowed fields,<br />wind ticking winter grass.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Cryogenics</u></b><br /><br />The dead people are really quiet tonight,<br />Ice having coated the brown grass and stones,<br />And dying just a kind of freezing.<br />Their fights have never been more finished,<br />Their votes never more counted and finalized.<br />Both murdered and murderers remain silent.<br />The long flat road that runs by the cemetery<br />Is empty, the living hunkered in their homes.<br />Young women are confident, young men still<br />Angry, it is night and the children are hiding<br /><br />Or dreaming frozen dreams of muffled screams.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Tim Peeler is a retired educator from western North Carolina. He is a winner of the Jim Harrison Award for contributions to baseball literature. He has authored twenty books including fifteen books of poetry and four regional baseball histories. His poems have been anthologized by Time/Life Books, Simon and Schuster, and University of Southern Illinois Press, and have been used in an HBO documentary. poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-71239461604351715672023-05-05T07:43:00.002-07:002023-05-05T07:43:36.710-07:005 Poems by Don Kingfisher Campbell<b><u>Curiosity</u></b><br /><br />Why can’t I walk<br />On this pebbly dirt<br /><br />Why can’t I traipse<br />Up rocky brown slopes<br /><br />Why can’t I climb<br />Ridge by ridge plateau<br /><br />Just because it is too far<br />To reach without a ship<br /><br />Just because there’s not<br />Enough money for a mission<br /><br />Just because I will be dead<br />Before an expedition leaves<br /><br />At least I can enjoy the robot<br />Photographs from the rover<br /><br />And without hesitation believe<br />I am seeing familiar earth<br /><br />Minus plants, animals… now<br />Sporting human-made debris<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Joshua Tree Trip</u></b><br /><br />smiles in the car<br />two hours later arrive<br />petroglyphs on rocks<br /><br />balance ourselves beside<br />boulders that dwarf us<br />we stroll hand-in-hand<br /><br />past the many arms<br />of Joshua, single-fingered<br />Yucca, sit on stone “benches”<br /><br />view Coachella Valley vista<br />Palm Springs tiny buildings<br />haze over Salton Sea<br /><br />San Andreas Fault<br />pose with peaks<br />climb edges, bark<br /><br />at the bluest sky<br />while nature’s personalities<br />show in formation<br /><br />volcanic birthplace<br />rising and defeated limbs<br />perform poetry to space<br /><br />Buddha-like mountains<br />silent sentinels patiently<br />outlast manmade windmills<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Sunny Vale</u></b><br /><br />Morning ball of fire rises<br />creating light blue sky<br /><br />Black crow in tree branch caws<br />to the still high half moon<br /><br />Air hugs the sides of passersby<br />whether car or man<br />on this asphalt river<br /><br />Sidewalk banks decorated<br />with green oaks and bonsai bushes<br /><br />They front each wooden box<br />where parked metal eggs rest<br />ready to convey via circular rubber<br /><br />The small stick-like vertical beings<br />dressed like the flowers scattered<br />like ornaments through civilization<br /><br /><br /><b><u>This Must Be Heaven</u></b><br /><br />Everyone who doesn’t live<br />in LA says we’re the city<br />of lost angels. But for those<br />of us who drive we believe<br />our pathways are populated<br />by individuals in heavy armor<br />zagging about directing with<br />pulsing hands and shoes<br />changing speed inside<br /><br />carpeted compartments that move<br />from home to driving interest.<br />That is what trunks are for,<br />to collect booty for placement<br />back in our shrines to ourselves.<br />Open any door and discover<br />placed portraits of souls on<br />display waiting for judgment<br />or earthquake. Either way<br /><br />tangible detritus left behind<br />seem to wait for our return.<br />That is our faith, that we will<br />live to breathe another day<br />full of possessions which we<br />know will ultimately break<br />like bodies. This must be<br />true for any place wealthy<br />enough to have wings for sale.<br /><br /><br /><b>Model</b><br /><br />My silver Saturn was parked in late afternoon shade, curbside on my street. But the sun did hit the orange Lakers antenna ball on my car aerial as if it were a perfect example of a planetary sphere suspended from a wand, complete with textbook shadow. Only, it didn't seem to rotate, like a planet would, and there were no visible life forms from this distance, as I observed simple perfection from the sidewalk, a relative forty million miles away. Not an inkling of embossed basketball lineage or hint of logo, until I went to open the front passenger door to pick up my little black journal, tucked away from plain sight at this angle, on the rear bench seat.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, taught Writers Seminar at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, L.A. Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of <i>the Angel City Review</i>, publisher of <i>Spectrum magazine</i>, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: <a href="http://dkc1031.blogspot.com/">http://dkc1031.blogspot.com</a>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-15836906290043807932023-05-05T07:40:00.002-07:002023-05-05T07:40:25.417-07:004 Collages by Kathy Bruce for 2024<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4gKBcqXC1BpAJ-6XUj_KSy2jlX5lQtyJ2q2esyfWrmNbcYsV0IVtb3CZQ-zUkGRrO5IRH8CE_gQ7UZ2fafIUuSnY-k8xEIGOYh5HlJXdu2XuZ13MGedDsTe528WVkXv9HEfAGqQuSCOHKv9A5fdmIpJtc1PA9TbaOQC6iwl-Q6NMf0Y8wOzbLukO/s4032/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4gKBcqXC1BpAJ-6XUj_KSy2jlX5lQtyJ2q2esyfWrmNbcYsV0IVtb3CZQ-zUkGRrO5IRH8CE_gQ7UZ2fafIUuSnY-k8xEIGOYh5HlJXdu2XuZ13MGedDsTe528WVkXv9HEfAGqQuSCOHKv9A5fdmIpJtc1PA9TbaOQC6iwl-Q6NMf0Y8wOzbLukO/w640-h480/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Paradise</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-y3wVUu02VBTIpQnNtxk2Fgwgo0JUyZP5sIV0Lir0xb1-HMEYt9b7fyC25tbT3ZCKvKEUFWxfCC1Q_XMFDYXJHnddPCJYaXOga0LVG5kIIaf_KHWB0zWUntaa3QSwTjKXuWep_nl8oCTWOiVuet5LR-xAPv4kg0OxxCktOsg6e18-xIbjLBHY2Wi4/s2627/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2627" data-original-width="1631" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-y3wVUu02VBTIpQnNtxk2Fgwgo0JUyZP5sIV0Lir0xb1-HMEYt9b7fyC25tbT3ZCKvKEUFWxfCC1Q_XMFDYXJHnddPCJYaXOga0LVG5kIIaf_KHWB0zWUntaa3QSwTjKXuWep_nl8oCTWOiVuet5LR-xAPv4kg0OxxCktOsg6e18-xIbjLBHY2Wi4/w398-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DKjfQJIvQzpy8xpz3iNv4FMk6ZhtqNz-R5U2AnLe9OiqaQhD0W4eIlLZEM5XdUmaxJHpD0KdWHgU5ldmsU3W88z1wzFNWPkg_nAI-eYiwWNuwtF57m29SR-x6NV4atmSUeWs3e7h9Gn9fxM_ZVmkZgZnNEg-FKUwBj4stThhJB5fOFLEaZjaYrYb/s886/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="886" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DKjfQJIvQzpy8xpz3iNv4FMk6ZhtqNz-R5U2AnLe9OiqaQhD0W4eIlLZEM5XdUmaxJHpD0KdWHgU5ldmsU3W88z1wzFNWPkg_nAI-eYiwWNuwtF57m29SR-x6NV4atmSUeWs3e7h9Gn9fxM_ZVmkZgZnNEg-FKUwBj4stThhJB5fOFLEaZjaYrYb/w640-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small; text-align: start;">The Whole Earth and Sky is the World</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgKftqMIaDnTIXG66f7dDhISgiJlFIfgGOm5cvRyfY7XbJBE8w96bWo4zB3v1gyFQQ59L60ukT-fOtrrAdM_dO0XqAAsOFSnZSyuMIIlU9Nvmxf9IXUyjqn9i_tEqbIm7Mlm2zGSON6gXNKmbEzJlBcOSxjOlEtRyqkYdHJxBA_TSApxdUUK5H0Vf/s2831/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2831" data-original-width="2484" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgKftqMIaDnTIXG66f7dDhISgiJlFIfgGOm5cvRyfY7XbJBE8w96bWo4zB3v1gyFQQ59L60ukT-fOtrrAdM_dO0XqAAsOFSnZSyuMIIlU9Nvmxf9IXUyjqn9i_tEqbIm7Mlm2zGSON6gXNKmbEzJlBcOSxjOlEtRyqkYdHJxBA_TSApxdUUK5H0Vf/w562-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="562" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Recognition</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><p style="-webkit-font-kerning: auto; background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-font-kerning: auto; background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><b><u>ARTIST STATEMENT</u></b><br /><br />I am passionate about creating collages that have the potential to generate a public awareness of our relationship as humans to the natural world. What interests me is the way in which female figures correspond to structures in Nature: botanicals, trees, and landscape. This can manifest itself either internally or externally in the form of patterns, fashion, or metaphorical context to reveal the subtle yet enchanting similarities between the inner life of plants, trees and humans. <br /><br />The works submitted here represent collages exploring the relationship between women, plants and nature.<br /><br /><br /><div><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Kathy Bruce’s collages explore archetypal female and mythological forms within the context of poetry, literature and the natural environment. She is based in Upstate New York and Argyll & Bute Scotland.<br />She has exhibited in the US, UK and internationally including Senegal, Taiwan, France, Denmark, Peru and Canada. Her work has appeared in Three Rooms Press,<i> The Vassar Review, Alchemy Literary Magazine, Open Minds Quarterly Journal, The Perch, Yale University School of Medicine, The New Southern Fugitives, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Ignition literary Journal, The Variant Literature, Landlocked Literary Magazine, The Rejoiner, The Brooklyn Review, Twyckenham Notes, The Porter House Review, Pushing Out the Boat,</i> and The U.S. National Women’s History Museum Journal project.<br /><br /><p><br /></p></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-57950995918084678002023-05-05T07:39:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:39:24.680-07:005 Poems by Koon Woon<div><b><u>Heart</u></b></div><br />Heart – my most hurt. <br />Missing – my most you. <br /><br />Is this moon the same moon? <br />This wilderness the same wilderness <br />where I left you many immigrant <br />years ago? <br /><br />Butterflies, dragonflies, and a “noiseless, <br />patient spider” inhabit my verse, <br />as I spin out love for you, <br />while the muddy Pearl empties into South China Sea. <br /><br />My heart was left behind in the village yard and <br />I will come back to answer its thumping call, <br />will come back for you and the succulent <br />lychee fruit, will consummate together <br />its juice and meat. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>The Essentialist Story </u></b><br /><br />This is a peanut butter sandwich day – <br />that kind of day, yes, <br />and let the marshmallows roast in the beach- <br />combing fire – the sweet sugary smell. <br />See the kelp and the seaweed, <br />among other heroes in the sand, <br />laying bare the mysteries of the sea. <br /><br />The sea – whence you came; <br />the sea - where you return - when <br />all turmoil and tribulation are past, <br />and the brief breast-beating ceases too; <br />we were all young once. <br /><br />The essential mistakes that we made <br />have propelled us along the coastline – <br />the fractals, your battered guitar, the 68 Plymouth, <br />fishing rod and reel, a clam shovel, and all the hits <br />on the radio – we were traveling, we were going somewhere. <br /><br />The essential error was that we were all traveling – <br />going somewhere, but that was the saving grace too. <br />We were too young to know that fix-points were everywhere. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>Brick by Brick <br /></u></b><br />Sixty years ago now, <br />are you still counting your village <br />brick by brick, flower by flower, and bee by bee? <br /><br />The house you were born in has collapsed, <br />your district is different now on the map, <br />even your mind is not the same; <br />you have learned, trick by trick. <br />You know now Dick, Jane, <br />their children; Hank and Elaine. <br /><br />Forget about the old Tao; <br />the new Dow is loss and gain. <br />Forget about sunflowers; <br />don’t recall the muddy monsoons. <br />Think soy futures, hog bellies, <br />high towers and real estate. <br />Let bamboo thickets and wine vats lay in ruins. <br /><br /><div>The arms that rocked you, <br />now dead and buried without a tune. <br />The hands that guided you across the village yards, <br />gnarled now without social parts. <br />You can’t go back in time <br />to whistle archaic rimes, <br />absolutely or in space age time. <br /><br />Wipe that grimace from memory. <br />It was a trick you played on yourself <br />that haunted you through the years. <br />Truly, the pigs never liked the slop, <br />roosters didn’t parade their tails, <br />but cicadas on tree tops <br />did buzz like alarm clocks. <br />You still can hurry so as not to miss your <br />future. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>The Four Modalities </u></b><br /><br />Always wishing the world was something <br />else, aren’t you? <br />The world is the world and it consists <br />of these things: <br />Rain, Snow, Sun, and Night. <br />Nothing more to worry about. <br /><br />Rain pours like salt and you need it. <br />Snow needs plowing and you got the job. <br />Sun, ha! We have one and that’s enough. <br />And Night, night is when you cry. <br /><br />When they shut you out in the rain, <br />something you don’t want to forget, <br />drenched, you go <br />where they think better of you. <br /><br />Snow is a bit flaky, covering the world <br />in forgetfulness where battles have been fought <br />and men slain. In the vast white field, <br />human appendages stick out. <br /><br />And sun, we love its warmth, <br />but it kills too, baking the mud <br />and boiling the water away. <br /><br />Night is fearsome; no one can hold it back. <br />Go gentle into it, <br />regardless what invisible <br />Black Hand of Night <br />fatefully <br />had tossed the die. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>The Rails </u></b><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">- For Hai Zi (Zha Haisheng), 1964 - 1989 </span><br /><br />Hear the rails hum, my little hobo; <br />hear the lullaby of wind. <br />Go to sleep, my little hobo; <br />breathe the brevity of wind. <br /><br />Hear the rails hum, my little hobo as <br />something colossal galvanizes the land. <br />As I lift my pen, little hobo, iron monsters <br />begin tearing our last pockets of land. <br /><br />We have lain the tracks; we’ve lain <br />them as straight as we can, and so <br />go to sleep, my little hobo, as I listen <br />for your words carried by the wind. <br /><br />The wind accosts us but we cannot talk back. <br />It is not for us to know we know. <br />So, go to sleep, my little hobo, let your <br />unending dreams be carried by the wind.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Bionote</u></b></div><div><br /></div>China-born Chinese-American poet Koon Woon is the recipient of a Pen Oakland Award and an American Book Award with his two poetry collections published by Kaya Press (kaya.com).<div> <br /><br /> </div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-43064093018904332252023-05-05T07:38:00.004-07:002023-05-05T07:38:48.691-07:005 Poems by RC deWinter<div><b><u>Spook</u></b></div><br />He is a priest in a private congregation,<br />carrying coalblack calling cards –<br />no words on either side –<br />in a coalblack card case in the chest pocket<br />of his coalblack overcoat.<br />But under the right light, all is revealed:<br />the intricacies of his mind,<br />his byzantine cache of secrets,<br />his deepest desires.<br />You won't be able to see these things, but I will.<br />I am that light, carried in a hidden pocket:<br />the mirror of memory, illuminating this man<br />so carefully concealed from the world.<br />When he needs to remember,<br />when he needs to feel,<br />when he needs to weep.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>fair trade</u></b><br /><br />darkness spills out of you<br />ink from a neverending well<br />when you touch me<br />will my skin be stained<br />with the blueblack<br />birthmark of pain?<br /><br />i have my own striations<br />crisscrossing my body<br />filaments that carry<br />memories of a thousand cuts<br />electrified<br />mistakes of my own making<br /><br />perhaps your ink<br />will cool me<br />perhaps absorbing<br />your pain will serve<br />to cancel mine<br />it would be nice<br />to suffer knowing<br />it was not my fault<div><br /></div><div><br /><b><u>camouflage</u></b><br /><br />i suffer from the inverse of sad<br />i slip so easily into woolly fog<br />safe behind grayness<br />i revel in bucketing rain<br />washed clean in skywater<br /><br />unlike those who live for sunny days<br />in which to blossom<br />too many days of bluesky sun<br />and i begin to wither<br />a plant deprived<br />of its essential nourishment<br /><br />i used to wonder why<br />dayafterdayafterday<br />of sun beating on my head<br />is such an uncomfortable trial<br />but now i think i have parsed it out<br />perhaps i love those wet gray days<br />because in the rain<br />no one can see your tears<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">[previously published in <i>Literary Yard</i>]</span></div><div><br /><b><u>derailed<br /></u></b><br />i was waiting for it<br />and have not been disappointed<br />i knew the other shoe<br />would have to drop<br /><br />there's no sustaining optimism<br />confected from imitation strength<br />that froth of myth and naïveté<br />evaporates quickly<br />leaving nothing<br />but the sour aftertaste of<br />saccharine and blood<br /><br />who am i kidding<br />sitting belted in a tumbrel<br />wearing this flimsy mask of hope<br /><br />this rollercoaster<br />ought to be condemned<br />it's always flying off the rails</div><div><br /><br /><b><u>skyfall<br /></u></b><br />night swallowed the sun in one great gulp<br />taking all the birdsong and rose-scent too<br /><br />the moon’s awol vacationing on another plane<br />leaving a vast slate of nothing<br /><br />stretching across the heart of the sky<br />and the stars have been erased by karma<br /><br />if it weren’t for the streetlight on the corner<br />i could be standing in a coalmine<br /><br />abandoned in another life but i’m upright<br />and breathing at least i think i am though<br /><br />i can’t see my hand in front of my face<br />as i stand in this bubble of nothing<br /><br />but my heart still aches and your eyes still shine<br />wherever memory lives so i guess this isn’t the end<br /><br />of the sun birds roses moon stars world<br />or me<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in <i>New York City Haiku (</i>NY Times, 2/2017)<i>, Coffin Bell Two </i>(Coffin Bell, 1/2019),<i> The Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Anthology </i>(River Bend Bookshop Press, 12/2021), in print:<i> 2River, Crossroads, Event, Gargoyle Magazine, Genre Urban Arts, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Poetry South, Prairie Schooner, The Seventh Quarry Magazine, Southword, The Ogham Stone, Variant Literature, York Literary Review </i>among many others and appears in numerous online literary journals</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-5240738031558907262023-05-05T07:37:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:37:07.603-07:005 Poems by Allen Yuan<div><b><u>Chasing the Pacific Star Air </u></b></div><div><br /></div><div>gyres crowd into the boy <br />As he dashes through the clouds of hope <br /><br />Surfing on a wish <br />He descends to the touchy ocean <br />A salty breeze gushes from underneath <br />A spring of refreshing motivation <br />The flaring sun eagerly follows him like a bright shadow <br />Intimidating mountains forcibly rise, but are capped <br />From the serene, misty horizon <br />Where a bleached bird loudly flaps its wings away <br /><br />Upgrading his life board, <br />With exhilarating dreams <br />As he dashes through the clouds of hope <br />Chasing the Pacific Star.<br /><br />-<br /><br /><b><u>The tree </u></b><br /><br />Has lost more leaves <br />Not only to learn <br />To let more light <br />Shine through <br />But to shake off <br /> Its pasts <br />To prepare itself better <br />For a new season<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Parallel in Solitude</u></b><br /><br />Drifting alone in the indefinities of dark<br />Matter, Earth never feels lonely, does it? <br /><br />Living with myriad fellow humans, how<br />Can you really suffer from solitude?<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Do U Hear It?</u></b><br /><br />From the heart of the Pacific<br />Far beyond the Pandemic<br /><br />A Mobi Dick is screaming<br />As if to keep its throat clear<br /><br />Or it would be choked to <br /> Death with parcels of plastics</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> <b><u>Punching</u></b><br /><br />Down or up, we punch all others online<br />Not to shame them as our surrogates, but<br />To make a critique of words by way<br />Of other words, much like a virus variant<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Allen Yuan, author of <i>Traffic Light</i>, is a 2-time Pushcart and 2-time Best of the Net nominee. A co-editor of <i>Poetry Pacific</i>, 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 <i>Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Poetry Scotland, Shampoo </i>and <i>Spillway.</i></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-17557633233337384502023-05-05T07:36:00.008-07:002023-05-05T22:57:38.345-07:008 Photos by Min Li Yin <p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba2h95HYmDLPL-yg-8zGv7nSdyt97nhHngreqUZRm130HvoLqhWj_Xh6qptlW-aKQ5lLAhoSHeiGngxQD5xCUHFeDjomIc3ZnZZAYT5_t2TucQ9BTpOdhocyWYh76B8b2AjVu0cxMG-pSCH3D3RSZjkk_e1DCy9u9L9QRppSrE6xzTfsSxMaWd-qU/s4032/20230326_121954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba2h95HYmDLPL-yg-8zGv7nSdyt97nhHngreqUZRm130HvoLqhWj_Xh6qptlW-aKQ5lLAhoSHeiGngxQD5xCUHFeDjomIc3ZnZZAYT5_t2TucQ9BTpOdhocyWYh76B8b2AjVu0cxMG-pSCH3D3RSZjkk_e1DCy9u9L9QRppSrE6xzTfsSxMaWd-qU/w640-h360/20230326_121954.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiinN6cFF2UUzMwGw8uM4myiQR9AAF6I8-E5kEPDUq9nc6wH_SxMYrsxmBLd1-vwa1L_QYW_yoDNzlRYm73DHoYByuO0lhdz96MAAPv-RN6LWk6Mpe4wMmF5_GzZvZAsHrQfcEnNKchcGDyWtL-jAmQjAC0nMpBnwK34hA1Xb3LNS-K54ZFm3yUOoPW/s4032/20210922_185326_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiinN6cFF2UUzMwGw8uM4myiQR9AAF6I8-E5kEPDUq9nc6wH_SxMYrsxmBLd1-vwa1L_QYW_yoDNzlRYm73DHoYByuO0lhdz96MAAPv-RN6LWk6Mpe4wMmF5_GzZvZAsHrQfcEnNKchcGDyWtL-jAmQjAC0nMpBnwK34hA1Xb3LNS-K54ZFm3yUOoPW/w640-h360/20210922_185326_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mvWjZRF0Q8eg1W-Q1SmTI5fcylg1DWaf9njRu1kFtHcDlqX_LvmATExn4hztOCr1PETVawwP8U8ntL4NNmgbuyevQM9HHweH5q8VAXI6gNpRsBW5Db5VYhXV0ZhX5WrSLFEg-AamOOCvkvEeNY5Ss-TYOXLr7RCJJ-PnhAzxWouEAZWkPUc0GsqX/s4032/20211025_175755.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mvWjZRF0Q8eg1W-Q1SmTI5fcylg1DWaf9njRu1kFtHcDlqX_LvmATExn4hztOCr1PETVawwP8U8ntL4NNmgbuyevQM9HHweH5q8VAXI6gNpRsBW5Db5VYhXV0ZhX5WrSLFEg-AamOOCvkvEeNY5Ss-TYOXLr7RCJJ-PnhAzxWouEAZWkPUc0GsqX/w640-h360/20211025_175755.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-gbUNaMin3ZLhrgd8MAUKMqZRzhU8syJDDnymWLwrB-JRTi9ySzcseYxV8J5W00HmwprjCc8BTjgAVoaQeRijKE-0hhzhrEvIv0XfDEBLn6sHUZQkK0uZkVJHdQpSQPqnySFYm_AcComZXJjJDrYymLEUopRz5AroNq7W98vznfQsk4jE6J17WHh/s4032/20211031_171200_C0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-gbUNaMin3ZLhrgd8MAUKMqZRzhU8syJDDnymWLwrB-JRTi9ySzcseYxV8J5W00HmwprjCc8BTjgAVoaQeRijKE-0hhzhrEvIv0XfDEBLn6sHUZQkK0uZkVJHdQpSQPqnySFYm_AcComZXJjJDrYymLEUopRz5AroNq7W98vznfQsk4jE6J17WHh/w360-h640/20211031_171200_C0.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyZOWqaGdjy-MYsoJbYYielgB8GlIZKqJvvhnP4AeuWboVeoC4tJWUJHm_--EuSvd7OPKqoSLhWu5zIqIjX3W1_ybgoE-jKXj5Z51K2mRzsoKEwiVnBnpSbz6sBrrA-oXJYDtHXKIJaGD1RLhtp_H6WWi_H9ufUviEUU0aidFGYzg4RlywZ5V4_FY/s4032/Sitty%20pretty.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyZOWqaGdjy-MYsoJbYYielgB8GlIZKqJvvhnP4AeuWboVeoC4tJWUJHm_--EuSvd7OPKqoSLhWu5zIqIjX3W1_ybgoE-jKXj5Z51K2mRzsoKEwiVnBnpSbz6sBrrA-oXJYDtHXKIJaGD1RLhtp_H6WWi_H9ufUviEUU0aidFGYzg4RlywZ5V4_FY/w480-h640/Sitty%20pretty.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3QLM71vINN95OYMrv1YSOu-LZTSTTzoo_wj224XL_YZWz-ZI-_0rUOE1ocGGq5-a6RKqbjQoFBEdhm5lMxrmwQoDbLQQPVq6dpnMAc6KIxSFykSR-XlYYE89l3Ejoio5z1gN8oQSTBYBUse37k4lQhid9d8jqdF4Y7b2N1AhcgMwCVeC1VmWaG8j/s3456/Playing%20GO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3456" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3QLM71vINN95OYMrv1YSOu-LZTSTTzoo_wj224XL_YZWz-ZI-_0rUOE1ocGGq5-a6RKqbjQoFBEdhm5lMxrmwQoDbLQQPVq6dpnMAc6KIxSFykSR-XlYYE89l3Ejoio5z1gN8oQSTBYBUse37k4lQhid9d8jqdF4Y7b2N1AhcgMwCVeC1VmWaG8j/w640-h480/Playing%20GO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56YOF41D3tWCm6oeJGrnT4ojHLAKsxiRimXcgvxCLMpyfGCwJxmKMgZR4bpGx9M6RPVxJCHemE1LLIbv34aAGyyN2uaSyd3zcL7eGmky-mBIZQNTwBfHV_s9nl3B45JFAwboMSQp4EjlZpC2duaV0N6vxHedoOS3YUA6sv59Iu20FfJE8erKK3XQr/s3456/Original%20catwalk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3456" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56YOF41D3tWCm6oeJGrnT4ojHLAKsxiRimXcgvxCLMpyfGCwJxmKMgZR4bpGx9M6RPVxJCHemE1LLIbv34aAGyyN2uaSyd3zcL7eGmky-mBIZQNTwBfHV_s9nl3B45JFAwboMSQp4EjlZpC2duaV0N6vxHedoOS3YUA6sv59Iu20FfJE8erKK3XQr/w640-h480/Original%20catwalk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHTjFwRtHjDNhS8UdSeeeMZhPgIiSUDqCSbyHsweOFQNcAapSnAuUMUz6WaSVbCGJBxlXBTumOZRbH5VylVWIMbnUxu6hcqY6CrDPXiQYLTtDJjiIG19JouT7mvywqSV6lSun8Ug4ax0vZ23DoSo8yUXbIo8k0mqOWM5XFqMBaaJYsBJOm9O9WU06/s3456/Connoisseur%20of%20art.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3456" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHTjFwRtHjDNhS8UdSeeeMZhPgIiSUDqCSbyHsweOFQNcAapSnAuUMUz6WaSVbCGJBxlXBTumOZRbH5VylVWIMbnUxu6hcqY6CrDPXiQYLTtDJjiIG19JouT7mvywqSV6lSun8Ug4ax0vZ23DoSo8yUXbIo8k0mqOWM5XFqMBaaJYsBJOm9O9WU06/w640-h480/Connoisseur%20of%20art.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><b><u>Artist's Statement</u></b><br /><br />As someone who relishes simple pleasures of life, my interest in photography has outlasted my other hobbies (calligraphy and interior design) because it never fails to give me instant gratification when capturing something, often at random, that delights my senses. <div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Proudly made in China, I consider myself as a world citizen. I am a three-time transplant from China to the UK, Canada, and then the US). My bilingual training helped me find my niche in language teaching and software translation.</div></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-73146989387018191802023-05-05T07:36:00.003-07:002023-05-05T07:36:40.741-07:002 Poems by G. Timothy Gordan <div><b><u>Like Spring</u></b></div><br />Spring heart all askew <br />like the restless blue tide <br />moved by the moon<br />heaving and swelling<br />from out-beyond blue,<br />now rushing blindly <br />egret and tern, petite blue heron <br />ashore, breakers winnowing back <br />hedgerow reeds and rushes<br />where blue passion flowers<br />sleep in the thickets<br />beneath nightlight, <br />blue-beautiful, safe, settled,<br />unmoved by shoreline swell,<br />farther-out pulsing blue sea, <br />far from what I'd imagined <br />they might have felt, if anything, <br />like spring in a human heart. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>Apple</u></b><br /><br />The apple is ready to slice.<br />First, blade-to-skin,<br />pared in-round,<br />then back again bald.<br />Core it! Halves whistle<br />clean apart, move<br />back again, whole.<br />Breathe into eighths<br />and set whole<br />on your tongue<br />for one hour.<br />Draw the blind.<br />Someone may hear. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><div><br /></div><div>Gordon’s DREAM WIND was published 2020 (Spirit-of-the-Ram), GROUND OF THIS BLUE EARTH (Mellen), while EVERYTHING SPEAKING CHINESE received RIVERSTONE P Poetry Prize (AZ). Work appears in <i>AGNI, Cincinnati PR, Mississippi R, New York Q, Phoebe, RHINO, Sonora R, and Texas Observer</i>, among others. Recognitions include NEA and NEH fellowships and several Pushcart nominations.<br />EMPTY HEAVEN/EMPTY EARTH, a 56-poetry manuscript, is almost complete.</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-35552172299311883082023-05-05T07:35:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:35:42.844-07:002 Visual Poems by Phil Madden<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ppGKX_a-XPAKpAouxZzZVITLWdYckoj0_Oj45HfvWUFTerVOyT7K_AK-gL86i9ilfmrxvRpLrCBGXdBT668H3Sz5sjwpiUJqYavq8QHy3pCI-zoHMGbQcoz8O7V4J4Rl7rRZfc6sMsbmXazI8WwBYFqgD1srLsu_kOAFHQa2g7xNkQL5zcZ49iIc/s4961/KP%20in%20tchfinal1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4961" data-original-width="3508" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ppGKX_a-XPAKpAouxZzZVITLWdYckoj0_Oj45HfvWUFTerVOyT7K_AK-gL86i9ilfmrxvRpLrCBGXdBT668H3Sz5sjwpiUJqYavq8QHy3pCI-zoHMGbQcoz8O7V4J4Rl7rRZfc6sMsbmXazI8WwBYFqgD1srLsu_kOAFHQa2g7xNkQL5zcZ49iIc/w452-h640/KP%20in%20tchfinal1.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpp5ZeL2noioTl0oTgDys6yD4gp513TJoYfvg6YCVZB-79PANlo2UUf5fwycAag1El7YR0gK1oIe5QsLBH9jby0tVj1VeneS6SxirhtSWxkk07wcvwkd2HjdboPSF02Jnz591ltZtOBnwk3YRDQ_BQfp5gKbndQzPNsFuar3EnTYbXbQX6JSgckjQ/s4961/ZenPastZenfinal1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4961" data-original-width="3508" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpp5ZeL2noioTl0oTgDys6yD4gp513TJoYfvg6YCVZB-79PANlo2UUf5fwycAag1El7YR0gK1oIe5QsLBH9jby0tVj1VeneS6SxirhtSWxkk07wcvwkd2HjdboPSF02Jnz591ltZtOBnwk3YRDQ_BQfp5gKbndQzPNsFuar3EnTYbXbQX6JSgckjQ/w452-h640/ZenPastZenfinal1.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><u>Bionote </u></b><br /><br />I live in Wales. My core writing is with Paul Kershaw,a renowned engraver. We have produced 5 limited edition fine art books-<i>Wings Take Us,Paths,The Amphibious Place, Running Rings </i>and<i> Flow</i>. Several have won prizes and all have sold out. I have also created 2 works with the engraver Petr Lazarov-The Urban Moon and The Puppet and the Puppeteer.The latter was exhibited at the American Library of Congress in an exhibition of Bulgarian art. <i>The Tea Way</i> was published electronically by Gean Tree Press. My work has been published in various magazines and anthologies.<p></p>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-22635845391339834652023-05-05T07:34:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:34:50.493-07:005 Poems by Yuan Changming<b><u>Body Politics: Left vs Right </u></b><br /><br /><i>1/ Brain </i><br />My left brain has everything right <br />While my right one has nothing left <br /><br /><i>2/ Heart </i><br />My left chamber’s been reserved for someone <br />Right, yet my right one’s for nobody on the left <br /><br /><i>3/ Foot </i><br />My left foot takes the position for the right <br />But my right one stands firm against the left <br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Ode to Dark </u></b><br /><br />As the background color of light rather <br />Than the spotlight of night, dark is <br />The infinite container of all matter in <br />The cosmos, where its invisibility offers <br />Warmth, tranquility and ultimate home <br />To every wondering soul, thicker than <br />Either, inclusive as the universe itself <br />Or the human mind, where no one <br />Has to worry about being disturbed <br />Denounced, or deprived of, where <br />Each body can rest in comfort, dream <br />About light, hope for the better, where <br />The seed is biding its time until it can <br />Bloom in the right season, where <br />Solitude accumulates power in silences <br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Universal Law of Equilibrium </u></b><br /><br />There’s neither god in Heaven, nor <br />Heaven above earth to begin with, except <br />This hidden universal law of equilibrium: <br />If you lose here, you are bound to gain <br />There; if you suffer now, you will be happy <br />Then; if you fail in many small matters <br />You are going to win in a big way, or <br />The other way around, or vice versa. Or <br />In terms of Dao: just as your whole <br />Mindset is a matter of thought, all your <br />World can be boiled down to a few words <br />Bubbling in the cauldron of your mind <br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Double Nesting</u></b><br /><br /><i>1/ I Think; Therefore, I Am </i><br />I am thinking of you being awake all the time <br />I am thinking of you being awake, all the time <br />I am thinking of you, being awake all the time <br />I am, thinking of you being awake all the time <br /><br /><i>2/ Bird & Nest </i><br />You are a bird, always in search of a nest <br />(An open cage?), where your body & soul <br />Can both come down to perch for the cold <br />And long night, no matter how far or high <br />You’ve been flying during the daytime <br /><br />Yes, soulmating means double nesting: <br />Just as her vagina is the nest of your <br />Penis, her heart is that of your soul <br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Simplification of Chinese Characters Reviewed </u></b><br /><br /><i>1/ </i><br />Is it a linguistic coincidence or undeclared prophesy? <br />But 60 years after Mao Zedong approved <br />The scheme for simplifying Chinese characters <br />We are now living in an open & reformed age, where <br /><br />愛/ai/ [love] has become a feeling without a heart: 爱 <br />親/qin/ [kinship] someone who is not to be seen: 亲 <br />兒/er/[son] a person without his own brain: 儿 <br />郷/xiang/ [village] a place where there’s no male: 乡 <br />厰/chang/ [factory] a building with nothing inside: 厂 <br />産/chan/ [manufacture] a process without production: 产 <br />雲/yun/ [cloud] a nimbus offering no rainfall:云 <br />開/kai/ [open] an action to break something doorless: 开 <br />導/dao/ [lead] a guidance without the Way: 导 <br /><br /><i>2/ </i><br />More than half a century long after <br />The simplification of classic Chinese characters <br />& almost half a century well after <br />China opened its doors & began its reforms <br />To shake off its deformities or backwardnesses: <br /><br />魔 /mo/ remains the same as魔 [evil], so does <br />鬼 /gui/ as鬼[ghost], so does <br />偷 /tou/ as偷[steal], so does <br />黑 /hei/ as [darkness], so does <br />贪 /tan/ as贪[greed], so does <br />赌 /du/ as赌[gamble], so does <br />毒 /du/ as毒[poison], so does <br />贼 /zhei/ as贼[thief], so does <br />骗 /pian/ exactly as骗[cheat,], which remains <br />As unchangeable as Chinese per se, or does it not? <br /><p><b><u>Bionote</u></b></p>Yuan Changming, 12-time Pushcart nominee and multiple prize winner, is probably the world's most widely published contemporary poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes in English. Growing up in a remote Chinese village, Yuan started to learn the English alphabet in Shanghai at age nineteen and published several monographs on translation before moving to Canada as an international student. With a PhD in English from the University of Saskatchewan, Yuan currently lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Since mid-2005, Yuan has had poetry appearing in more than 2,000 literary journals/anthologies, across 49 countries, which include <i>Best Canadian Poetry (2009, 2012, 2014), the Best of the Best Canadian Poetry: Tenth Anniversary Edition, BestNewPoemsOnline </i>and<i> Poetry Daily</i>. In 2021 he was nominated, and served on the jury, for Canada’s National Magazine Awards (poetry category). In 2022, Yuan began to write and publish fiction. <br /><br />Poetry Books by Yuan Changming:<br />1. <i>Chansons of a Chinaman</i> [Paperback]. Murfreesboro, TN: Leaf Garden, 2009.<br />2.<i> Landscaping</i> [Paperback]. San Jacinto, CA: Flutter Press, 2013.<br />3.<i> Mindscaping</i> [e.chapbook]. Halifax: Fowlpox Press, 2014.<br />4. <i>Origin of Letters </i>[e.chapbook]. Chicago: Beard of Bees Press, 2015.<br />5. <i>Kinship </i>[Paperback] Seattle: Goldfish Press, 2015.<br />6. <i>Wordscaping</i> [e. Chapbook]. Halifax: Fowlpox Press, 2016.<br />7. <i>Dark Phantasms</i> [Paperback]. San Jacinto, CA: Flutter Press, 2017.<br />8. <i>East Idioms </i>[e.chapbook]. Cyberwit.net, 2019.<br />9. <i>(R)e.volution</i> [Paperback]. LA: the Wapshott Press, 2021.<br />10. 《袁昌明詩選》(Selected Poems [e.book]. Vancouver: Poetry Pacific, 2021.<br />11.<i> Limerence</i> [Paperback]. Vancouver, Poetry Pacific Press, 2021.<br />12. <i>All My Crows</i> [Paperback]. Grass Valley, CA: Cold River Press, 2022.<br />13. <i>E.dening</i> [Paperback]. Seattle: Goldfish Press, 2022. <br />14.<i> Homelanding</i> [Paperback]. Yakima, WA: Cave Moon Press, 2022.<br />15. <i>Sinosaur</i> [Paperback]. Hickory, NC: Redhawk Publications, 2022.<br />16. <i>Yellow Comedy</i> [e.Chapbook]. LA: Four Feathers Press, July 2023.<br />17. <i>Free Sonnets</i> [Paperback]. Philadelphia: Dark Onus Press, September 2023.<div>18. <i>Decaging</i> [Paperback]. Cyberwit.net, August 2023</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-62148105335238823742023-05-05T07:33:00.005-07:002023-05-05T07:33:57.257-07:004 Poems by James G. Piatt<div><b><u><br /></u></b></div><b><u>And I Wept</u></b><br /><br />Old memories emerged <br />in the shifting night hours <br />of tedious time <br />as a soot-covered train<br />evaporated into the darkness <br />of the night, and into my memories. <br />I then heard the stolen songs <br />of a mockingbird, <br />and the hoarse voices <br />of mourning doves, echoing <br />in the mist,<br />as rusting time danced <br />to the throbbing of an ancient lyre, <br />and as I pondered on life’s brevity and <br />death’s vast endlessness, I wept. <br /><br /><p class="Default"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>The Frog’s Voices </u></span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Default"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
listened to the voices of night frogs croaking in </span></p><p class="Default"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">the late hours of the night,</span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">and
tried to understand the meaning of their messages echoing off the silver moon.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Their
hoarse voices curled through my</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">somnolent
mind, illuminating strange sounds from long-forgotten places. In the midst of
their croaking, they spoke to me in a strange language of sorrow.<b> </b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 3.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">During
the fading hours of the night, I searched for metaphors to translate the
meaning of the frog’s melancholy mutterings as their voices continued to burst
into the mysterious emptiness of the moonlit night, but I just ended up with a
cacophony of sounds.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br /><b><u>The Nights beginning </u></b><br /><br />As the clock chimes twelve, <div>the night begins, and the day </div><div>vanishes into memories. As </div><div>the moon, just a glowing </div><div>silver orb bouncing against </div><div>the crimson horizon watches </div><div>the last hours of the day </div><div>lingering like drops of tears, </div><div>in silence: Stars, like blurry </div><div>kerosine lanterns, gazing </div><div>from millions of light years </div><div>away, start splashing in the </div><div>sky, and earthbound beings, </div><div>wait for the night’s long </div><div>hours to cover the sad </div><div>messages of the weary-day. <br />And as our breath mellows,</div><div>and we fade into sleep, our </div><div>minds drift into dreams of </div><div>yellow roses, and soft pink </div><div>cherry-tree blossoms. <br /><br />
<p class="Default"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>The Ancient Pier</u></span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: 1.0pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: miter; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: flat; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 400.0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 5.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Inside cold ocean waves exist untold secrets, where philosophers, and
even Bob Dylan, fail to grasp the meaning. And near the old blackened pier
where waves break</span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 4.75in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: 1.0pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: miter; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: flat; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 400.0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: none;">with a thunderous din, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: 1.0pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: miter; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: flat; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 400.0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="margin-right: 4.75in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: 1.0pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: miter; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: flat; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 400.0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: none;">seagulls squawk ancient sea yarns while roosting on pilings near where
lonely fishermen sit on benches, fish in silence, and spin briny tales.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Default" style="margin-right: 4.75in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: 1.0pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: miter; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: flat; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 400.0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: none;"><br /></span></p><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />James lives in Santa Ynez, California in a replica of an 1800s Eastern farmhouse with his wife Sandy. He is a twice Best of Web nominee and four-time Pushcart nominee. He earned his doctorate from BYU and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University. He has had five collections of poetry: <i>Serenity, Solace Between the Lines, Light, Ancient Rhythms, </i>and<i> The Silent Pond,</i> over 1765 poems, <br />35 short stories, and five novels published worldwide.</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-79287810104784980462023-05-05T07:26:00.000-07:002023-05-05T07:26:08.324-07:004 Poems by Michael Keshigian<p><b><u>RELIEF</u></b></p>Let love be written<br />upon the water of calm lakes <br />not upon rivers running.<br /> <br />Let it be written by a loon<br />while singing a lamentable verse<br />amid the hidden coves. <br /> <br />And when it dives gracefully<br />beneath the blue surface,<br />leaving only echoes of song,<br /> <br />placid water will condense<br />to provide <br />some needed rainfall.<br /><br /><br /><div><b><u>MOONBEAM</u></b><br /> <br />Every night<br />a different message.<br />Tell me tonight<br />about the translucent bones<br />of icicles on the gutter.<br />Their tale is a disclosure<br />of your stalking.<br />You enter as a burglar<br />on the heels of darkness<br />and leave no fingerprints,<br />yet cleverly steal away secrets<br />between the elusive shadows<br />you create,<br />some darker than others,<br />convoluted figures<br />rummaging in the most remote corners<br />of the room.<br />The sleepless await an explanation<br />but your peering eyes<br />slip away<br />when the clouds make you blink.<br />If you do take something,<br />no one is the wiser.<br />The sand in your light<br />eventually blinds into submission<br />the most suspicious<br />who, in the morning,<br />awake inspired<br />yet unaware of your intrusion,<br />until the icicles drip<br />in the rising sunlight.<br /><br /><br /><div><b><u>NIGHTS IN CUMMINGS COVE</u></b><br /> <br />Those nights illuminated by the moon<br />whose white dagger severed the wet surface,<br />highlighted the stalks upon Gypsy Glen<br />which stretched off the shoal<br />into the crooked air<br />and the lake wore a tarnished chink<br />upon its silver armor.<br />The tall pines, stilled by the sheen,<br />waited till their presence<br />faded back to distorted disfigurements<br />to acknowledge the breeze.<br />The cold air was always crisp<br />and smelled of wild roses<br />that circled the shoreline,<br />exposed as the moon’s silver eye<br />adjusted its stare toward the brush<br />and patches of mulch,<br />gingerly caressing the lapping lake.<br />On nights such as these,<br />he would gaze at the cottages,<br />nesting beachside, their lights flickering<br />in night’s magnificent isolation.<br />Little did he suspect<br />that this moment of adoration,<br />the opportunity to commune,<br />would become a longing<br />that would follow him.<br /> <br /><br /><b><u>THE SONG WITHIN</u></b><br /><br />It is the silent song<br />inside his head<br />inside his heart<br />inside his ear,<br />a song derived<br />from earth and sky,<br />with pitch and timbre<br />from rain and wind,<br />light and darkness,<br />in melodious form,<br />a song which guides him<br />with gusts of truths<br />witnessed from perpetual life<br />to which he listens,<br />the deepest song<br />the buried song<br />which sings his life,<br />intones his decisions,<br />chants his perspectives,<br />soothes his wounds,<br />his losses,<br />the hushed song<br />only he can hear,<br />a song which resonates<br />when life<br />challenges his convictions<br />and he lends an ear,<br />to convince his mind<br />or open his heart<br />and heed the lyrics<br />beyond denial.<div><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collections his latest, <i>What To Do With Intangibles</i>, published by Cyberwit.net . His most recent poems have appeared in <i>Muddy River Review, Bluepepper, Smoky Quartz, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal</i>. He has been published in numerous national and international journals and has appeared as feature writer in twenty publications with 7 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations.</div></div></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-23670414186259939872023-05-05T07:25:00.002-07:002023-05-05T07:25:39.163-07:004 Poems by Shiyan Cole<div><b><u>OUR LOVE</u></b></div><br />I never want us to get too comfortable<br /><br />Where our love is predictable<br /><br />I want our passion to burn brighter<br /><br />And our love to root deeper<br /><br /><br />I want us to love like this<br /><br />Because comfort ate more dreams<br /><br />Than heartbreak ever did<br /><br /><br />I want love to keep us<br /><br />at the edge of our dreams<br /><br />panting for more…<br /><br /><br /><br /><b><u>BURNING DESIRES</u></b><br /><br />Burning desires<br /><br />which suffocate<br /><br />don’t grow roots.<br /><br />How can they?<br /><br />Rather they float<br /><br />around for awhile<br /><br />like fire flies<br /><br />with no lasting mark<br /><br />just a contour<br /><br />on the detour<br /><br />to Love.<br /><br /><br /> <br /><b><u>BELLE ARME</u></b><br /><br />My words feel<br /><br />like sunshine<br /><br />but can distort<br /><br />the colours<br /><br />of your rainbow.<br /><br />That’s how I fight.<br /><br /> <br />I throw words<br /><br />with laser sharp cuts.<br /><br />Loaded with precision<br /><br />ready for war.<br /><br />Aiming at your heart<br /><br />the soft centered part.<br /><br />For you to feel<br /><br />Something<br /><br />Anything.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><b><u>SWEET CRAVINGS</u></b><br /><br />You keep flaunting this sugary love<br /><br />That will kill me one day<br /><br />Yet I find myself saying<br /><br />“Let’s make syrup together”.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote<br /></u></b><br />Shiyan Cole is a Nigerian British writer, drawing inspiration from her life experiences in both London and Lagos. Her poetry focuses on themes of love, heartbreak, and healing, reflecting her passion for encouraging others to live authentically and fulfill their purpose. Shiyan is an accomplished entrepreneur, having founded a much-loved gourmet popcorn brand, and excelled in the corporate world in the fields of auditing and finance.<br /><br />In addition to her accomplishments, she is an emerging writer currently working on her first fiction book. A decade plus ago, she wrote a short story on how she met the love of her life on London’s Northern line and is now happily married with three boys. Shiyan is excited to share her unique voice and experiences with the world, with the hope of inspiring readers to give love a chance and live their best lives.poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-91140676740312169392023-05-05T07:25:00.000-07:002023-05-05T07:25:02.991-07:004 Artworks by Hana Jiang<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGB9bHYkcn9Jjq-CkQc6ZRw_BCGqCTeMCwv_UDJYWrHFmA7trV9v-HES13TcbqqqItJtLxd_r6TzEaCHsBgKiIwR17NsPbR8JVbbrGfQDQMV-jFihieqrbHURGHZ8pIFw7Wu1GlgigxNrpXDE9vEjszEELbEzBwpLH2V-lluysqrvSgeyaknxDA7Y/s1179/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="882" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGB9bHYkcn9Jjq-CkQc6ZRw_BCGqCTeMCwv_UDJYWrHFmA7trV9v-HES13TcbqqqItJtLxd_r6TzEaCHsBgKiIwR17NsPbR8JVbbrGfQDQMV-jFihieqrbHURGHZ8pIFw7Wu1GlgigxNrpXDE9vEjszEELbEzBwpLH2V-lluysqrvSgeyaknxDA7Y/w478-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="478" /></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9RmP8ZAl8hOt0AZjV7BhFvalw7mghfJJj3D_nhnR6hRywWFFftPqFlYE5l5yVj2q8XFh4Kb7V_LllL1RDGArbnRtdEtCorr0uV8_dri1IojBDEknFXF062-p_-wQH20ys016yf85rhRfQTQJH6dfXtiNtax3Hn6s_hOmIDVBd5DjyV6v_lnXFX3_/s1143/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="873" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9RmP8ZAl8hOt0AZjV7BhFvalw7mghfJJj3D_nhnR6hRywWFFftPqFlYE5l5yVj2q8XFh4Kb7V_LllL1RDGArbnRtdEtCorr0uV8_dri1IojBDEknFXF062-p_-wQH20ys016yf85rhRfQTQJH6dfXtiNtax3Hn6s_hOmIDVBd5DjyV6v_lnXFX3_/w488-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGhM5tfL5ODYvloXaGXsY9Ev6LmBNn54Y2Nqoz6kyNAYlltM5dsXJvT3bI-eUZ8-I2fymcKWpyChlwA1kPcfjUzd4i_Z--unKJsc0DsBSo36zTvlpLzT07jXVT4gkGIIRsOKd-VCig30vUkJ0X9UwXdGcgABlv4Fs1p5PMEQPM_1EjNurL30vtri2/s1056/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="1056" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGhM5tfL5ODYvloXaGXsY9Ev6LmBNn54Y2Nqoz6kyNAYlltM5dsXJvT3bI-eUZ8-I2fymcKWpyChlwA1kPcfjUzd4i_Z--unKJsc0DsBSo36zTvlpLzT07jXVT4gkGIIRsOKd-VCig30vUkJ0X9UwXdGcgABlv4Fs1p5PMEQPM_1EjNurL30vtri2/w640-h468/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLGy6v-EplxcfxBjDGRQ54rE2NouH7f5DFvu8nD1HNugG6eBgoZoqV3CIYKcLM_pPndF-b95k4sJVsQPezhycgLNxLACVq0aC3eaWc1BGRlVRAE8p-rtFW8z6xIzMeFOSDKq8wOLGit_yNJcfaMlF-topu5DM-9-KO6nCqREB4Vj5G29Y9sNU-zT5o/s1102/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="833" data-original-width="1102" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLGy6v-EplxcfxBjDGRQ54rE2NouH7f5DFvu8nD1HNugG6eBgoZoqV3CIYKcLM_pPndF-b95k4sJVsQPezhycgLNxLACVq0aC3eaWc1BGRlVRAE8p-rtFW8z6xIzMeFOSDKq8wOLGit_yNJcfaMlF-topu5DM-9-KO6nCqREB4Vj5G29Y9sNU-zT5o/w640-h484/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-3281823217136663942023-05-05T07:24:00.006-07:002023-05-06T10:29:36.511-07:004 Poems by Hana Jiang <div><b><u>Artist statement</u></b></div><br />I see things as a dreamer seeing things in dreams<br /><br />Things in dreams are<br /><br /> Here and there, anywhere<br /><br /> Solitary, remote, vaguely, disarrayed<br /><br /> Connected, disconnected<br /><br /> Disappearing soon after they appear<br /><br /> Cluelessly, strangely, distortedly, quietly<br /><br /> Vanishing with no trace no repeats<br /><br />I see dreams as a magic pouch collecting things<br /><br />That things in the pouch are<br /><br /> Fear<br /><br /> Despair<br /><br /> Repression<br /><br /> Angst<br /><br /> Yearning<br /><br /> Gaiety <br /><br /> Intimacy <br /><br /> Debauchery<br /><br /> fantasy<br /><br />I dream of incredible elements<br /><br />These elements<br /><br /> Interact<br /><br /> Overlap<br /><br /> Iterate<br /><br /> The history of sediment<br /><br /> The culture of exotic<br /><br /> The nature of ubiquity<br /><br /> The heaven of absurdity<br /><br />My dreams reflect my concerns of<br /><br />Home/Family/Belonging <br /><br />They break into images<br /><br />The images fall into montages<br /><br />The montages orchestrate my dreams <br /><br />Of things<br /><br />Of pouch<br /><br />Of history<br /><br />Of culture<br /><br />Of nature<br /><br />Of heaven<br /><br />Of images<br /><br />Of montages<br /><br /> And me <br /><br />I am the dreamer <br /><br />I grab things to my pouch<br /><br />I make disconnected scenes connected<br /><br />I place elements of all kinds in my paintings<br /><br /><br />So, I am a creator<br /><br />I am an unordinary creator<div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></span><div><b><u>A WELL </u></b><br /><br /><br />Billion years hiding deep<br /><br />unstopped, unshaped, unformed<br /><br />unceasingly, persistently, infiltrated<br /><br />it flows underneath<br /><br />The cracks the blood veins the continuous thirst<br /><br />thank the thousand years wisdom<br /><br />that puddles it spades it wreathes it<br /><br />the water that is made stay always<br /><br />Quietly seeps and seeps<br /><br />it’d be neither full nor less<br /><br />the resource of infinitude<br /><br />Ancestors, descendants, and<br /><br />all lives that can rely on<br /><br />the wisdom<br /><br />of<br /><br />thousand years – </div><div><br /></div><div>A well<br /><br /><br /><b><u>A recipe of insomnia</u></b><br /><br />I am the one who is good at<br /><br />Making sorts of recipes –<br /><br />A mood of melancholy<br /><br />A source of inquiety<br /><br />A disturbance of novelty<br /><br />Plus, an all-time signature piece –<br /><br />INSOMNIA, my pride<br /><br />I heir the nerve from my mother<br /><br />I learned to create ingredients from my father<br /><br />I distribute the elements to my son<br /><br />I develop the old recipe to the newer –<br /><br />1, restlessness<br /><br />2, excitement<br /><br />3, daydreams<br /><br />4, stress<br /><br />5, anxiety<br /><br />6, depress<br /><br />7, annoyance<br /><br />One night<br /><br />Son jumps out to my screen<br /><br />He presses a button of my vulnerability<br /><br />I get up and start, again,<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Making a recipe of insomnia</u></b><br /><br />Memory, The Heart – Frida Kahlo<br /><br />A heart is broken<br /><br />A heart is unbroken<br /><br />An unbreakable heart jumps out<br /><br />Now a hole on the chest<br /><br />Like a hollow on a tree trunk<br /><br />Standing alone<br /><br />With one foot soaked in salt water<br /><br />Swelled like a canoe<br /><br />Brought from the childhood<br /><br />And one is resting on the shore<br /><br />An arrow penetrates the hole with an angel riding on<br /><br />When a heart grows bigger on the ground<br /><br />Memories unclench to call myriad of molecules<br /><br />Aches squeeze out tears<br /><br />The remote adolescent naivete<br /><br />Echoes ongoing sweet bitters<br /><br />The cost is unknown<br /><br />For the subtlety being flattered<br /><br />The reckless blood<br /><br />Merge to the bitter salt<br /><br /><br />While metal pole recording the event</div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p></div></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-63781252907767951252023-05-05T07:23:00.003-07:002023-05-05T07:23:57.565-07:004 Poems by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner <div><b><u>No Name</u></b></div><br />Something, which has no name,<br /><br />something uncertain, unknown,<br /><br />something dark,<br /><br />burdens my heart,<br /><br />puts a weight on it<br /><br />like heavy rain on the fruits of wine yards<br /><br />bending the vines to the ground.<br /><br />Leaves shed tears.<br /><br /> <br />Something, which has a name,<br /><br />something certain, known,<br /><br />something bright<br /><br />lifts my heart,<br /><br />frees me from a burden.<br /><br />It relieves me<br /><br />like warm rays of sunshine on grapes<br /><br />making them translucent.<br /><br />I hold my hand against the sun:<br /><br />see my wine-red blood.<br /><br /><br /><b>Snail Mail</b><br /><br />One should start<br /><br />to write letters<br /><br />to the dead<br /><br />before it is too late.<br /><br /><br />To send thoughts or<br /><br />mention missed opportunities,<br /><br />neglected feelings,<br /><br />refused empathy or<br /><br />a lack of understanding.<br /><br /><br />Do not wait for an answer,<br /><br />leaves will be blown to our doors,<br /><br />multi-coloured, varied,<br /><br />cryptic thoughts, metaphors<br /><br />written on by an invisible hand,<br /><br />trusting that have the ability<br /><br />to decipher them.<br /><br /><br />Leave the mail to the snails,<br /><br />who have time,<br /><br />and are on the road for years<br /><br />to convey a message.<br /><br /><br />I look at their trails<br /><br />and suddenly comprehend<br /><br />what has been written to me.<br /><br /><br /><b>Exhibitions</b><br /><br />Frames not only frame,<br /><br />they limit, suffocate,<br /><br />strangle the picture,<br /><br />press it into a rectangle,<br /><br />punch it out of context,<br /><br />entangle interpretations.<br /><br /><br /><div>Exhibitions are prisons,<br /><br />where inmates seem to be free<br /><br />and communicate with you<br /><br />through steel bars<br /><br />fixed on wooden strips,<br /><br />nailed to the walls.<br /><br />A crucifixion scene<br /><br />like on the Appian Way.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>A Thought<br /></u></b><br />A thought<br /><br />hewn in stone<br /><br />to prevent it<br /><br />to fly away<br /><br />with the birds<br /><br />in autumn.<br /><br /><br />That it might become<br /><br />a keystone<br /><br />of my inner self,<br /><br />as base<br /><br />for a new poem.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku, and short stories.<br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><br /></li></ul>He writes in four languages: English, French, Spanish, and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose and experimental poetry.<br /><br />Member of four writer groups in Ireland. Lives in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany.<br /><br />Published in over 180 anthologies, literary journals, and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Australia, Canada, Japan, Sweden, Spain, Italy, France, Bangladesh, India, Mauritius, Nepal, Pakistan, and Nigeria.<br /><br />Some of his poems, and haibun have been published in French (own translation), Romanian, and Russian language.<br /><br />He writes also under his penname Eadbhard McGowan.</div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-21658941293098111662023-05-05T07:23:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:23:29.260-07:004 Poems by Kristin Roahrig<div><b><u>Ghost of a Photograph</u></b></div><br />Gray birds fly above the shoreline<br /><br />Matching the rocks that jut from the waters at this unknown hour<br /><br />One woman gazes out beyond the waters, lost<br /><br />She stands out on the jagged rocks dressed loosely in black<br /><br />In an instant the waves too have gone gray<br /><br />Only the girl remains in a gown of black, gazing out to an image seen many years before<br /><br />An image as if I’m looking at an old photograph<br /><br />Another instant and she’s gone<br /><br />She fades and the world has returned to it’s own colors of blue and fawns<br /><br />All a ghost of a photograph<br /><br />Disappearing into the colors of my own time<br /><br />Originally published in the anthology Tic Toc<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Arrival</u></b><br /><br />October arrives<br /><br />like two women rushing in,<br /><br />red hair streaming,<br /><br />changing colors<br /><br /><br />wearing cloaks made of feathers<br /><br />and branches scattering<br /><br />leaves and shifting the world-<br /><br /><br />rusted hues, flowers brittle<br /><br />strands of dry grass<br /><br />snap- as overhead<br /><br />one bird flies<br /><br /><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Originally published in the anthology <i>Brought to Sight </i>and <i>Swept Away</i></span><br /><br /><br /><b>The Tree’s Lifelines</b><br /><br />The tree and I stand- looking at each other<br /><br />Roughened by elements<br /><br />The trunk twists high above me<br /><br />Lines etched in the bark follow the curves of the branches<br /><br />Showing gaps within it’s skin<br /><br />Full of spaces never filled<br /><br />Or gaps such as mine carved out by others in my life<br /><br />Holes never patched, only branches naked-<br /><br />As am I, stripped clean for myself to see without prejudice<br /><br />My hand unconsciously touches the gaps in my own skin, lined similar with the trees<br /><br />The tree and I stand-considering<br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Originally published in <i>Pyrokinection</i></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><u>Embryo</u></b><br /><br /><br />Within the embryo<br /><br />anticipating it’s birth<br /><br />a body drifts<br /><br />pale, nearly blue<br /><br />hair rises above<br /><br />fingers curling emptiness<br /><br />holding invisible weight<br /><br />balancing the way<br /><br />waiting, waiting waiting<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Kristin Roahrig's short stories and poetry have appeared in various publications. She is also the author of several plays and lives in Indiana.<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div></i></div></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-62758437582181812472023-05-05T07:22:00.003-07:002023-05-05T07:22:47.130-07:004 Poems by Steve Nebel<div><b><u>The Tree</u></b></div><br />I heard the tree speak to me.<br /><br />It must have been a dream.<br /><br />We all know plants don’t speak.<br /><br />It spoke in a deep, rich voice,<br /><br />calm, with it a feeling of deep understanding.<br /><br />I could hear the chainsaws ringing<br /><br />in the background as the tree spoke.<br /><br />“You know”, he said, “to quote the old song,<br /><br />‘You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone’.<br /><br />“Hell, I already miss me and I’m still standing<br /><br />here.” On this day though the chainsaws<br /><br />are a little too close for comfort.<br /><br /> <br />“Just a little word to the wise.<br /><br />I’ve been here for a long time,<br /><br />or it would be a long time if I were human.<br /><br />I’ve been standing here drinking in the sun,<br /><br />carbon dioxide, sweet, sweet water.<br /><br />It has been so beautiful here on this hill<br /><br />especially as I grew taller, could get up<br /><br />where the air tastes better.<br /><br />I’ve been able to see, taste, hear a lot<br /><br />from my vantage point.<br /><br />I can tell you that the CO2 levels are<br /><br />rising. Not a bad thing if you’re a tree<br /><br />mind you, but you mammals? You’re<br /><br />going to be in a pretty mess<br /><br />in not too long a time.”<br /><br /> <br />I could hear the chainsaws getting closer.<br /><br />I was starting to like the tree.<br /><br />His voice was so otherworldly.<br /><br />I guess it was otherworldly.<br /><br />What I mean is, I haven’t been to another<br /><br />world. I don’t have another world.<br /><br /> <br />He started talking again, “I’ve seen my fellow<br /><br />trees cut before. I don’t think it hurts too<br /><br />much. As I see the houses getting closer to<br /><br />me, the air getting dirtier, the noise,<br /><br />oh, the noise. Maybe I’ve just run my course,<br /><br />had enough, time to check out.<br /><br />you mammals though, thinking you’re making<br /><br />things better for yourselves.<br /><br />I’ve heard the ocean whisper, heard<br /><br />the glaciers scream. You’re in a bad<br /><br />place getting worse. You had better run.<br /><br />Where are you going to go though?<br /><br />Do you have another world you can go to?<br /><br />If you do are you just going to mess it up<br /><br />like you’ve done to this one?”<br /><br />He was asking me a question.<br /><br />I told him that I know I don’t have<br /><br />another world. I apologized for the<br /><br />chainsaws. I told him that if I could I<br /><br />would stop them. Of course, that was<br /><br />a lie. Of course, I might think about<br /><br />stopping them, but even if I could<br /><br />Would I?<br /><br /> <br /><br /><b>Remembering the 21st Century</b><br /><br />I hear the 21st Century.<br /><br />Whispers of Taliban, Nine, One, One<br /><br />We never used to hear about Iraq.<br /><br />Well. There was that one time back in the 90s.<br /><br />We were hoping that was all done.<br /><br />It seems like you never hear about<br /><br />Al Qaeda anymore.<br /><br />What happened to those guys?<br /><br />I guess they are sitting on<br /><br />their front porches<br /><br />polishing their shoes<br /><br />telling stories about old Osama,<br /><br />how dad was part of the original Jihad,<br /><br />running from the Americans,<br /><br />hiding in caves.<br /><br />Those were the days.<br /><br /> <br />George Bush.<br /><br />Remember him?<br /><br />I think Barack Obama<br /><br />stole his thunder.<br /><br />Now every day all we ever hear about<br /><br />is Donald Trump.<br /><br />Some people like him.<br /><br />A lot of people don’t.<br /><br />Whether you like him or<br /><br />not - Trump is in the headlines every day.<br /><br />He is always leaking<br /><br />avarice,<br /><br />revenge on someone.<br /><br />I used to believe Barack Obama.<br /><br />at least he had good intentions.<br /><br /> <br />You don’t hear about New York<br /><br />the way you used to.<br /><br />Now they talk about<br /><br />Seattle.<br /><br />What a foreign place<br /><br />that is.<br /><br />On TV you see the<br /><br />Space<br /><br />Needle.<br /><br />Everyone knows what Puget Sound is,<br /><br />Mount Rainier like there weren’t any other mountains<br /><br />near Seattle?<br /><br />I heard yesterday<br /><br />the ice caps are melting faster.<br /><br />They keep saying the ocean<br /><br />is getting deeper.<br /><br />I’m not.<br /><br /><br />When I go to the beach<br /><br />It looks about the same.<br /><br />It didn’t snow as much.<br /><br />Maybe that’s why this new bug<br /><br />cropped up?<br /><br />What do they call it?<br /><br />Covid 19?<br /><br /> <br />Someone is going to make a movie<br /><br />called Covid 19.<br /><br />Maybe it will have witches in it?<br /><br /><br /><br /><b><u>The Word Vandal</u></b><br /><br />You said it was a place<br /><br />You had already been to.<br /><br />It was a place you did not care<br /><br />To revisit.<br /><br />It was my place.<br /><br /><br />I had scrawled my name<br /><br />All over this place,<br /><br />Had written notes that were tacked<br /><br />Into the air.<br /><br />You said that the letters in the notes<br /><br />Were badly written.<br /><br />You put on a show of not caring.<br /><br /> <br />I had spent a lifetime<br /><br />Scrawling the words onto paper,<br /><br />Framing them neatly,<br /><br />Hanging them in the air<br /><br />Everywhere I went.<br /><br /><br />You knocked them down<br /><br />Wherever you could find them.<br /><br />A word vandal,<br /><br />A note breaker,<br /><br />Even now I see a line of words<br /><br />Hanging crooked in the garden<br /><br />Where you have been<br /><br />Sitting, weeping, laughing<br /><br />Knowing all last night.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><b><u>The Black Hole</u></b><br /><br />I am falling down a black hole.<br /><br />The gravity squeezes my internal organs.<br /><br />I see my favorite stars disappearing<br /><br />as I fall deeper.<br /><br />My head feels like a too ripe tomato.<br /><br />I just saw an asteroid<br /><br />whiz by me.<br /><br /> <br />My fourth-grade teacher flies by,<br /><br />a paddle in her hand,<br /><br />frown on her shriveled face,<br /><br />words hunkered down on<br /><br />a chalk board in back of her.<br /><br /> <br />Speed is picking up now.<br /><br />I narrowly miss the Milky Way,<br /><br />The Big Dipper, Orion.<br /><br />I begin to weep.<br /><br />The tears brush my face<br /><br />Hot with regret.<br /><br /><br />There is a baseball mit,<br /><br />A hardball, a bat that I could<br /><br />Never hit the ball with.<br /><br />Down I fly, into darkness<br /><br />A gravity greater than I have<br /><br />Ever experienced.<br /><br />My father is there.<br /><br />He wonders why I never hit the ball,<br /><br />Why it always slips from the mit<br /><br />His face is kind<br /><br />Takes his genetic responsibility<br /><br />Seriously.<br /><br /><br />Saturn is slipping away in my memory<br /><br />While Jupiter dances<br /><br />Past my athlete brother.<br /><br />He stands tall in the black hole<br /><br />While I am compressed until<br /><br />I cannot be seen.<br /><br />I am falling down a black hole.<br /><br />Can you see me?<br /><br />I am sobbing now, cannot stop<br /><br />Falling down.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><div><br /></div><div>Steve Nebel is a poet, and songwriter who lives in Tacoma, Washington. He has been called an "environmental" poet, referring to his early work. His poem, "Chelsea Manning, Wikileaks Heroine" was published in 2015 in "Heart Online". In 2014 his reading of his poem, "Cityscape", was featured in the Laureate Listening Project, a poetry project initiated by Tacoma's then poet laureate, Luca Smiraldo.<br />He was educated in the "Bohemian Arts" at The Evergreen State College in Olympia, WA. He also writes songs, and sings them with his wife Kristi, and the Americana band, "Cosmo's Dream" which includes Kristi, and his friend, guitarist, mandolinist, vocalist and songwriter, Gen Obata. His latest project is a chapbook, "Remembering the 21st Century". <br /><br /> </div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-55987539485898627692023-05-05T07:22:00.001-07:002023-05-05T07:22:13.444-07:002 Poems by Christopher T. Keaveney <div><b><u>HAVING HAD HIS FILL OF JUNK BIRDS</u></b></div> <br />He passed<br />his final days<br />as he had spent<br />much of his life,<br />in service<br />to symmetry,<br />setting things right,<br />fixing what<br />really didn’t need fixing<br />balancing<br />that which brooked<br />no resistance,<br />leaning hard<br />into the living<br />because that seemed<br />easier than<br />any of the alternatives.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>I DON’T PRETEND TO KNOW HOW YOU FEEL</u></b><br /><br />About horoscopes<br />or Roe<br />or the latest Mets meltdown<br />about baby corn<br />or shale oil<br />about venture capitalism<br />or designer babies<br />about bullish markets<br />or gout<br />or 3D guns<br />about Dubai<br />or kombucha<br />about Elon Musk<br />or synth pop<br />or the the raccoon dog who can't really<br />be blamed for bearing the virus<br />to a cage in the corner of the market<br />unaware.<br /><br />I don’t pretend to know<br />and don’t<br />and have yet to convince you<br />that it doesn’t matter what you think<br />or I<br />for what it’s worth,<br />so long as we promise<br />never to push too hard.<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Christopher T. Keaveney is a Portland-based writer currently living in Japan where he is a faculty member in the Global Liberal Arts Program at Rikkyo University in Tokyo. His poetry has appeared in <i>Spoon River Poetry Review, Columbia Review, Cardiff Review, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Stolen Island, Faultline</i> and elsewhere. He is the author of the collections <i>Your Eureka Not Mined</i> (Broadstone Books, 2017) and <i>The Boy Who Ate Nothing But Sonnets </i>(Clare Songbirds Press, 2019).<div><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"> </span></div>poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-967252434631153462023-05-05T07:22:00.000-07:002023-05-05T07:22:00.870-07:002 Poems by Maryfrances Wagner<p><b><u>Over</u></b></p>You are now like the creek<br /><br />funneling behind the path I walk. <br /><br /> <br />I remember days I dumped<br /><br />your cans, scrubbed rings<br /><br /> <br />from tables, the drift of flat beer<br /><br />trailing me to the kitchen<br /><br /><br />like your breath before your<br /><br />glazed eyes settled into red holes<br /><br /> <br />in dim light, your silhouette<br /><br />hunched like the dying elm<br /><br /> <br />outside, reaching out beneath<br /><br />the moon. As you stared off,<br /> <br /><br />with one hand you tapped<br /><br />your fingertips, and with the other<br /><br /> <br />you dragged your sock across<br /><br />your ankle over and over. <br /><br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Becoming One of the Invisible</u></b><br /><br /> <br />At first, I spoke up. Hey, I’m standing<br /><br />right here. See me waving? Then I realized<br /><br /> <br /><br />this was like hiding. We can sail down aisles,<br /><br />slip between cars, and no one stops us.<br /><br /> <br />We can stare like our mothers said not to do,<br /><br />shake our booty, float off like maple seeds.<br /><br /> <br />We’re the empty seat in the audience,<br /><br />alone in the crowd watching sky. We raise<br /><br /> <br />unanswered arms clunky with bracelets. The last<br /><br />donut or slice of pizza never gets passed to us. <br /><br /> <br />With my date last Saturday, I watched<br /><br />how his fingers floated in the air when he talked,<br /><br /> <br />in between steak bites, wine sips, the type<br /><br />who could scuba through schools of parrotfish<br /><br /> <br />instead of trying to catch anything, the kind<br /><br />not needing anyone there since underwater,<br /><br /> <br />the sea is mostly silent. As I started to tell him<br /><br />how I floated unseen across parking lots, through<br /><br /> <br />flashing minnows and dodged barracudas<br /><br />sulking by, I saw his eyes sink into dilated marbles.<br /><br /> <br />Behind his nod, the fixed smirk. That’s okay.<br /><br />I’m thinking of my next disappearance. I won’t need<br /><br /> <br />darkness or a mask. I won’t have to make excuses. <br /><br />Even a rock in a shoe serves its purpose. <br /><br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />Maryfrances Wagner’s newest books are <i>The Silence of Red Glass, The Immigrants’ New Camera, </i>and<i> Solving for X.</i> Her newly reissued book <i>Red Silk </i>won the Thorpe Menn Book Award. She co-edits <i>I-70 Review,</i> serves on The Writers Place board, was 2020 Missouri Individual Artist of the Year, and is Missouri Poet Laureate 2021-2023. Poems have appeared in <i>New Letters, Midwest Quarterly, Laurel Review, American Journal of Poetry, Poetry East, Green Mountain Literary Review, Voices in Italian Americana, Main Street Rag, Rattle, Unsettling America: An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry</i>, et. al. For more information, check her website: http://maryfranceswagnerwriter.fieldinfoserv.com/poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4481641155063657192.post-44499834815250681642023-05-05T07:21:00.003-07:002023-05-05T07:21:43.348-07:003 Poems & 3 Haiku by JE Solo<div><b><u>I've got a laptop</u></b></div><br />I've got a laptop<br />and I've got a phone<br />But when I'm out<br />I’m not sure<br />where I've gone<br /><br />I’ve got a light<br />and I've got a gun<br />But when I shoot<br />I’m not sure<br />what I've done<br /><br /><br /><b><u>The future is a garbage dump</u></b><br /><br />The future is a garbage dump<br />where all our worries live in a pile<br />and all our plans are cast aside like broken toys<br />and the rain falls on the pages of our ruined books<br /><br />The future is a garbage dump<br />where all our hopes lie in a pile<br />and all our sorrows are stacked like dirty dishes<br />and the rain fills the overgrown pots in our gardens<br /><br />The future is a garbage dump<br />where all our love lies broken in a pile<br />and our dreams are burnt out like lightbulbs that no one can change<br />and the rain floods our basements and stains things and turns our streets into rivers<br /><br /><br /><b><u>Time is a Book</u></b><br /><br />Time is a book<br />And the pages of the book are the days of the years<br />And the past is the cover of the book<br />And the future is the next page<br />And the first page is now<br />And the whole book is the future and the past and the present<br />And the whole book is written<br />And the last page is blank<br />And the next page is the future<br />And the first page is now<br /> <br /><br /><b><u>3 Titled Haiku</u></b><br /><br /><b><u>Nature</u></b><br />she mops up the bones<br />from the cracks in the sea floor<br />sifting through the sand<br /><br /><b><u>December</u></b><br />Snowflakes flowing down<br />Poetry is included<br />Welcome to winter<br /><br /><b><u>Rain</u></b><br />After the spring rain<br />Red maple buds hold droplets<br />That glitter with light<br /><br /><b><u>Bionote</u></b><br /><br />JE Solo is a writer, performance and media artist, and musician best known for their work in East Coast music, and as a trailblazer in machinima, hybrid-reality, and live and networked performance art. JE’s first novel, <i>Phreak </i>(House of Zolo, 2020), was short-listed for the Writer’s Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador’s 2017 Fresh Fish Award, and is the Write Project’s 2020 Book of the Year. In 2022 JE released three illustrated short stories with Edge; and coming up in 2023 JE’s ten story collection, <i>Nature, Human</i> will be published by House of Zolo. Since 2019 JE has been developing an A.I. Poet Being (aka Sapphire) by merging multiple technologies including AI Text Generation, Virtual Reality, quantum computing, and machine learning. The Poet Being has been trained on JE’s song lyrics and programmed to write poems in the style of JE Solo. The finished poems result from prompts created by the Author and the subsequent conversations that happen between the author and the Poet Being, followed by a writing and editing process by the Author. See: www.lizsolo.com And www.jesolo.ca<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />poetrypacific.blogspot.cahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14560551510300869695noreply@blogger.com0