tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66092775700777313802024-03-12T19:13:30.663-07:00Birds By My Window: Willow Tree PoemsEditor/Poet: Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. We are now accepting submissions.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-1285503685170440842010-07-31T21:17:00.001-07:002016-04-07T01:44:57.441-07:00ClustrMaps<a href="http://www2.clustrmaps.com/counter/maps.php?url=http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/" id="clustrMapsLink"><img alt="Locations of visitors to this page" src="http://www2.clustrmaps.com/counter/index2.php?url=http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/" id="clustrMapsImg" onerror="this.onerror=null; this.src='http://clustrmaps.com/images/clustrmaps-back-soon.jpg'; document.getElementById('clustrMapsLink').href='http://clustrmaps.com';" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;" title="Locations of visitors to this page" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #555555; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Michael Lee Johnson, the Itasca, IL. poet, edits 11 poetry sites, had been published in 27 countries, in over 895 publications to date and has over 90 videos on YouTube-tap this link to choice which video you want to watch:</span> </strong></span><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>http://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos</em></strong></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze</i>", is
now available on Amazon.com, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Amazon
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<a href="http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx"><strong><span style="color: blue;"><em>http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx</em></span></strong></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: #c00000;">Purchase Poetry Books Amazon.com
by Michael Lee Johnson At:</span></u></i></b></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917"><strong><em><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;">http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917</span></em></strong></a><br />
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</span>Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-62225001208182080562008-01-13T09:27:00.000-08:002016-03-30T16:36:50.541-07:00Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R4pLIatucoI/AAAAAAAAADY/LLm5UlR0Ff0/s1600-h/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="150" src="https://bp3.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R4pLIatucoI/AAAAAAAAADY/LLm5UlR0Ff0/s200/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" width="200" /></a><br />
Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems<br />
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I work from inside my condominium, self-employed, out on the balcony are flowers of many mixed colors, a birdfeeder I replenish each day for doves and sparrows. Sixty feet away from my window is a lush, huge, 36 year old willow tree, draped with branches leaning toward the ground, flowing shades of green blowing left to right with the wind, through the sun. I love this old willow tree and the scratching sounds of little bird feet inside a large plastic bowl filled with birdseed on my patio balcony--almost as dearly as my kitten, Nikki. Thus, the beginning of Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems a new blog for poets and writers.<br />
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WHERE TO SEND SUBMISSIONS, GUIDELINES, COPYRIGHT CONSIDERATIONS:<br />
Send all submissions to <a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com">promomanusa@gmail.com</a><br />
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I'm looking for: short poetry including haiku and tanka, flash fiction, short non-fiction with a social or political message (ie inadequate health coverage for 54 million Americans), good short stories. Include a brief 3rd party bio of yourself, 50 words or less, especially any previous publication credits and contact info. We only accept e-mail or electronic submissions. Don't send attachments less they are asked for. No snail mail-it will be ignored unless they are comments and queries. Send no more than 4 poems at one time. The word "Submission" must be in the subject line. Editor retains the right to make a few comments about each selected poem, if you are selected, you chances of it being positive are good. As a general rule we require "one-time rights" (meaning we plan to publish and use a poem "one time"). We also allow all rights to revert back to the writer upon publication on our site, which means the writer can have his work back and do with it as he wishes. If you need to remove a work for any reason, email us. Simultaneous submissions are ok, if you tell us, and give credit to the publisher (s); we are more interested in the quality of work then if being original per say.<br />
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I would like to invite graphics, nature pictures, sketches original artwork to decorate the site with, send to the same email address as above. Art: no larger than 5" x 5" or so, keep it small, black and white, or color, in jpeg/jpg or gif format, signed and dated, attached or embedded within the email. In the beginning, we will select works and post them as quality provides them-and notify the authors when they are accepted.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Michael Lee Johnson is publisher and editor of 11 poetry, flash fiction sites–all presently open for submission, he is published in 27 different countries (just type Michael Lee Johnson into Google Search):</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><a href="http://dreamsagoniescontemporarypoets.blogspot.com/">http://dreamsagoniescontemporarypoets.blogspot.com/</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><a href="http://promomanusa.wix.com/contemporary-poets2">http://promomanusa.wix.com/contemporary-poets2</a></span><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/</span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><a href="http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://promomanusa.wix.com/michael-lee-Johnson</span></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://itascaillinoispoetryman.moonfruit.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://itascaillinoispoetryman.moonfruit.com/</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://www.birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/</span></span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/</span></span></i></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://electricinthesun.blogspot.com/"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://electricinthesun.blogspot.com/</span></span></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/</span></span></i></a></span><br />
<a href="http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/"><i><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: x-small;">http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/</span></span></i></a><br />
<a href="http://poetsinterviews.blogspot.com/"><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: x-small;">http://poetsinterviews.blogspot.com/</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;">Author website: <a href="http://poetryman.mysite.com/"><span style="color: blue;">http://poetryman.mysite.com/</span></a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Em: </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">promomanusa@gmail.com</span></span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Em: </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><a href="mailto:writerillinois@yahoo.com"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-font-kerning: 14.0pt;"><span style="color: blue;">writerillinois@yahoo.com</span></span></a></span><br />
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Michael Lee Johnson, Author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedomhttp://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7</div>
PO Box 486, Itasca, IL 60143Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-26693253186816411232008-01-13T09:21:00.000-08:002008-01-13T09:25:23.954-08:00Photo supplied By Carol A. Marcus, Photographer<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R4pI1KtucnI/AAAAAAAAADQ/7nzw4zGCt9s/s1600-h/PoemInAWind.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R4pI1KtucnI/AAAAAAAAADQ/7nzw4zGCt9s/s320/PoemInAWind.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155012801725362802" /></a><br /><br />I call this photo: Poem in a Window. It writes a poem with picture.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-49641342515856139072007-11-07T21:51:00.000-08:002015-07-06T11:33:33.978-07:00Up in the Willow & Small Poems Below<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><b><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Moonlight And Aether...</span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">By: Daniel A. Stafford</span></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Cd3DPXfC78/VXx_9Q3Qu4I/AAAAAAAADKY/APJajD1OUks/s1600/4YM5Crp4_400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Cd3DPXfC78/VXx_9Q3Qu4I/AAAAAAAADKY/APJajD1OUks/s200/4YM5Crp4_400x400.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel A. Stafford</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">As we preside over the fading of the analog world,</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Watch the magic of waveforms drift into the unknown of forgotten dreams,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Dumped in the rush of binary trinkets blinking bright,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I feel the wonder and magic ebb and flow out to history's sea.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Can it be that the great magicians names are just pale dust in the silvery Moonlight,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">That the ghosts of Tesla and Marconi and Edison and Faraday and Ampere are forgotten?</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">These spooky physics that Einstein had nightmares of claim me in subtle visions,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">For I feel that in the noise at the bottom of some old radio,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Lost in the dim glow of an ancient tube,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The Quantum world is hiding the voices of the spirits,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The magic of the Aether was never just in its innumerable points,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Only struggling to break free in the eerie glow of infinite potential.</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">When electricity was new and anything was possible,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Could we have missed the hidden world?</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">That place where everything and the knowledge of everything is,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Conserved by a universe that wastes nothing ever?</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">What voices hid in the snow of a television tube with no signal,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">In the static of a glowing old tube radio that didn't so much lock a channel by the bits,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">But smoothly ran through the analog wave of every possible frequency?</span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">I fear that we've said goodbye to analog far too easily,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">In our rush to give up entirely on magic and flashes of genius.</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Author Bio:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan has a background in </span><span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 248); color: #141823; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Aircraft Electronics, Telecommunications, and Computers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also happens to write poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is fascinated with electricity and electrical gadgets since childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels the rush to digital has stunted growth of analog technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan feels there is a whole other paradigm of technological development that would complement digital technology in many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This poem is his way of expressing his views in free verse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also find Dan as a member of Contemporary Poets:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Entwined<br />
</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 9pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">By Theresa A. Cancro</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><b><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 9pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Below crowded tree roots<br />straining along a stream's bank<br />I turn over loose river rocks.<br />
<br />Their cool smoothness<br />links the ages: molten core,<br />to deer hooves, to minnows' swish<br />
<br />to end at my fingernail<br />as it snags against<br />igneous pockmarks.<br />
<br />I wonder about the long pattern<br />they form under clear water:<br />was it once a buffalo trail,<br />
<br />or the path to a family's dwelling,<br />or simply the dice of mother earth<br />strewn with each glacial slide?<br />
<br />In my hand now, ripples are silent.<br />
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</span></b><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">At The Shore </span></i></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span><b><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 9pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">By Theresa A. Cancro</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><b><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 9pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I knock at old sand castles<br />slumped and forlorn.<br />The wind in their ear,<br />they long to sense<br />liquid footprints outside<br />in, driftwood stirred<br />and pressing at their doors<br />
<br />ajar in the midday sun.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><b><span style="color: #555555; font-size: 9pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Bio: Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware) writes poetry and fiction. She has had dozens of poems published in online and print publications, including The Artistic Muse, Kumquat Poetry, The Rainbow Journal, Leaves of Ink, A Handful of Stones, A Hundred Gourds, Cattails, Chrysanthemum, Shamrock Haiku Journal and Presence, among others.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">A Ritual of Hunger & Thirst<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;">By Frank Watson<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">The garden is flooded−<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">all the whores have gathered<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">to expose the roots<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">of hunger and thirst.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I cry in the pleasurable hearse<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">of wine, drinking the filthy dust<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">of leftover souvenirs<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">in a city filled with pain.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I search for the midnight train<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">of stars that will lead me from this<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">suffering land, a place of lust,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">life encased by<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> withered hands.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;">Bio:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;">Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York City. He enjoys literature, art, calligraphy, history, jazz, international culture, and travel. His books include <i>Fragments: poetry, ancient & modern</i> (editor), <i>One Hundred Leaves: a new, annotated translation of the Hyakunin Isshu</i> (editor and translator), and <i>The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry </i>(editor). His work has also appeared in <i>Rosebud</i> and <i>Bora</i> literary magazines. Frank shares his work on his poetry blog (</span><a href="http://www.followtheblueflute.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.followtheblueflute.com/</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;">) and his Twitter account (</span><a href="https://twitter.com/FollowBlueFlute" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;"><span style="color: blue;">@FollowBlueFlute</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8pt;">).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
In The Wings<br />
Joanna M. Weston<br />
<br />
my shadow lies<br />
long on the beach<br />
and waves one hand<br />
to someone out of sight<br />
<br />
it bends like dune grass<br />
away from the wind<br />
bows to the tide<br />
that creeps closer<br />
to swallow my shadow<br />
and leave me<br />
quite alone<br />
<br />
All the Ways<br />
Joanna M. Weston<br />
<br />
to love you<br />
is to taste chocolate on spoons<br />
unravel an orange<br />
and discover raspberries<br />
to love you<br />
is to take a solo<br />
and sing it while driving<br />
it’s to skate a canal<br />
with a mist of strangers<br />
and throw kisses to them all<br />
loving you<br />
is waking to moonlight<br />
washed in champagne<br />
is digging weeds through the summer<br />
under a river of carnival lights<br />
loving you<br />
is New Year and swallows<br />
in a whirlwind of roses<br />
<br />
Summer Dusk<br />
Joanna M. Weston<br />
<br />
painted with trees<br />
it fades into crow calls<br />
the shush of a breeze<br />
a mother calling<br />
her truant child<br />
<br />
Bio: Joanna M. Weston. Has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/.<br />
<br />
Author comments: Joanna M. Weston is beyond doubt one of my very favorite poets. Maybe it is due to our similarity in style. Maybe she simply is good.<br />
<br />
Beneath the Pi<b><i></i></b>er<br />
Karen Kelsay<br />
<br />
Beneath the pier, waves swirl in a color<br />
of daiquiri ice cream, a flavor I loved as a child;<br />
gritty hands, still shivering after a swim, wrap<br />
around a brittle cone.<br />
Gulls huddle on the mound, wind whips against<br />
tucked wings, while whimbrels poke their needle<br />
beaks into seaweed. We interlace fingers<br />
and walk the promenade. Young boys<br />
beat plastic tubs and others sing. The afternoon<br />
reminds you of England’s overcast. We come here often,<br />
shuffling in the same direction—toward<br />
the shell shop, Tony's bar and pearl store, pausing to watch<br />
fishermen and their families. At the pier's end,<br />
we pluck afterthoughts from a graying sky, perch<br />
on the blue bench and listen to a buoy song.<br />
In the distance we imagine to find the tip<br />
of Catalina, and wish we could fly.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Bio: Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who grew <br />up near the Pacific and spent most of her childhood <br />weekends on a boat. She has three children, two cats <br />and enjoys traveling. Her poems have been widely <br />published over the past few years.She is the <br />author of Collected Poems and two chapbooks, <br />Forever in Avalon and A Fist of Roots, <br />published by Puddinghouse Press. <br />
</span><a href="http://www.karenkelsay.com/"><span style="font-size: 85%;">http://www.karenkelsay.com</span></a> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Editorial Comments: Lovely use of words, images and story telling. <br />
</span> <br />
End of the Week<br />
Janet Yung<br />
<br />
Seated on the sofa on Tuesday evening reading the Sunday paper, the cat resting on the cushion next to her deep in slumber, Ruth had no way of knowing how much her life would change by the end of the week.<br />
<br />
By the end of the week, everything she’d known and lived for up until that point in her life would vanish, pulled out from under her like a rug or a tablecloth by an artful magician, leaving plates and glasses stationary, unaffected by the action.<br />
<br />
But tonight, Ruth glanced through articles filled with bad news affecting everyone but her, taking a sip from the cup of cocoa placed neatly on the coffee table, reassured her own life was in order, finishing with the arts and society sections where everything seemed to be right with the world.<br />
<br />
She noted shows and movies she wanted to see and smiled at the stories of engaged and newly married couples, how they met, how they envisioned their own lives unfolding now that they’d acquired a happy ending.<br />
<br />
Ruth shivered, attributing the momentary sense of dread to a draft filtering through the rattling windows. When it passed as suddenly as it had arrived, she sighed and scanned the Sunday magazine, but somewhere in the back of her mind wondered how secure any plans might be when fate was lingering in the shadows, waiting for its time to pounce on unsuspecting subjects.<br />
<br />
Draining her cup, Ruth finished the last sentence thinking it might be time to begin her nightly routine before turning in, and switching off the light, banished all negative thoughts with the cat purring softly as she rubbed against Ruth’s legs in anticipation of her bedtime snack.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” Ruth told the cat as she bent to stroke the sleek black fur. “We’ll get something for you,” the two padding towards the kitchen, both believing life would continue as it had forever, but it was only Tuesday, days before the end of the week.<br />
<br />
Bio: Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis. Short fiction has appeared most recently in “The Shine”, “Bring the Ink”, “Lunarosity”, and “The Scrambler”.<br />
<br />
Cracked Open<br />
By Jane Banning<br />
<br />
They're chipping away at me and none of the hard white parts are left. One by one, they're breaking me down, tearing my soft yolk. I can't do this, I'm not protected, but these damn small town people won't stop.<br />
<br />
Each one has their own ways. The banker, who knows the insides of peoples' pockets, their secret selfish places and their wisdom, fixes her brown eyes on mine and asks, "How's she doing today?" I am undone. I struggle with the heavy door. I stumble and leave.<br />
<br />
The pharmacist prepares the prescription and tells about his own mother, shriveled from a stroke, incontinent, then asks, "How's she doing today?" Doesn't he know, doesn't he know what that does to me?<br />
<br />
The librarian wears typical half-moon glasses. She looks over them as she gives me the mindless magazines I check out. She touches my hand and says, "She's such a nice lady" and has no idea that a sob is right there, thrusting against the fissure she's wrenched open.<br />
<br />
The nurse with her unsophisticated perm says, "She had a good night and moved her bowels fine this morning. I washed her up and she's ready for you." The nurse probably doesn't see that I am near meltdown, cracking, ready to bleed from the kindnesses.<br />
<br />
Mom is sitting up in bed, eyes sparkling, cancer spreading, fresh coffee in hand. She asks, "Did you talk to anybody today? What did they say?" I put my head down on her bedside table.<br />
<br />
They all come to her funeral. Each one gives me an unpretentious sympathy card. I break completely open and they all come inside.<br />
<br />
Bio: Jane Banning lives in Oregon, Wisconsin with her husband, son, their bossy Jack Russell/Beagle, and a tarantula, Harry. Her work has been published in Brava Magazine, University of Iowa's Daily Palette, and, soon, Six Sentences.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comment: I wish I had the ability to write short, concise, flash fiction. In 300-400 words a story is told. Yes, there are gaps in thought and movement but it adds to the imaginations ability to fill in the holes with your own thought patterns. If a piece was perfect it would require no effort on the reader. Here we move from stage to stage, part to part, similar, yet different. Nice job Jane Banning.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Behind Bars</em></strong> <br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">After Stevie Smith's "Parrot"</span> <br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal</strong></span> <br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></strong> <br />
Plucked from rainforest greenery,<br />
the parrot was handed a fait accompli:<br />
barred from flight, faced with scenery<br />
far from agreeable. In a dank cage, barely one<br />
<br />
by one foot, she withstood incarceration<br />
for years, then snapped<br />
in the throes of raging self-pity,<br />
pecked her downy skin bloody<br />
and beyond molt, clawed an eye out,<br />
<br />
flung it to the dark hearth<br />
in the rental on Central Park South;<br />
then, with a swell of her aching chest,<br />
opened herself to death.<br />
<br />
Bio: See below<br />
<br />
Editorial Comment: Ruth shows the not so lovely treatment of God’s creatures. Unfortunately, this happens all to often in our greed, self-centered world. The beauty of nature is there for us to see, but the darker side, must be pointed out. As human being we Have the good and the evil; through descriptions and narrative here is an attempt to point out the evil for good to those of us who read, then choice to act.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Up in the Willow <br />
</em></strong><span style="font-size: 85%;">by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal </span> <br />
<br />
Up the willow the boy climbed<br />
terrified to come down time<br />
after time to play for a terror<br />
of a conductor (his father),<br />
who's damnable orchestration<br />
drummed home fear of the baton.<br />
<br />
The tree's hospitality of limb<br />
and leaf, a bastion to dream in.<br />
Up there, the first notes of a concerto,<br />
which fiercely emblazoned<br />
the pith of the willow,<br />
were hummed by the boy. The anthem,<br />
as will-o'-the-wisp<br />
as the tree that embraced him,<br />
would become his magnum opus.<br />
<br />
Last night in Carnegie Hall,<br />
perched in the balcony, I witnessed<br />
the fledgling maestro grow famous<br />
overnight--the audience enthralled<br />
with his music, as were the critics.<br />
And through my binoculars I caught<br />
some man rushing off before an onslaught<br />
of admirers rushed to the son that father had lost.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>A Blesséd Work of Art <br />
</em></strong><span style="font-size: 85%;">by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal </span> <br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"> <br />
</span>Oh Willow, gargantuan, your<br />
easy nature and noble stature<br />
a kinetic sculpture fine as any is.<br />
<br />
Your thick trunk and dipping branches<br />
graced with green latticework, pure art<br />
that swells my ever-gratified heart.<br />
<br />
Beneath your umbrella of swaying leaves<br />
I catch rays of sun poking fun at me,<br />
naturally, I laugh, bask in absolute glee.<br />
<br />
Bio: Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a poet residing in NYC. She has been published in various journals. On October 15th (Ruth's birthday) 2006, her poem "on yet another birthday" was nominated for a Pushcart prize. For more about Ruth, visit her website: <a href="http://www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com/">http://www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com/</a>.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comment: Ruth’s merits stand on their own. Here style is different than mine. Her poems are crafted with meticulous care; my poems tend to be loosely, story written with hunks of imagery hammered in. Variations in style expands the writing abilities of us all. Sorry Ruth, for losing your poems the 1st time around. Here is one poem that talks about a willow tree with a very real story behind it; and another that's about a willow tree that reflects its natural beauty.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Tanka and Haiku Poems</em></strong> <br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">by Kristen Howe</span> <br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"> <br />
</span>Seagulls soaring high<br />
in the sky with the white clouds,<br />
gliding down to the lake-<br />
now swimming the waves<br />
to get wet from a hot day.<br />
<br />
a dozen red roses<br />
in a new vase-<br />
apology accepted.<br />
<br />
harvest moon<br />
shines extra bright-<br />
highlights wheat field.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Bio</em></strong>: Kristen Howe, originally from New Jersey, now Ohio. Kristen's poetry has appeared in journals in the U.S. and U.K. for 2005-present: Fullosia Press, The Funny Paper, Pink Chameleon Online, Poetic Hours, Languageandculture.net, Illogical Muse, The Shepherd, Westward Quarterly, Purple Dream, Sage of Consciousness, Down in the Dirt, and others.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong><em>Editorial Comments</em></strong>: Kristen has a real skill at brevity; to capture the moment, to offer a “twist” and a pleasant surprise¾ like all good poets, she see the common place with a slant and a different view of the eye.</span> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R9AAx9Kg8kI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/Bv-qxYZ7ZsQ/s1600-h/Chappell_Hill_Window_(s).jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174636830080954946" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R9AAx9Kg8kI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/Bv-qxYZ7ZsQ/s320/Chappell_Hill_Window_(s).jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a>My Father in the Burning Wood<br />
By Dr. Steve Klepetar<br />
<br />
Trees and brush ablaze, smoke<br />
pouring out between branches<br />
agonized in wind, a furnace roar<br />
<br />
crashing in this empty place.<br />
All night my father rides flames,<br />
green eyes glowing in circus dark.<br />
<br />
I have found him here in consuming<br />
tongue and orange teeth, choking<br />
breath rubbing charred shapes<br />
<br />
hard against sky. When I turn<br />
to read his face, he blurs into fog,<br />
white beard sizzling like a fist<br />
<br />
of snow tossed on fire, less scream<br />
than murmuring gurgle of pain.<br />
He comes to me in dreams, electric<br />
<br />
in a night of sullen sounds, brands his<br />
name on the flesh of my upper arm,<br />
kiss burning like salt or bitter chill of ice.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bio: Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has appeared in many journals and has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web nominations.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Steve tells an outlined story with images. Sometimes we don’t always see images as concrete, we sometimes may even feel they lead us into a sense of fog, of wonder. We stop, we think, we try to connect our visions with the author, it is part of the fun of reading and writing poetry. Are you left with “just” and emotional response? Good, that is the # one criteria for a good poem.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Tattoo Bride<br />
By Jan Marin Tramontano<br />
<br />
It was hard not to look at the tattoos<br />
on the tall muscular woman<br />
a football tight end<br />
now all girlie walking down the aisle<br />
her silk strapless gown<br />
accessories borrowed and blue<br />
showcase a snake across her upper back<br />
a Boston Red Socks logo on her arm<br />
the smallest bit of a heart peaking out<br />
from the top of beaded bodice.<br />
I wanted to see something in those images<br />
I was fascinated by her--<br />
and by him - the waiting groom<br />
his bride covered in art<br />
lumbering down the aisle<br />
watching him watch her<br />
I waited to see The Look<br />
the smile that said<br />
wow, I’m lucky<br />
you are beautiful and I love you<br />
it isn’t just about our son<br />
But he just stood there<br />
as he would waiting in the checkout line.<br />
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of creatures<br />
I don’t recognize or understand<br />
he wears his history as she wears hers<br />
giving them an edge<br />
monsters and heroes etched into their flesh<br />
are skin deep<br />
unlike mine that stay submerged<br />
for just so long .<br />
<br />
<br />
Squid Boats in the Gulf of Siam<br />
By Jan Marin Tramontano<br />
<br />
there is no horizon<br />
squid boats skim dark waters<br />
<br />
without stars or moon to guide them<br />
the blackness is complete<br />
<br />
fishermen shoot rockets<br />
flashes of fire erupt to light their way<br />
<br />
through stagnant air, they ease<br />
their boats by degrees<br />
<br />
with faith<br />
they glide past others on the night sea.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bio:<br />
Jan Marin Tramontano's poems and stories have appeared in: Poets Canvas, Women’s Synergy, Byline, Knock, Chronogram, American Intercultural Magazine, New Verse News, Mom’s Literary Magazine, Ophelia’s Mom, and Surviving Ophelia. She has also written a poetry chapbook, Floating Islands, her father’s memoir, I am a Fortunate Man, and is working on her first novel. She is a contributor to the Times Union’s Book Section.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: This is talented lady. I like the contrast between the 1st poem, so unusual; and, the 2nd poem that takes one to a mystical place leaving you with a misty image of wonder.<br />
<br />
<br />
Beyond Fall<br />
By Tracee Coleman<br />
<br />
in deepest green, the river<br />
for giving finds its way<br />
<br />
yonder winding into salt<br />
of swollen bellies perhaps<br />
<br />
up into clouds of yesterday<br />
<br />
when never means nothing<br />
per chance wind either way<br />
<br />
searching the bending<br />
happening is now, and you<br />
<br />
a rain drop<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She Likes Pretending<br />
By Tracee Coleman<br />
<br />
to be a frog of all things<br />
hopping and croaking<br />
as children will do<br />
<br />
She wobbles on a lily pad<br />
giggling about the river<br />
shaking a tight rope below<br />
<br />
"Mommy?"<br />
<br />
All balanced<br />
her tiny black eyes<br />
grow serious as science<br />
<br />
"Do you think tadpole eggs<br />
open and close over and over<br />
like that shutter in a lens?"<br />
<br />
They look at us that way.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bio: Tracee Coleman is a "hopelessly addicted poetry lover" who<br />
spends much of her free time editing alittlepoetry.com, an online poetry e-zine. Above poetry, she considers the blessing of a beautiful young daughter to be her most precious source of joy and inspiration. Her work appears in various journals internationally in print and online venues such as "Other Voices International", "The Argotist Online", "Ken*Again", and "Great Works".<br />
<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Sometime simplicity is the best poem (s). There are two wonderful examples of simple events in our life that are so meaninful expressed through a modicum of imagery.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Choosing Basic Needs<br />
By Richard Webber<br />
<br />
Trembling in the cold,<br />
old so alone.<br />
Wind bitter from the<br />
harsh winter night<br />
pours through cracks.<br />
Tormenting the figure<br />
huddled beneath a worn<br />
gray blanket, stories<br />
of its own.<br />
Forced to a choice<br />
basic of all needs.<br />
Today food had won,<br />
for the moment,<br />
yet ignored pains<br />
grumbled, a companion<br />
known well.<br />
Pennies, nickels a dime<br />
or two banked in<br />
cookie jars of times<br />
where frugal was need.<br />
Prescriptions stole wrinkled<br />
dollars long since<br />
turned to half moons,<br />
just to afford life.<br />
Drawn tight with<br />
shaking hands the<br />
blanket closed, a<br />
curtain from the cold.<br />
Another night of many,<br />
choosing basic needs.<br />
<br />
Bio: Richard Webber lives in Maine. He works in the construction field. His poetry is an expression as to what he sees.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: I like simple, life events, that roll like this.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Tattoo Bride<br />
By Jan Marin Tramontano<br />
<br />
It was hard not to look at the tattoos<br />
on the tall muscular woman<br />
a football tight end<br />
now all girlie walking down the aisle<br />
her silk strapless gown<br />
accessories borrowed and blue<br />
showcase a snake across her upper back<br />
a Boston Red Socks logo on her arm<br />
the smallest bit of a heart peaking out<br />
from the top of beaded bodice.<br />
I wanted to see something in those images<br />
I was fascinated by her--<br />
and by him - the waiting groom<br />
his bride covered in art<br />
lumbering down the aisle<br />
watching him watch her<br />
I waited to see The Look<br />
the smile that said<br />
wow, I’m lucky<br />
you are beautiful and I love you<br />
it isn’t just about our son<br />
But he just stood there<br />
as he would waiting in the checkout line.<br />
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of creatures<br />
I don’t recognize or understand<br />
he wears his history as she wears hers<br />
giving them an edge<br />
monsters and heroes etched into their flesh<br />
are skin deep<br />
unlike mine that stay submerged<br />
for just so long.<br />
<br />
Bio: Jan Marin Tramontano's poems and stories have appeared in: Poets Canvas, Women’s Synergy, Byline, Knock, Chronogram, American Intercultural Magazine, New Verse News, Mom’s Literary Magazine, Ophelia’s Mom, and Surviving Ophelia. She has also written a poetry chapbook, Floating Islands, her father’s memoir, I am a Fortunate Man, and is working on her first novel. She is a contributor to the Times Union’s Book Section.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comment: I love the contrasting images so colorful and unusual.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
BETWEEN SISTERS<br />
by Elizabeth Kurecka<br />
<br />
<br />
I spotted a nest in the chinaberry tree this morning<br />
as I looked outside my kitchen window and I thought of you.<br />
Look, it must belong to that majestic flamed Cardinal,<br />
I said, pointing to a limb of the nearby elm where he sat<br />
a wing's span from attack, if needed, to protect his young,<br />
forgetting for a moment that you weren't here to see.<br />
<br />
Sadden, I returned to my newspaper and cup of coffee,<br />
remembering another morning long ago, when we sat,<br />
together, in a different kitchen, a different backyard and<br />
watched in awe as two brown wrens took turns feeding outstretched<br />
mouths that squirmed and wiggled like little worms<br />
from the weathered bird house hanging outside my window.<br />
See, we said sighing, a parent's job is never done.<br />
<br />
Then there was that one hot lazy summer afternoon,<br />
that we spent together laughing at a greedy blue jay,<br />
flying low from the weight of a stolen wad of tissues<br />
he carried and the diving squad of wrens chasing him.<br />
We cheered as he dropped his heavy load and<br />
flew away defeated while a dozen or so split up his treasure.<br />
See, we said smiling, greed never pays.<br />
<br />
I heard the cardinal sound the alarm, sharp and shrill.<br />
Danger is near, perhaps an approaching black, slinking panther<br />
and I ran back to the window in time to see the cat's retreat.<br />
The nest is safe and the eggs will soon hatch new life.<br />
I think about getting the camera, taking a picture or two<br />
each day to send to you, but some how it's not the same.<br />
See, I never knew how much I missed you.<br />
<br />
Bio: Elizabeth wrote the following poem in honor of a sister-in-law who she consider her Soul Sister. She has had short fiction published in Concho River Review, Thema, and Broomstick. Her creative nonfiction pieces have been published in Beyond 50, Amarillo Bay and Under The Clock Tower. Her most recent accomplishment is having two pieces accepted for the first Silver Boomers anthology.<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: Elizabeth shows a wonderful blend and constrast between nature, private thoughts of communal relations, and the haunting<br />
realities of loss. Nature brings back the memories and then the<br />
thought associations.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Reading<br />
by Cathy Buburuz<br />
<br />
Undeniable instinct<br />
guides a gnarled hand<br />
to reveal secrets<br />
of the true tarot;<br />
<br />
Soft scents mingle:<br />
blackened candle wax<br />
flesh of ripe fruit<br />
jasmine incense;<br />
<br />
Revealed stark naked:<br />
intense memories<br />
of tragedies long past,<br />
a future damned;<br />
<br />
Grief and torment...<br />
a history painted in pain<br />
the deadly promise<br />
of more of the same.<br />
<br />
Pieces of silver<br />
in an open palm<br />
and tides of torment<br />
to seal the deal.<br />
<br />
<br />
Lahnee Chee’s Orange Orchard on Mars<br />
by Cathy Buburuz<br />
<br />
Lahnee Chee<br />
child of moon and sea<br />
pearl of her father’s eye<br />
gave birth to an orchard<br />
born of precious seeds<br />
from a single Mandarin orange<br />
brought from the homeland afar,<br />
dazzling orange fruit<br />
mottled with blushes of red<br />
nutriment-kissed in scarlet dust groves<br />
that saved and sustained the new nation…<br />
a childhood whim turned to gold.<br />
<br />
When she passed<br />
at one hundred and three<br />
all who mourned her<br />
knew what to do<br />
though she’d left no will,<br />
no specific instructions;<br />
In a pearl laden box<br />
they placed her ashes,<br />
in a scarlet dust orchard<br />
buried deep with love,<br />
beneath dazzling orange fruit<br />
mottled with blushes of red.<br />
<br />
(First published in the July 2007 issue of The Martian Wave)<br />
<br />
Bio: Cathy Buburuz lives on the Saskatchewan prairie where she edits Champagne Shivers, Expressions, and the Potter's Field anthologies for Sam's Dot publishing in Iowa. She invites you to visit one of the many online stores that sell her fantasty art on products, especially since it's free to window shop:<br />
http://www.ellenmilliongraphics.com/fantasyart/emgproduct.php?id=131<br />
http://www.cafepress.com/cp/store.aspx?s=cathybuburuz<br />
http://catherine_buburuz.tripod.com/cathybuburuzschampagneonice/id9.html<br />
<br />
<br />
Editorial Comments: This is one extra ordinary lady. Not just a soft pedal from a Canadian prairie province. She is special, very special! The Reading-I love the private meeting of the spirit with the devil, the blend of cards, the black candles, the scents surrounding the room, the use of the word "gnarled" symbolizing the event, the beginning, the promise of the end in a pack of 72 cards.<br />
<br />
In Lahnee-I love the mysticism, the journey from a Asian land to an orchard, the giving and the taking away of life, the remains, the love of the spirit<br />
reflected in the burial. The "blush" of colors reflecting a memory lasting forever in it's own time.<br />
<br />
This is truly a wonderful poet, who thinks her poetry is secondary. Let's challenge that notion.<br />
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Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-14093640099925773132007-11-03T19:29:00.001-07:002007-12-07T07:38:54.801-08:00<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyZAktpi8DI/AAAAAAAAACQ/O2JCsY8anIg/s1600-h/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyZAktpi8DI/AAAAAAAAACQ/O2JCsY8anIg/s320/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126856225281208370" /></a><br /><br /><br />Late Night Motel<br />Andrew Crane <br /><br />Thirty dollars a night<br />no air conditioning <br />I lay half naked on the bed--<br />single bed in the middle under<br />the single hanging light bulb,<br />towels underneath me,<br />I dare not to touch the covers. <br />I scatter my clothes on the floor,<br />they’re dirty anyway<br />I remind myself, shake them free<br />of whatever is crawling through them<br />turn the light off, so I don’t have to see<br />walls painted grey<br />paint flaking here, there,<br />collecting on the bare floorboards<br />where my clothes collect dust mites<br />I can start to feel them crawl<br />possibly, underneath my skin.<br />I scratch and scratch with out relief<br />what is happening to me? <br />My skin is pink and raw <br />pain, the only relief from the itching.<br /><br />I can hear the sounds through the walls<br />snoring, coughing, crying.<br />the low murmurs of people making love,<br />or are they just fucking their way into happiness,<br />with a stranger that they met,<br />on the street corner,<br />across from the motel,<br />Road House singing outside,<br />a fight in the parking lot.<br />An airplane soaring overhead,<br />landing in the nearby airport,<br />passengers oblivious of the degenerate nature of this city.<br />You are sleeping on top of the covers?<br />But I can't sleep.<br />The cockroaches are scratching down the walls,<br />pulling down the remainder of the paint.<br />It falls to the floor as they scatter.<br />The sun is finally starting to come up. <br /><br />Bio: Andrew Craner resides in the small village of Greyabbey, Northern Ireland; he is originally fron Ontario, Canada, but moved to Ireland 11 years ago to be with partner Julie. He has been recently been published in 'A Hudson View Poetry Digest' and 'SpingingS... intense tales of life.' and in the up coming Christmas edition of 'Delivered'. He is also member of the writing group 'Ards Writers'. He has a number of poems and short stories posted on http://Writing.Com/authors/cranemillican.<br /><br /><br />Editorial Comments: Here is a real to life poem that<br />takes us to many places in our young lives some of which<br />we wished we could have avoided-but this poem adds craft<br />to the unsettling surrounds.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Crab Apples<br />By Amber Rothrock<br /><br />Ankles twist, <br />tripping over <br />fallen crab apples <br />rotting in the heat, <br />infested with flies. <br />The apples that is. <br /><br />Sitting on the bench <br />mourning <br />the lack of broken bones. <br />No reason <br />to stay home from school. <br /><br />Mother’s only advice <br />is to pick up your feet. <br />But it would be <br />more feasible <br />to cut down the damn tree. <br />Nobody <br />eats crab apples anyway.<br /><br />Bio: Amber Rothrock is a talented lady and editor of <br />Illogical Muse: http://www.geocities.com/illogicalmuse/<br />soon to go to print as well as online.<br /><br />Editorial Comment: I love poems like this one, you can feel your toes<br />squeeze between the crap apples. The scent, the aggravation, the fall ritual,<br />the loveliness of southwestern Michigan. The poem is just real.<br /><br /><br />Merton<br />By Shirley Dunn Perry <br /><br /> Merton rarely speaks<br /> except with his fingers<br /> on the guitar, accordion<br /> and church organ on Sunday mornings.<br /><br /> Merton doesn't chat<br /> about weather, politics, or poems<br /> because his words are marbled<br /> a mumble of muffled sounds.<br /><br /> He was born with his top lip and palate cracked open by God or bad luck<br /> only his family could understand him some of the time.<br /><br /> Merton, stooped by wordlessness<br /> soul drawn tight into concentric circles like tree rings<br /> harnesses Bess, the old mare<br /> and heads down the logging road.<br /><br /> It's spring<br /> wild cherry blossoms<br /> white in flight fall on the road<br /> a cloud of mosquitoes<br /> buzzing and biting<br /> each bite reminding him<br /> that he belongs on the farm<br /> the one to stay<br /> tending parents, gardens, and animals.<br /><br /> Merton stops to listen<br /> to the White-throated Sparrow--<br /> sun warm on his shoulders<br /> one hand on the reins<br /> the other in his pocket<br /> fingering a newspaper clipping<br /> with the name and address<br /> of an oral surgeon in Halifax.<br /><br />First published in Oregon East, Volume XXXVII, 2006<br /><br />Bio: Shirley Dunn Perry has had a few poems published and<br />presently lives in Tucson Arizona. When she is not writing<br />she is a nurse. <br /><br />Editorial Comment: I love poems like this, my only regret<br />is I didn't write it. They follow a pattern similar to my own writings<br />with a story, rich in with imagery that touches the heart and imagination.<br />I look foward to more poem by Shirley in the near future.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-70760832423676428512007-11-03T18:47:00.000-07:002008-03-06T06:56:00.829-08:00Poems by: Taylor Graham<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R9AFI9Kg8mI/AAAAAAAAAHg/lxB2BrEzlxU/s1600-h/FaceInApples.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174641623264457314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R9AFI9Kg8mI/AAAAAAAAAHg/lxB2BrEzlxU/s320/FaceInApples.jpg" border="0" /></a> LATE INTO THE NIGHT<br /><br />[ for Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith]<br /><br />It’s past my bedtime. I turned the lamp out<br />an hour ago. Outside, not even the call<br />of the owl. Still, you keep turning in my mind,<br />you won’t let me sleep.<br /><br />I think of you, head bent to your lantern-light<br />of languages, sailing the ship of geography<br />under so many stars. Application<br />or Genius, Elihu? What bird or angel-muse<br /><br />sang in your ear so late into the night?<br />Sleepless, I need to make you<br />a poem. You keep whisper-prodding<br />in my ear to try just a little harder.<br /><br /><br />UP HERE IN THE MOUNTAINS<br /><br />Late summer. An oak leaf falls<br />still green as a shamrock.<br />No, it’s pocked and splotched<br />with shades of mold or rot,<br />melanoma, leprosy. Ozone<br />does that, they say, scientists<br />who know the secret ills<br />of trees, how man’s errors<br />write their wrongs on leaves.<br />No luck of the shamrock<br />in this green.<br /><br /><br />Bio: I’m a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler. My poems have appeared in<br />The Iowa Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, Southern<br />Humanities Review, and elsewhere, and I’m included in the anthology,<br />California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara<br />University, 2004).<br /><br />Editorial Comment: I have to spend alot of time pissing around in a dictionary and<br />thesaurus to understand your poetry try to be as good with simpler<br />language. I don't like to work. I'm just a dummy here.<br />Congrats-to a very talented poet.<br /><br /><br />BECAUSE I WAS OBSTINATE LAST FRIDAY<br />By Ashok Niyogi<br /><br />they’re not for me<br />these girls with fashionable breasts<br />already under strain<br />of school going children<br /><br />not mine<br />those toes<br />with painted nails<br />hopefully slipping<br />from heeled sandals<br />onto asphalt road<br /><br />where pebbles meander<br />under police stare<br />monitored by media glare<br /><br />engineering<br />is what meditation whispers<br />into shirt shoulders<br />that the tailor has narrowed<br /><br />assuming a certain<br />individuality<br /><br />a refreshing<br />intellectual unnerving<br />with the unfolding<br />of a ladybird’s<br />most colorful wing<br />in an optimistic winter sun<br /><br />Bio: Ashok Niyogi is an Economics graduate from PresidencyCollege, Calcutta, India.<br />He now lives in California. He has published a book of poems, TENTATIVELY, [ISBN :0-595-33935-2] and has been extensively published inprint and on-line magazines and in Chapbook form inthe USA, UK, Australia, India and Canada.<br /><br />Editorial Comment: I enjoy diversity of culture and the way it interacts with poetry.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-5696760958011988382007-10-29T13:16:00.000-07:002015-07-04T04:55:51.678-07:00Outside My Window Natural Therapy is My HealerAttention: Publishers and Editors, and all others. If you need apparel (tee shirts, caps, jackets, uniforms, sweat shirts, etc) custom imprinted with you sites logo or name be sure to visit Michael Lee Johnson business website(s):<br />
http://www.promoman.us/<br />
http://www.promowear.us/<br />
<br />
We also so a full line of advertising specialties ie mugs, cups, calendars with your site or company logo on them. Anything that needs to be custom imprinted on an item is what we do. Special rates for publishers and authors.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-23238237921468886022007-10-29T13:03:00.000-07:002007-10-30T00:07:19.262-07:00<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyY9SNpi8CI/AAAAAAAAACI/ShqxVuvm4F0/s1600-h/3DovesOnAWire.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyY9SNpi8CI/AAAAAAAAACI/ShqxVuvm4F0/s320/3DovesOnAWire.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126852608918745122" /></a><br /><br />Willow Tree Poem<br />By Michael Lee Johnson<br />Editor and Author<br /><br />Wind dancers<br />dancing to the <br />willow wind,<br />leaves swaying<br />right to left<br />all day long.<br />I’m depressed.<br />Birds hanging on-<br />bleaching feathers<br />out into<br />the sun.<br /><br />-2006-<br /><br /><br /><em><strong>On Time</strong></em> by Phillip A. Ellis<br /><br />No yachts, here, passing,<br />a hundred, more or less,<br />or like a golden undertow,<br />the suckle of the ocean wave<br /><br />that simmers back against the beach<br />within a form of foaming web<br />of white. No, time is like the passing grey-<br />tinged green of eucalypts, their grey bark<br /><br />delicate pastel shades. The hill<br />is sloping southwards and down, an ah<br />of finely packed trees, passing eastwards<br />as I pass to the west.<br /><br />This is no westwards travel, to another<br />California, awaiting us with<br />a form of gold rush optimism. No,<br />this is a west of night, and the gone.<br /><br />Editorial Comments: This is by far my favorite poem I have seen to date. It touches me deeply and I'm honored to be the first to publish this poem. Not only do we have a craftsman skill we have the imagery of an angel. I love the way Phillip ties his craft, his images to his homeland, Australia, the native eucalypts. The movement in the poem could be seen as abrupt, I think it fantastic as waves in an ocean current, sea hoped and linked well to us all. It is my honor to show you the merits of this author. Michael Lee Johnson.<br /><br /><br />THREE BIRDS<br />by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal<br /> <br />Three birds<br />on the wire.<br /> <br />The sun<br />explodes<br />in the distance<br /><br /><br />BIRDS SING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW <br />by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal<br /><br />Resting <br />a bad back, <br />birds sing <br />outside my <br />window. <br />Just one <br />sudden move <br />and I <br />scream in pain <br />drowning <br />out the songs <br />of the <br />birds. It takes <br />some time <br />for the <br />pain to stop. <br />I stay <br />in my bed <br />hoping <br />to hear the <br />birds sing <br />me to sleep <br />and dream.<br /><br />Author Bio: Luis is from West Covina, CA. "I often marvel at birds, their song, how they dart from the pepper tree in out backyard to other destinations. I like the name of the blog. My poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review,Chrysanthemum, and Iodine."<br /><br />Editor Comments: The poems are simple,but lovely and fit the spirit and theme of this site. Luis, can I related to the back spasms, one move wrong and terrible pain-comes and goes.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-23701361754555611422007-10-27T21:21:00.000-07:002007-10-27T21:29:57.061-07:00View from my Study by Louie Crew"Go away, ugly birds,<br />so some pretty birds will come!"<br />my lover rattles at the sparrows<br />feeding outside our window.<br /><br />The pretty birds have all flown south.<br />Only we plainer sorts will survive this winter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Bio: <br />Louie Crew, 70, is the author of 1,845 published poems, essays and other<br />works. He is an emeritus English professor at Rutgers: The State<br />University of New Jersey. He and Ernest Clay, his husband of 33 years, live<br />in East Orange, NJ. I would like to also mentions, this gentleman plus Ernest Clay have assisted would be poets by supplying a website devoted to a list of publishers accepting email submissions, their contribution to small press is beyond words: http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~lcrew/pbonline.html<br /><br />This wonderful little poem has appeared in Amelia 3.2 (1986): 90.<br />Expressive Spirals May 1998: 15<br />Midnight Lessons. Samisdat Press, Richford, VT, 1987. Page 12Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-60217508064182019242007-10-25T15:17:00.000-07:002007-11-21T07:42:53.210-08:00AuthorBio<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R0RRI-8CqfI/AAAAAAAAACo/xpKX9wuP4Uc/s1600-h/JOHNTREE1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/R0RRI-8CqfI/AAAAAAAAACo/xpKX9wuP4Uc/s320/JOHNTREE1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135318689884842482" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyEWXPdGxgI/AAAAAAAAABc/d7zwSxdvFjA/s1600-h/2464327600045983124PTZDcT_ph.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyEWXPdGxgI/AAAAAAAAABc/d7zwSxdvFjA/s320/2464327600045983124PTZDcT_ph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125402439465747970" /></a>Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-85272016516032651932007-10-25T15:14:00.000-07:002007-11-16T10:49:09.581-08:00Need Custom Imprinted Tee Shirts-LOOK HERE!Attention: Publishers and Editors, and all others. If you need apparel (tee shirts, caps, jackets, uniforms, sweat shirts, etc) custom imprinted with you sites logo or name be sure to visit Michael Lee Johnson business website(s): <br />http://www.promoman.us/<br />http://www.promowear.us/<br /><br />We also so a full line of advertising specialties i.e. mugs, cups, calendars with your site or company logo on them. Anything that needs to be custom imprinted on an item is what we do. Special rates for publishers and authors.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6609277570077731380.post-56756929171201427022007-10-25T14:53:00.000-07:002007-11-16T10:47:00.571-08:00<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyERBPdGxeI/AAAAAAAAABE/ZBfliem0kRE/s1600-h/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_z77P0h_sEWk/RyERBPdGxeI/AAAAAAAAABE/ZBfliem0kRE/s320/2283983580075568609VLQXYW_ph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125396563950487010" /></a><br /><br />Attention: Publishers and Editors, and all others. If you need apparel (tee shirts, caps, jackets, uniforms, sweat shirts, etc) custom imprinted with you sites logo or name be sure to visit Michael Lee Johnson business website(s): <br />http://www.promoman.us/<br />http://www.promowear.us/<br /><br />We also so a full line of advertising specialties i.e. mugs, cups, calendars with your site or company logo on them. Anything that needs to be custom imprinted on an item is what we do. Special rates for publishers and authors.Michael Lee Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544654280381592964noreply@blogger.com