Saturday, July 31, 2010


Locations of visitors to this page

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:
Purchase Poetry Books by Michael Lee Johnson At:

"Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", is now available on, Amazon Kindle, available in Europe.  Buy now just $13.95/Kindle $2.99. Chief Editor/Publisher/Poet, Michael Lee Johnson, Coeditor Ken Allan Dronsfield.
*Scroll down see Favorable Customer Reviews
iUniverse-Purchase Book by Michael Lee Johnson Here:
Purchase Poetry Books by Michael Lee Johnson At:

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems

Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems

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.

Send all submissions to

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.

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.

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):

Author website:



Michael Lee Johnson, Author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom
PO Box 486, Itasca, IL 60143

Photo supplied By Carol A. Marcus, Photographer

I call this photo: Poem in a Window. It writes a poem with picture.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Up in the Willow & Small Poems Below

Moonlight And Aether...
By: Daniel A. Stafford

Daniel A. Stafford
As we preside over the fading of the analog world,
Watch the magic of waveforms drift into the unknown of forgotten dreams,
Dumped in the rush of binary trinkets blinking bright,
I feel the wonder and magic ebb and flow out to history's sea.

Can it be that the great magicians names are just pale dust in the silvery Moonlight,
That the ghosts of Tesla and Marconi and Edison and Faraday and Ampere are forgotten?

These spooky physics that Einstein had nightmares of claim me in subtle visions,
For I feel that in the noise at the bottom of some old radio,
Lost in the dim glow of an ancient tube,
The Quantum world is hiding the voices of the spirits,
The magic of the Aether was never just in its innumerable points,
Only struggling to break free in the eerie glow of infinite potential.

When electricity was new and anything was possible,
Could we have missed the hidden world?

That place where everything and the knowledge of everything is,
Conserved by a universe that wastes nothing ever?

What voices hid in the snow of a television tube with no signal,
In the static of a glowing old tube radio that didn't so much lock a channel by the bits,
But smoothly ran through the analog wave of every possible frequency?

I fear that we've said goodbye to analog far too easily,
In our rush to give up entirely on magic and flashes of genius.

Author Bio:  Dan has a background in Aircraft Electronics, Telecommunications, and Computers.  He also happens to write poetry.  He is fascinated with electricity and electrical gadgets since childhood.  He feels the rush to digital has stunted growth of analog technology.  Dan feels there is a whole other paradigm of technological development that would complement digital technology in many ways.  This poem is his way of expressing his views in free verse.  You can also find Dan as a member of Contemporary Poets:

By Theresa A. Cancro

Below crowded tree roots
straining along a stream's bank
I turn over loose river rocks.

Their cool smoothness
links the ages: molten core,
to deer hooves, to minnows' swish

to end at my fingernail
as it snags against
igneous pockmarks.

I wonder about the long pattern
they form under clear water:
was it once a buffalo trail,

or the path to a family's dwelling,
or simply the dice of mother earth
strewn with each glacial slide?

In my hand now, ripples are silent.


At The Shore
By Theresa A. Cancro

I knock at old sand castles
slumped and forlorn.
The wind in their ear,
they long to sense
liquid footprints outside
in, driftwood stirred
and pressing at their doors

ajar in the midday sun.

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.

A Ritual of Hunger & Thirst
By Frank Watson

The garden is flooded−
all the whores have gathered
to expose the roots
of hunger and thirst.

I cry in the pleasurable hearse
of wine, drinking the filthy dust
of leftover souvenirs
in a city filled with pain.

I search for the midnight train
of stars that will lead me from this
suffering land, a place of lust,
life encased by withered hands.


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 Fragments: poetry, ancient & modern (editor), One Hundred Leaves: a new, annotated translation of the Hyakunin Isshu (editor and translator), and The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry (editor). His work has also appeared in Rosebud and Bora literary magazines. Frank shares his work on his poetry blog ( and his Twitter account (@FollowBlueFlute).

In The Wings
Joanna M. Weston

my shadow lies
long on the beach
and waves one hand
to someone out of sight

it bends like dune grass
away from the wind
bows to the tide
that creeps closer
to swallow my shadow
and leave me
quite alone

All the Ways
Joanna M. Weston

to love you
is to taste chocolate on spoons
unravel an orange
and discover raspberries
to love you
is to take a solo
and sing it while driving
it’s to skate a canal
with a mist of strangers
and throw kisses to them all
loving you
is waking to moonlight
washed in champagne
is digging weeds through the summer
under a river of carnival lights
loving you
is New Year and swallows
in a whirlwind of roses

Summer Dusk
Joanna M. Weston

painted with trees
it fades into crow calls
the shush of a breeze
a mother calling
her truant child

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.

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.

Beneath the Pier
Karen Kelsay

Beneath the pier, waves swirl in a color
of daiquiri ice cream, a flavor I loved as a child;
gritty hands, still shivering after a swim, wrap
around a brittle cone.
Gulls huddle on the mound, wind whips against
tucked wings, while whimbrels poke their needle
beaks into seaweed. We interlace fingers
and walk the promenade. Young boys
beat plastic tubs and others sing. The afternoon
reminds you of England’s overcast. We come here often,
shuffling in the same direction—toward
the shell shop, Tony's bar and pearl store, pausing to watch
fishermen and their families. At the pier's end,
we pluck afterthoughts from a graying sky, perch
on the blue bench and listen to a buoy song.
In the distance we imagine to find the tip
of Catalina, and wish we could fly.

Bio: Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who grew
up near the Pacific and spent most of her childhood
weekends on a boat. She has three children, two cats
and enjoys traveling. Her poems have been widely
published over the past few years.She is the
author of Collected Poems and two chapbooks,
Forever in Avalon and A Fist of Roots,
published by Puddinghouse Press.

Editorial Comments: Lovely use of words, images and story telling.

End of the Week
Janet Yung

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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”.

Cracked Open
By Jane Banning

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

They all come to her funeral. Each one gives me an unpretentious sympathy card. I break completely open and they all come inside.

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.

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.

Behind Bars
After Stevie Smith's "Parrot"
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Plucked from rainforest greenery,
the parrot was handed a fait accompli:
barred from flight, faced with scenery
far from agreeable. In a dank cage, barely one

by one foot, she withstood incarceration
for years, then snapped
in the throes of raging self-pity,
pecked her downy skin bloody
and beyond molt, clawed an eye out,

flung it to the dark hearth
in the rental on Central Park South;
then, with a swell of her aching chest,
opened herself to death.

Bio: See below

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.

Up in the Willow
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Up the willow the boy climbed
terrified to come down time
after time to play for a terror
of a conductor (his father),
who's damnable orchestration
drummed home fear of the baton.

The tree's hospitality of limb
and leaf, a bastion to dream in.
Up there, the first notes of a concerto,
which fiercely emblazoned
the pith of the willow,
were hummed by the boy. The anthem,
as will-o'-the-wisp
as the tree that embraced him,
would become his magnum opus.

Last night in Carnegie Hall,
perched in the balcony, I witnessed
the fledgling maestro grow famous
overnight--the audience enthralled
with his music, as were the critics.
And through my binoculars I caught
some man rushing off before an onslaught
of admirers rushed to the son that father had lost.

A Bless├ęd Work of Art
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

Oh Willow, gargantuan, your
easy nature and noble stature
a kinetic sculpture fine as any is.

Your thick trunk and dipping branches
graced with green latticework, pure art
that swells my ever-gratified heart.

Beneath your umbrella of swaying leaves
I catch rays of sun poking fun at me,
naturally, I laugh, bask in absolute glee.

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:

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.

Tanka and Haiku Poems
by Kristen Howe

Seagulls soaring high
in the sky with the white clouds,
gliding down to the lake-
now swimming the waves
to get wet from a hot day.

a dozen red roses
in a new vase-
apology accepted.

harvest moon
shines extra bright-
highlights wheat field.

Bio: 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,, Illogical Muse, The Shepherd, Westward Quarterly, Purple Dream, Sage of Consciousness, Down in the Dirt, and others.

Editorial Comments: 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.

My Father in the Burning Wood
By Dr. Steve Klepetar

Trees and brush ablaze, smoke
pouring out between branches
agonized in wind, a furnace roar

crashing in this empty place.
All night my father rides flames,
green eyes glowing in circus dark.

I have found him here in consuming
tongue and orange teeth, choking
breath rubbing charred shapes

hard against sky. When I turn
to read his face, he blurs into fog,
white beard sizzling like a fist

of snow tossed on fire, less scream
than murmuring gurgle of pain.
He comes to me in dreams, electric

in a night of sullen sounds, brands his
name on the flesh of my upper arm,
kiss burning like salt or bitter chill of ice.

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.

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.

The Tattoo Bride
By Jan Marin Tramontano

It was hard not to look at the tattoos
on the tall muscular woman
a football tight end
now all girlie walking down the aisle
her silk strapless gown
accessories borrowed and blue
showcase a snake across her upper back
a Boston Red Socks logo on her arm
the smallest bit of a heart peaking out
from the top of beaded bodice.
I wanted to see something in those images
I was fascinated by her--
and by him - the waiting groom
his bride covered in art
lumbering down the aisle
watching him watch her
I waited to see The Look
the smile that said
wow, I’m lucky
you are beautiful and I love you
it isn’t just about our son
But he just stood there
as he would waiting in the checkout line.
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of creatures
I don’t recognize or understand
he wears his history as she wears hers
giving them an edge
monsters and heroes etched into their flesh
are skin deep
unlike mine that stay submerged
for just so long .

Squid Boats in the Gulf of Siam
By Jan Marin Tramontano

there is no horizon
squid boats skim dark waters

without stars or moon to guide them
the blackness is complete

fishermen shoot rockets
flashes of fire erupt to light their way

through stagnant air, they ease
their boats by degrees

with faith
they glide past others on the night sea.

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.

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.

Beyond Fall
By Tracee Coleman

in deepest green, the river
for giving finds its way

yonder winding into salt
of swollen bellies perhaps

up into clouds of yesterday

when never means nothing
per chance wind either way

searching the bending
happening is now, and you

a rain drop

She Likes Pretending
By Tracee Coleman

to be a frog of all things
hopping and croaking
as children will do

She wobbles on a lily pad
giggling about the river
shaking a tight rope below


All balanced
her tiny black eyes
grow serious as science

"Do you think tadpole eggs
open and close over and over
like that shutter in a lens?"

They look at us that way.

Bio: Tracee Coleman is a "hopelessly addicted poetry lover" who
spends much of her free time editing, 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".

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.

Choosing Basic Needs
By Richard Webber

Trembling in the cold,
old so alone.
Wind bitter from the
harsh winter night
pours through cracks.
Tormenting the figure
huddled beneath a worn
gray blanket, stories
of its own.
Forced to a choice
basic of all needs.
Today food had won,
for the moment,
yet ignored pains
grumbled, a companion
known well.
Pennies, nickels a dime
or two banked in
cookie jars of times
where frugal was need.
Prescriptions stole wrinkled
dollars long since
turned to half moons,
just to afford life.
Drawn tight with
shaking hands the
blanket closed, a
curtain from the cold.
Another night of many,
choosing basic needs.

Bio: Richard Webber lives in Maine. He works in the construction field. His poetry is an expression as to what he sees.

Editorial Comments: I like simple, life events, that roll like this.

The Tattoo Bride
By Jan Marin Tramontano

It was hard not to look at the tattoos
on the tall muscular woman
a football tight end
now all girlie walking down the aisle
her silk strapless gown
accessories borrowed and blue
showcase a snake across her upper back
a Boston Red Socks logo on her arm
the smallest bit of a heart peaking out
from the top of beaded bodice.
I wanted to see something in those images
I was fascinated by her--
and by him - the waiting groom
his bride covered in art
lumbering down the aisle
watching him watch her
I waited to see The Look
the smile that said
wow, I’m lucky
you are beautiful and I love you
it isn’t just about our son
But he just stood there
as he would waiting in the checkout line.
beneath his tuxedo, he too is a canvas of creatures
I don’t recognize or understand
he wears his history as she wears hers
giving them an edge
monsters and heroes etched into their flesh
are skin deep
unlike mine that stay submerged
for just so long.

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.

Editorial Comment: I love the contrasting images so colorful and unusual.

by Elizabeth Kurecka

I spotted a nest in the chinaberry tree this morning
as I looked outside my kitchen window and I thought of you.
Look, it must belong to that majestic flamed Cardinal,
I said, pointing to a limb of the nearby elm where he sat
a wing's span from attack, if needed, to protect his young,
forgetting for a moment that you weren't here to see.

Sadden, I returned to my newspaper and cup of coffee,
remembering another morning long ago, when we sat,
together, in a different kitchen, a different backyard and
watched in awe as two brown wrens took turns feeding outstretched
mouths that squirmed and wiggled like little worms
from the weathered bird house hanging outside my window.
See, we said sighing, a parent's job is never done.

Then there was that one hot lazy summer afternoon,
that we spent together laughing at a greedy blue jay,
flying low from the weight of a stolen wad of tissues
he carried and the diving squad of wrens chasing him.
We cheered as he dropped his heavy load and
flew away defeated while a dozen or so split up his treasure.
See, we said smiling, greed never pays.

I heard the cardinal sound the alarm, sharp and shrill.
Danger is near, perhaps an approaching black, slinking panther
and I ran back to the window in time to see the cat's retreat.
The nest is safe and the eggs will soon hatch new life.
I think about getting the camera, taking a picture or two
each day to send to you, but some how it's not the same.
See, I never knew how much I missed you.

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.

Editorial Comments: Elizabeth shows a wonderful blend and constrast between nature, private thoughts of communal relations, and the haunting
realities of loss. Nature brings back the memories and then the
thought associations.

The Reading
by Cathy Buburuz

Undeniable instinct
guides a gnarled hand
to reveal secrets
of the true tarot;

Soft scents mingle:
blackened candle wax
flesh of ripe fruit
jasmine incense;

Revealed stark naked:
intense memories
of tragedies long past,
a future damned;

Grief and torment...
a history painted in pain
the deadly promise
of more of the same.

Pieces of silver
in an open palm
and tides of torment
to seal the deal.

Lahnee Chee’s Orange Orchard on Mars
by Cathy Buburuz

Lahnee Chee
child of moon and sea
pearl of her father’s eye
gave birth to an orchard
born of precious seeds
from a single Mandarin orange
brought from the homeland afar,
dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red
nutriment-kissed in scarlet dust groves
that saved and sustained the new nation…
a childhood whim turned to gold.

When she passed
at one hundred and three
all who mourned her
knew what to do
though she’d left no will,
no specific instructions;
In a pearl laden box
they placed her ashes,
in a scarlet dust orchard
buried deep with love,
beneath dazzling orange fruit
mottled with blushes of red.

(First published in the July 2007 issue of The Martian Wave)

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:

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.

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
reflected in the burial. The "blush" of colors reflecting a memory lasting forever in it's own time.

This is truly a wonderful poet, who thinks her poetry is secondary. Let's challenge that notion.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Late Night Motel
Andrew Crane

Thirty dollars a night
no air conditioning
I lay half naked on the bed--
single bed in the middle under
the single hanging light bulb,
towels underneath me,
I dare not to touch the covers.
I scatter my clothes on the floor,
they’re dirty anyway
I remind myself, shake them free
of whatever is crawling through them
turn the light off, so I don’t have to see
walls painted grey
paint flaking here, there,
collecting on the bare floorboards
where my clothes collect dust mites
I can start to feel them crawl
possibly, underneath my skin.
I scratch and scratch with out relief
what is happening to me?
My skin is pink and raw
pain, the only relief from the itching.

I can hear the sounds through the walls
snoring, coughing, crying.
the low murmurs of people making love,
or are they just fucking their way into happiness,
with a stranger that they met,
on the street corner,
across from the motel,
Road House singing outside,
a fight in the parking lot.
An airplane soaring overhead,
landing in the nearby airport,
passengers oblivious of the degenerate nature of this city.
You are sleeping on top of the covers?
But I can't sleep.
The cockroaches are scratching down the walls,
pulling down the remainder of the paint.
It falls to the floor as they scatter.
The sun is finally starting to come up.

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.

Editorial Comments: Here is a real to life poem that
takes us to many places in our young lives some of which
we wished we could have avoided-but this poem adds craft
to the unsettling surrounds.

Crab Apples
By Amber Rothrock

Ankles twist,
tripping over
fallen crab apples
rotting in the heat,
infested with flies.
The apples that is.

Sitting on the bench
the lack of broken bones.
No reason
to stay home from school.

Mother’s only advice
is to pick up your feet.
But it would be
more feasible
to cut down the damn tree.
eats crab apples anyway.

Bio: Amber Rothrock is a talented lady and editor of
Illogical Muse:
soon to go to print as well as online.

Editorial Comment: I love poems like this one, you can feel your toes
squeeze between the crap apples. The scent, the aggravation, the fall ritual,
the loveliness of southwestern Michigan. The poem is just real.

By Shirley Dunn Perry

Merton rarely speaks
except with his fingers
on the guitar, accordion
and church organ on Sunday mornings.

Merton doesn't chat
about weather, politics, or poems
because his words are marbled
a mumble of muffled sounds.

He was born with his top lip and palate cracked open by God or bad luck
only his family could understand him some of the time.

Merton, stooped by wordlessness
soul drawn tight into concentric circles like tree rings
harnesses Bess, the old mare
and heads down the logging road.

It's spring
wild cherry blossoms
white in flight fall on the road
a cloud of mosquitoes
buzzing and biting
each bite reminding him
that he belongs on the farm
the one to stay
tending parents, gardens, and animals.

Merton stops to listen
to the White-throated Sparrow--
sun warm on his shoulders
one hand on the reins
the other in his pocket
fingering a newspaper clipping
with the name and address
of an oral surgeon in Halifax.

First published in Oregon East, Volume XXXVII, 2006

Bio: Shirley Dunn Perry has had a few poems published and
presently lives in Tucson Arizona. When she is not writing
she is a nurse.

Editorial Comment: I love poems like this, my only regret
is I didn't write it. They follow a pattern similar to my own writings
with a story, rich in with imagery that touches the heart and imagination.
I look foward to more poem by Shirley in the near future.

Poems by: Taylor Graham


[ for Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith]

It’s past my bedtime. I turned the lamp out
an hour ago. Outside, not even the call
of the owl. Still, you keep turning in my mind,
you won’t let me sleep.

I think of you, head bent to your lantern-light
of languages, sailing the ship of geography
under so many stars. Application
or Genius, Elihu? What bird or angel-muse

sang in your ear so late into the night?
Sleepless, I need to make you
a poem. You keep whisper-prodding
in my ear to try just a little harder.


Late summer. An oak leaf falls
still green as a shamrock.
No, it’s pocked and splotched
with shades of mold or rot,
melanoma, leprosy. Ozone
does that, they say, scientists
who know the secret ills
of trees, how man’s errors
write their wrongs on leaves.
No luck of the shamrock
in this green.

Bio: I’m a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler. My poems have appeared in
The Iowa Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, Southern
Humanities Review, and elsewhere, and I’m included in the anthology,
California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara
University, 2004).

Editorial Comment: I have to spend alot of time pissing around in a dictionary and
thesaurus to understand your poetry try to be as good with simpler
language. I don't like to work. I'm just a dummy here.
Congrats-to a very talented poet.

By Ashok Niyogi

they’re not for me
these girls with fashionable breasts
already under strain
of school going children

not mine
those toes
with painted nails
hopefully slipping
from heeled sandals
onto asphalt road

where pebbles meander
under police stare
monitored by media glare

is what meditation whispers
into shirt shoulders
that the tailor has narrowed

assuming a certain

a refreshing
intellectual unnerving
with the unfolding
of a ladybird’s
most colorful wing
in an optimistic winter sun

Bio: Ashok Niyogi is an Economics graduate from PresidencyCollege, Calcutta, India.
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.

Editorial Comment: I enjoy diversity of culture and the way it interacts with poetry.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Outside My Window Natural Therapy is My Healer

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