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WARD KELLEY Ward Kelley has seen more than 1100 of his poems appear in journals world wide. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelley's publication credits include such journals as: ACM Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Zuzu's Petals, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Spillway, Pif, 2River View, Melic Review, Poetry Life & Times, Thunder Sandwich, The Animist, Offcourse, Potpourri and Skylark. Recently he was the recipient of the Nassau Review Poetry Award for 2001. Kelley is the author of two paperbacks: "histories of souls," a poetry collection, and "Divine Murder," a novel; he also has an epic poem, "comedy incarnate" on CD and CD ROM. Quote from Ward: "As for me, I'm a 51 year old business executive with 3,600 people in the division reporting to me. I only mention this because in a sense the daimon that propels my occupation also propels my poetry. For instance, Gertrude Stein once said, "If Mr. Robert Frost is at all good as a poet, it is because he is a farmer -- really in his mind a farmer, I mean." So in my mind am I a businessman who writes poetry, or a very minor poet successful at business? Who knows? Yet I tread carefully with this balance for fear my daimon will leave me, or my greed will taunt me for decades. Formerly I managed distribution centers in Pennsylvania, Ohio, California, Arizona and Illinois. My wife and I now live outside of Indianapolis and are currently toiling with much determination on our second crop of children, having adopted four wonderful girls and fostered several others." Of the 1162 published pieces, some have found their way into: POETRY COLLECTIONS & NOVEL "comedy incarnate" on CD ROM by Kedco Studios (Las Vegas, NV) "histories of souls" an ebook & POD by Word Wrangler Publishing, Inc. (Montana) "comedy incarnate" on AUDIO CD by Artvilla (Tennessee) "the naming of parts" an ebbok by Shyflower Press (Minnesota) NEW: "Divine Murder" a novel, paperback by Word Wrangler Publishing, Inc. (Montana)* *Editor's Note: I have read "Divine Murder" and thoroughly recommend this compelling story concerning the divine, the diabolical and the struggles of two mortals to discover their momentous destiny. Of the 1008 published pieces, some have found their way into: PRINT MAGAZINES: ACM, Another Chicago Magazine Ginger Hill The GSU Review Limestone The Listening Eye The Lucid Stone Mad Poets Review Nassau Review The Old Red Kimono Porcupine Literary Magazine Potpourri Rattle River King Skylark Spillway Sulphur River Review Sunstone INTERNET: Adirondack Review The Animist Ariga Big Bridge Lynx: poetry from Bath Melic Review Oblique Offcourse The Paumanok Review Pif Poetry Life & Times Poetry Magazine.Com Pulse Pyrowords Renaissance The Rose & Thorn San Francisco Salvo Sonata Thunder Sandwich 2River View Unlikely Stories Zuzu's Petals

WIND IN A WOMAN'S HAIR © Ward Kelley The wind in a woman's hair: as though the earth were paging through its greatest thoughts, some diary which noted wonderful past inventions. There's no one left to bury, ever, only bodies, and what are they that we should be so keen to remember them? Bookmarks where a soul has passed through. EFFORTLESS © Ward Kelley The chore is to make a sense of all the disparate parts, particularly the ones misshaped by eyes grounded by the earth, for such parts are indeed normal in the right environment. Then, once identified, they need to be aligned with each other in the proper manner, one that can bring a third reason to every two portrayed. The way I recognize my approach as being correct is by the amount of conscious effort I bring to this endeavor: if I use none at all, or just a tad, then I know I am doing it right; only it took many, many years to learn how to be effortless. Artist's note: Paul Klee (1878-1934) was a German Expressionist painter, a member of the Blue Rider group (Der Blaue Reiter). He once wrote, "Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will." TABERNACLE OF THE SEVENTH COMING © Ward Kelley I missed the others, but this church, Tabernacle of the Seventh Coming, grants me hope for some type of resolution. Some great man or woman is coming to explain what is needed for us to do. I have never had faith in any previous instruction, and have particularly abhorred ceremonies, but that might be simply because I missed all previous comings -- I truly can't imagine who the six might be -- so I am trying to stay open for this future proclamation. Indeed it's somewhat a relief to think soon I can simply follow prayers or a manual, and can stop worrying about the fate of my immortal soul. The date has not been specified -- who were the six? I can get to three or four -- but no matter, the coming is imminent and this is what is truly important. Each Sunday I go and wait, wondering what it will be like. THE ALMIGHTY YEARNS © Ward Kelley There comes a void to a perfect heart that only imperfection can span, and desire would seek to water the black spaces between the yearning and the evidence of beings who do not know how to love . . . who someday might discern how to forgive. There must be a need for brittle minds, a quest for the cuteness of immaturity, maybe the same way a man can be overcome by his daughter's stumble and tears . . . what is more fulfilling than nurturing a child, or the forgiveness of one hurt again by the exuberance of the life you have given her? And then, could we learn to forgive the Almighty for placing us in a land without an intelligent compass in our heads or hearts or loins? And then, was the true yearning a beseechment for forgiveness . . . and this required the creation of critters who might someday discern? THE SAME TOUCH © Ward Kelley The same touch, the same contact of flesh, has vastly different meanings, even though the meeting appears identical when viewed as a stroke or even a sensation. For when a new woman touches a man's skin, she penetrates his soul; oddly, when a man caresses a woman's skin he is far, far away from her soul. She doesn't make his mistake. Where a man's soul can be invaded by the newest breast, a woman's soul is not attached to her skin, but rather can only be reached by her eyes and ears.

RICHARD ZOLA Richard Zola is UK based... an interview with him conducted by distinguished Australian poet and novelist Billy Marshall Stoneking can be found at http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/ performance_poetry/68441. Richard's work has appeared in many ezines including: Mipoesias: cities issue nzpoetsonline.com poetryrepairshop zola's website: http://www.richardzola.co.uk

she said...its how god waits... © Richard Zola these are the cups you bought in budapest you stood in wooden shoes a blue coat held a child for a woman counting coins lay in a stream in half light small fish between your legs from a ship you looked towards a high window from a high window you looked towards a wood these are the cornflowers you picked beneath trees above a sea these are the shoes you wore this is the coat this is the coat with the hood which obscured your face you filled the hood with berries these are the berries drawn on paper these are the prints left by skin in graphite monochrome faces figures against a white wall these are the first faces you saw photographs taken before you this is the white wall where you drew around the shadows of horses this is the lake where you baptized fish this is the lake where the head of a horse stared up a door opens air moves these are the footsteps this is the face this is the voice this is the skin these are the teeth you're wearing new shoes wooden soles...scratched leather...no buckles... © Richard Zola she walks quickly in red shoes talks slowly says: in winter take a basket to the lake a basket a hammer a pick kneel on stone raise let the hammer fall raise the pick fill a basket with ice hang a basket of ice from a juniper tree in spring watch water fall through weave onto celandines she talks quickly says: press your mouth to the snout of a sow the breath of a sow in your blood reach for the paps of a sow the milk of a sow on your hands now you may sit at your table eat fish and red peppers the table...the shelf...made from unidentified wood...the chair... pine...self assembly... © Richard Zola she says you into an empty room she says: table shelf painted chair she woke early dressed opened curtains moved shoes from near the door to beneath the table she says: i've seen you there when she opened the curtain the left curtain moved smoothly the other jammed a little more than 2 thirds open she stood on the a chair: a hook had crossed over another she’d painted the chair yellow on sunday wanted red paint asked for yellow she examines yellow paint beneath her fingernails i've seen you there: words spoken to her outside the russian church a hand on her arm a figure pointing you ive seen you there on those steps counting stones and coats ive thought of bringing you bread and celandines i'd approach you from the left walking slowly stopping turning away if you saw i'd borrow trousers shoes a polished hat the brim shading my eyes we’d sit as close as notes from a mandolin the trousers would reach my shoes the hat would not be of outlandish proportions she’d offered the figure aniseed he’d asked for castanets she’d asked the paint seller do you sleep well the paint seller had said i stand at night mouth filled with earth between a cupboard and a door orchids are my eucharist i sell paint without responsibility she removes yellow paint from beneath her fingernails with a scissor blade wonders if the curtains will close easily open easily tomorrow yellow curtains...stained with rain... © Richard Zola a hand on skin whose hand a flower in a bowl whose bowl a shoe on a floor whose floor a low bed whose bed a curtain rising falling a chair whose chair clothes on a chair some fallen voices from other rooms a window darkening whose voices which rooms a door opens light on a low bed someone dresses a door closes a low bed in half light the window dark whose shoe a mist between branches near the pavilion seen before sleep Note from the editor: I chose these four poems from the selection Richard Zola sent me because they are very intriguing. Read them all a couple of times, and they become like a puzzle or riddle to solve. Notice how they are all linked - the first one mentions shoes. The second one carries on from there, taking the theme of shoes and a mysterious woman with some odd advice. The second one ends with a table; the first one begins with a table and ends with curtains. The fourth one continues with the theme of the curtains. But near the end, it mentions a shoe, which leads you neatly back round to the theme of the first poem. I must say I enjoy reading through these, finding something new each time.

RICHARD VALLANCE Richard Vallance was born in Guelph, southern Ontario, Canada, on March 11th., 1945, and currently resides in Ottawa, the nations capital. A graduate of Sir Wilfred Laurier University, Waterloon, Ontario (H.B.A. 1968) and the University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario (M.L.S., 1975), Richard is a professional University librarian, now on disability pension. Richards career as a librarian reached its zenith in October, 1983, when he won the prestigious Data Courier Award for Excellence in Online Papers ($1,000 U.S.), in Chicago, Illinois. However, progressively aggravated alcoholism eventually forced him to retire prematurely, in September, 1991. Fortunately, Richard ceased drinking altogether in 1992, and has been sober now for a decade. While he did write some poetry during his "wet years", alcoholism severely blunted his inspiration. Creativity only truly blossomed in 1995. Since that time, he has written over 1,500 poems, most of them Sonnets, though he also specializes in both Haiku and the stricter, more traditional Japanese Hokku verse form. He has also composed numerous so-called "free verse" poems, and has published one book of poetry: A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-7-x. [National Library of Canada] Richard has been published on numerous occasions on some of the worlds best known poetry E-Zines, including, Poetry Life and Times (UK) and Autumn Leaves (USA). He also maintains his own bilingual international E-Zine, Poetry in Emotion la posie smouvoir and will soon be the editor of a new international Sonnet E-Zine, Sonnetto Poesia. Richard is the Poetry Reviewer for Poetry Life and Times. Anyone, who writes poetry for Poetry and Life and Times, is cordially invited to submit any poem of 20 lines or LESS for consideration for review to: vallance2@yahoo.com Richard also moderates numerous Poetry Discussion Groups, the most notable of which are: 1. Describe Adonis [Shakespeares Sonnet 53] 120 members. Yahoos largest Sonnet poetry group by far. Here are posted historical sonnets, commentaries on sonnet writing, and sonnets by members: Describe_Adonis 2. Kawasaki Zen Haiku 90 members. Yahoos 3rd. Largest Haiku-Hokku poetry group, featuring links to historical Haiku Web Sites, examples of historical Haiku by such illustrious composers as Basho, Buson and Issa, and Haiku/Hokku posted by members, in any language they like: Kawasaki_Zen_Haiku 3. Iliassia [Homers Iliad]. 61 members. Discussion group focussing on Homers Iliad, both in the original "Epic" Greek and in translation. Includes a repertoire archive of pictures, paintings, archaeological sites and cartographic information + maps: iliassia My Carousel Home Page is: Poesie's laissez-faire Foire PUBLISHING HISTORY: 1. A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, (c) 1998 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-07-x 2. "À la belle inconnue (Robert Schumann)", in: Arts and Literature Review. Lakehead University. Vol. 1 (3), 1972 3. "Chanson d'Auverge", in: A Ray of Hope. (c) 2000. 257 pp. pg. 129 ISBN 1-58235-559-2 4. "Pow Wow", in: An Hour at Sunrise. (c) 2000. 313 pp. pg. 167 ISBN 1-58253-539-8 INTERNET: Autumn Leaves [May/June, 2001] - and several of his poems will soon appear in Kedco's Millennium Dawn Anthology March 2002 - Nominee for The Poets Hall of Fame

WILLOW, WEEPING © Richard Vallance, August 16th., 2002     for Louis-Dominique,     in memoriam vitae nostrae, quae fugerit * So near my garden’s golden moonlit pond She, by its perimeter stones, weeping Willow’s broken, as though she’d been as fond of you as I, now the night’s watch keeping. As you and I had been content, all eve, to pace and gather roses by dear light before and after dusk had taken leave of us, we three would share a bench by night. We would share the one bench she, our weeping Willow’s shaded so well she’s sheltered you from eerie clouds or errant rains sweeping by us as if we had not existed. The night that storm killed you I resisted Deaths, yours and Willow’s, weeping, weeping too. * in memory of our lives , once they are fled and gone. From SUNLIT PORTAGES: The Peregrine © Richard Vallance November 1997 & June 1998 [Revised, August 2002] From spruce to pine she, Peregrine, shall climb, gray wings swept back, or back to spruce again, her talons so splayed they hone in on time to catch some squirrel streaking by in rain. Her visionary orange eyes, like blades, can through sullenest mists so surely scythe they catch, as it scurries through fern mist glades, her prey, although it be so small as lithe. She leans from her eyrie and so aspires to pounce on it now as keen as to slay, divining the second white instinct’s fires urge her talons seize on what’s fleeting, prey! A hunter’s got her in his rifle’s sights. Targets. Crack! Her nestlings wail for three nights. From ANISHINABE TRILLINGS: Lone Wolf © Richard Vallance, September, 1998 & August, 2002. What trilliums white midst mists of forests swayed when May’s Ancestors, Boreal zephyrs, swept whispers past past poplar sprouts arrayed to run down dampened slopes and bark up firs? What ruses past did he one dreamer hail, when into his woods in rushed drumming rains whose swept imprints left footfalls in the vale translucent, and dulled flint’s exacted pains? What thirsts had seized upon those eyes in flame, what elements, what thunder’s ruddy lips? What lightnings on whose brazen clouds then came to wolfish glares, or strike at, leaving nips? He neither ate nor drank. Instead he saw Lone Wolf licking blood off the crimson paw. From SUNLIT PORTAGES: Déjà vu © Richard Vallance, 1999 & 2002 This was a gusty day a winner of spinnakers running after winds, and you gripped onto our teak yacht’s tiller playing tacks so well into your hands you sensed assimilation splash in flashes or you saw yourself lean, leaning over the blue swell washing all too well the tears from off your cheeks of joy, though your eyes had often seen before such waves (perhaps a mite less rousing!), and assuming all of this, learning (a) how to sail and do it well, (b) grip experience laid to experiences made into (c) déjà vu, becoming (d) familiarities you’d found of sights and tastes or sounds and rolling hills that all around passed by you in slow motion, although… you would have sworn by the prow that knived those white caps which bow waves crushed to swirling they had to whirr by so fast their motions blurred all vision, you learned (as I) speed was what this was all about… However, all the while time had been diminished where seconds into hours had passed off as the sun into waters, and as you peered up there there! yonder what did you besides behold? — our lofty peaks galore, descendents once ascendants from Athabasca’s shore, are they not they are so exalted they never can never fail to quite obscure fanned-out rays sun, tangerine, will have laced across their several ridges to ripple over glaciers orange tones, their reminiscence ours of one exciting day, and Look! Their presence sends out tides and tides dusk to vermilions as it recedes into hollow sky where night’s slow presence lumbers in settling in illusions in the subliminal glasses of our eyes.

Jan Sand in New York JAN SAND, poet and illustrator from New York, is a regular contributor to Poetry Life & Times and the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments. A great deal of his work is about animals, or science fiction. Recently Jan was published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, on their latest CD ROM e-book, "A Way With Words (Poetry Real and Surreal), which also includes complete books by Dale Houstman, Sara L. Russell and Keith Gabriel Hendricks. Jan's illustrated book on the CD is called "Wild Figments And Odd Conjectures", which is also sold separately, in a limited-edition "single" CD. To see an illustrated article about Jan's poems, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.

DARK PASSAGE © Jan Sand Night eyes fixed into my skull Stare in fascination as black clouds Roil the darkness overfilled With evanescent images in toil To work the caves of memory, Extract rich nostalgic ores And jerk the cords releasing Tears of blood, boulders of regret. Through this flood, these avalanches Must I swim to gain the light Of morning and hot coffee And the distant thunder of the cataclysms That shake in seismic shudderings Resounding with the dying of Jews and Arabs, Slow starving of the Africans, random brutalities and murders. To create quotidian melodies for the day APPLES © Jan Sand Apples bubble up among the leaves Of the apple trees in my yard. Gifts held up to the sun, progeny To ensure that apple trees prevail, Will multiply in back yards, in fields Across the sunlit spaces of the world To ransom with apple pies and tarts, With apple sauce and apple cider To domesticate the human race That will, in obeisance, Ensure fertilities of apple trees Out to Mars, and thence the stars To guarantee the apples of the galaxy. SUSTENANCE © Jan Sand Grasshoppers, I have heard, Can, in locust guise, Arise in hungry clouds To clip all greenness from the scenes To satisfy a hundred thousand appetites With clicking chopping mandibles Mincing leaves and stems and other greens To leave behind, perhaps, just a root And all other life to starve. But the message is, the hungry and astute Can feed upon the feeders. Grasshoppers, I am told, Can be tasty crunchy Deep fried in oil For a handful that is munchy. NIGHT RIDE © Jan Sand The mind that gallops through the night While moonlight cuts black silhouettes From old thoughts that once were bright But now recalls that one forgets Speeds through dreams, through banks of mist Where shapes are hazy, actions strange, Logic quirky, fears insist, Inquietude moves to derange. This journey through outlandish shift, Blunted insight, odd impressions, Conjures questions, vague, adrift, Thoughts defying all expressions. Ghosts of terrors stream and flow. Defenses left three dreams ago.