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Michael Burch, editor of The Hyper Texts |
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The HyperTexts has published the work of three Pulitzer Prize nominees and recent winners of the T. S. Eliot, Richard Wilbur and Howard Nemerov awards. Edited by Michael R. Burch.
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,
So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all.
From The Prophet, by Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran
Find poets and poems published on our earlier issues:
Editor's Letter, August 2006
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Dear Poets,
Welcome to the August 2006 issue of Poetry Life
& Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not
poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here).
Featured Poets include: Guy Kettelhack, Paul Williams, Kristine Ong Muslim, RS Petranek, Alexandra* (Maria Alexandra Oliveira) Joseph Sherman* and Joe Ruggier. Resident poets and The Perils of Norris feature Robin Ouzman Hislop, Michael Burch, Helga Ross and Sara L. Russell. See below Featured Poets for the link to this page. Email us early with poetry, articles or poetry news, by 20th August for the September 2006 issue. Please remember to follow our new submission guidelines: Only original poems and articles will be considered for publication. |
The Pandora Box
NEW: Ian Thorpe has written a brief article with a quite suggestive link
to Kipling's famous "IF". Link and banner Interchange: For anyone interested in linking to
Poetry Life and Times, here is the piece of html code for you to copy
and paste, together with a tiny image for banner use:
To Top Please note our guidelines: Best Regards,
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Featured Poets this month
include: Paul Williams, Joe Ruggier, Kristine Ong Muslim, Guy Kettelhack, Alexandra Oliveira, Joseph Sherman and RS Petranek.
Many thanks to all
contributors.
See below Featured Poets for our Resident Poets' page
link.
GUY KETTELHACK
Guy Kettelhack has authored, co-authored or contributed to more than
JOE RUGGIER BORN
in Malta on 26 July 1956, JOE RUGGIER is primarily a poet and literary
critic. He has been published significantly in poetry magazines
in Britain and North America and has also published in MALTESE FORUM, a
Toronto-based magazine for Maltese immigrants to Canada edited by the
late C. CARUANA. Published by Pierpont Press, THE VOICE OF
THE MILLIONS, his Selected Poems, appeared in Wisconsin in 1988, and
since then the book has run into a 3rd Edition. The 8th,
definitive Edition of OUT OF BLUE NOTHING - his cycle of 24
Shakespearean sonnets which first came out in 1985 and which previously
ran into a 5th Edition as a book in its own right - is now featured as
Part Three of the 3rd revised edition of THIS ETERNAL HUBBUB. The
first seven editions of OUT OF BLUE NOTHING have been sold out and this
book has now attained national best-seller status for a Canadian book
of poetry.
JOSEPH SHERMAN
was
born in the United States of America, where he also lived until he
moved to Portugal in 2004. He is the published author of two books of
poetry, “Songs of Love - Gifts from the Heart” and “Echoes from Within
– A Book of Haiku”. Joseph has been developing his career as a
photographer in Portugal, where he and Alexandra*, his partner in life
and in art, have co-authored a book featuring some of his photography
and bilingual texts of poetry and poetic prose, “Universes Beyond the
Visible ~ Elements of Dream” – “Universos para Além do
Visível ~ Elementos do Sonho”. He is currently involved in
several other projects both in the literary and photographic domains.
He is also publisher manager at OneLight* together with Alexandra (see
below).
30 nonfiction books. His poetry has been featured in Outstretch, Van Gogh's
Ear, Melic Review, New Pleiades, Malleable Jangle, WORM 33, Triplopia, David
Taub e-motion, Poetry Life & Times, Poetry in Emotion, Das Alchymist Poetry
Review, the PK list, The Rose & Thorn, Heretics and Half-Lives, Desert Moon
Review, Hiss Quarterly, Danjerasu, Autumn Sky Poetry, Words-Myth, Loch Raven
Review. Two of his poems placed in IBPC competitions in 2004. His poem "Alter
Ego" was selected as a quarterfinalist in the Lyric Recovery competition in
March 2004. He won the Margaret Reid Poetry Prize for Traditional Verse in
November 2004. 20 of his poems appear in the New Pleiades Anthology of 2005.
Book 1 and 2 of "Soho Poems & Drawings About Drawings" (collaboration with
Norman Shapiro) can be found at ufemisms.com. He lives in NYC.
GUY KETTELHACK
To Do (2006)
"To do" - compose a list: draw little empty boxes
on the left to check off when you're through: impose
a grid on what you must get done: cautiously include
some fun. Be circumspect and resolutely modest:
plan - but don't expect. (Living's full of threat: irresolute -
a mess.) Take a class in chess - learn to speak
Chinese - read a book a week: try hard, be meek.
Saddled with existence, exercise persistence. If life is
what it seems to be - first a headlong rush into erotic
idiocy - followed by the tedium of sitting in a grim
succession of gray lobbies - take up hobbies. Sidle
into safety: keep the car in idle. Accommodate the wait.
Or: Evaporate! Freeze dry! Shiver into slivers and
let the wind fly - thunder into space: learn before
you die you've only ever been a blink away from grace:
there isn't any waiting and there's never been a race.
Afterlife
Every life's an afterlife - after other lives -
its own and those it knew: each soul's
an instant - present - past: yet leaves
a residue. But still we're indefatigably new:
a confluence, a pack of cards - startling
in their views of what we are and who we
will turn into - mystical kaleidoscopic whim
makes her and him and me and you: blink -
another king or queen or heart's in hand:
let go - and beat the band: play your fiddle -
be the opening act: gather up ingredients,
cook for everyone: when the eggs are
cracked and done and all the crowd feels
fat and one, intone your praise for that
grand river running underneath which only
knows the wonderment of being. Everyone
has died, will die: everyone has given and
is giving. All inhabit symmetries of living.
The Indicated Line
("As the pattern gets more interesting and subtle,
being swept along is no longer enough."
Waking Life, dir. Richard Linklater)
It isn't veils of memory as much as sight: that is,
I see the Empire State Building pharaonically
controlling unsuspected corners of the night and
afternoon - the tight and wide metropolis - look up
through Soho streets or from a turnpike in New Jersey
and it angles and erupts into a saturation of all
sweeps of it I've ever seen - shading over shades -
like overlapping Disney cels - animated documentary -
shimmering in heat or lost in mist - visually whispers,
sighs and croons and keens and bellows - violets and
grays and greens and yellows - with such intricate
efficiency I'm stained forever with the notion that I've
nothing whatsoever to claim of it as my own: it acts
on me entirely: what I must bear - and wear - imposed
like air and gravity. And then - with what I think is
an omniscient urban suavity - I walk a friend who
doesn't live here up Fifth Avenue - direct his evidently
willing eye up to the Empire-building's height - sure
that he'll delight in it with my bewilderment - and more.
He doesn't tell me what he saw, but from his mild
cough and soft succeeding small talk clearly it has
not induced much awe. It hits - everything is intimate
participation -shared and cherished privately - co-created
wedding of an eye with a reality: what I see, and me.
How could he perceive the indicated line - design?
Twins at the Beach
Two plump sacks
of babyfat -
hats pulled down
askew -
scowling at the heat
and at the Universe
and you.
Cupped Wet Sand
Thought has the texture of cupped wet sand:
stippled through with tiny specks and broken
bits of possibility inhering in a crumbling mass
that molds into a rounded temporary whole:
illusorily definite. I cradle it in hand, then feel
its damp evaporate, and drop it dryly back
on its absorbing land; regard the disappearing
hazy traces on it of my fingerprints, my palm:
see sedimental entropy of tiny pebbles splaying
and releasing into beach - lazy, indiscriminate,
promiscuous - indifferently reverting to amorphous -
out of reach into the sea. Saline wash: shining
sheet of wave: water saves disintegrating form
from making sense for very long. And then my
mind gets hungry for another lump; so scoops
a new one up. Another thought is cupped.
© All poems by Guy Kettelhack, 2006
MR. RUGGIER belongs to an international circle of poets and editors who
have committed themselves to reforming the prevailing literary climate
by bringing about a Traditionalist Revival in writing. In this
regard, RUGGIER manages his own small Press, MULTICULTURAL BOOKS, and
is the Managing Editor and 100% Owner of his own poetry magazine, THE
ECLECTIC MUSE.
The First Crib At Greccio
© Joe Ruggier
This poem is dedicated to the renowned filmmaker Franco Zeffirelli
from whose film BROTHER SUN & SISTER MOON I derived much of my joy
and inspiration. It is dedicated also to the mainspring of these
verses, my friend FB who is now deceased.
LOVELY, and still, and white is the night,
wound thick are the clouds, and wind is the loom,
loving and warm is the slap of their gloom,
solid, and black, and white is the Light.
Deep is the valley, and loving the folds,
over again, and blank is the moon,
splendid the mountains, benign as a boon,
and old are the oaks which Italy holds.
Proud in a hollow Saint Damian lies,
still as the silence profound as a stone,
as Time and the Soul's inarticulate moan,
renowned as the Fable men carved out of cries,
and buffeted by the wind and snow,
the burying snow, where cries countless, cries
of the most uncontrollable thing that flies,
do not echo. Never echo! Blow
you winter winds! With Love and singing,
the cold cracks, and sizzles with Brother Fire;
the Flames, like Sacred Hearts, leap higher.
The songs, like Angels, winging, winging,
revive the souls - or pilgrims? - there.
All sing one common, happy day,
all care dream-fancied far away.
Alive, upon the most calm air,
ten thousand flames, one glance suffices,
dance to the songs, and drown the people,
the crib which stirs, the distant steeple,
far from the fret, the hate which ices.
Love-poets and Minstrels they were all,
who dreamt beneath the metre's curb -
(Divine Realities disturb
Degree and solemn Protocol!):
Heaven's proud Minstrelsy, who drove
the winds away with a Song more tense:
the Troubadours of God wove sense
with all their singing, and sang for love;
and sang of a brave new Earth! (fine thinking,
and fine distinctions in their eyes).
(While the Court-Jester of Paradise,
Francis di Bernardone, winking,
took off his hat to every tree,
to the wild flowers, and like a loon,
to Brother Sun and Sister Moon,
as wild as birds, as glad to Be).
(Small, tough, and active as a Wren,
dark beard thin and pointed, the South
moved in his eyes like fire, mouth
drawn tight and puckish: he moved among men -
dark beard like a busy elf's:
brown cloth, brown figure and brown fire
seemed taller than his own size, and higher:
he never wrought a deed by halves.
His words were wilder far, though Writ,
than those he wrote, and what he did
more wild than words he spoke; and hid
beneath his every deed lay Myth
and Symbol). Oh brave, new Sun! As keen
as the World is to men, when Light pours
through a dark hole, and we crawl on all fours!
Are we too modern? or too mean!
....................
When all dispersed
Heaven's proud Minstrelsy
sang this new Canticle to their small Lutes:
"Paradox is the Sign of Truth,
and Topsy-Turvydom Philosophy ........"
"Highest Omnipotence,
all Glory, Praise, be Yours, Good Lord,
and Yours the Reverence:
all Blessings, and all we bless,
belongs to You alone, the Most High,
and no man is worthy to mention You.
"Be praised, my Lord, with all Your Creatures,
but most in His Excellency, Brother Sun,
who shines daily, and illuminates our Path by day.
And he is beautiful and radiant with a great splendour,
and derives significance from You, the Most High.
"Be praised, my Lord, for Sister Moon and the Stars,
in the heavens you formed them, bright, precious, beautiful, and clear.
"Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Wind,
and for the air, nimble, and serene, and through whom,
in every season, you give sustenance to all your Creatures.
"Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Fire,
through whom you illuminate the night,
and he is beautiful and jovial and robust and powerful.
"Be praised, my Lord, for our Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains and governs us,
and puts forth diverse fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.
"Be praised, my Lord, for those who forgive for your Love's sake,
and who sustain infirmity and tribulation,
blessed are they who persevere in Peace,
for by You, the Most High, they shall be crowned.
"Be praised, my Lord, for Our Sister, Bodily Death,
whose clutches no man living may escape,
woe to those who die in mortal sin,
blessed are those who are found at peace with Your Most Holy Will,
to whom the Second Death shall do no harm.
"Praise ye, and bless ye my Lord, and thank Ye Him,
and serve Ye Him with great Humility."
....................
All night they sang: round voices ring
within the hollow abbey halls,
and keen among the mountain walls,
where all the echoes ring and sing
low, round and distant, round and warm;
and all the wandering hillside soughs,
and covers their love-talk with leaves and with boughs,
and their Song was the Eye, the Eye of the Storm:
all night they sang, till break of day -
first voices and second, and now third voices,
reciting, while their soul rejoices -
and all the singing died away.
Lovely, and still, and white is the night,
wound thick are the clouds, and wind is the loom,
loving and warm is the slap of their gloom,
solid, and black, and white is the Light.
Deep is the valley, and loving the folds,
over again, and blank is the moon,
splendid the mountains, benign as a boon,
and old are the oaks which Italy holds.
Completed: July 19, 1983
Copyright ©
Joe M. Ruggier
307 – 6311 Gilbert Road, Richmond, BC V7C 3V7 CANADA
JOSEPH SHERMAN
A Poet's Song
We rip the seam of sky and dream
To pour their fruits on page,
For comes a day we’ll cease to play
Our parts upon this stage.
We must awake for moment’s sake,
For Life is but a breath,
And forge on lips those mighty ships
That sail beyond our death.
Our words of rhyme on sands of Time
Are crafted into Art
And into light they take their flight
When ink flows from the heart.
’Pon golden tongue, our words be sung
By cherubs in a choir.
Our leaves of brown, once cast to ground,
Now rise in flames of fire.
White Tea in Mooncups
mooncups of white tea ~
mysterious morning fog
scatters with sun’s light
Inverted Thoughts
perhaps the answers are within.
i close my eyes and search with my heart.
some say it’s just a dream, so
is life a grand illusion?
how do eyes see thousands of years ago?
does the source of light remain?
pondering life’s questions,
gazing at the stars
gazing at the stars,
pondering life’s questions,
does the source of light remain?
how do eyes see thousands of years ago?
is life a grand illusion?
some say it’s just a dream, so
i close my eyes and search with my heart.
perhaps the answers are within
Peace (Tres Linhas)
Wildflower breeze,
Sunlight’s dance upon trees
Lullabys the soul with ease.
©2006 Joseph* ~ OneLight*®
 ALEXANDRA*
Maria
Alexandra Oliveira was born in Portugal, having lived and studied in
other European countries for some years, after which she returned to
her native country, where she now shares her life and artistic
endeavours with Joseph. Alexandra’s only published work – apart from
the inclusion of some of her poems in “III Antologia de Escritas”, an
anthology featuring poetry in the Portuguese language - so far is
“Universes Beyond the Visible ~ Elements of Dream” – “Universos para
Além do Visível ~ Elementos do Sonho”, featuring some of
her poetry and poetic prose, as well as texts and photography by
Joseph. With this author and photographer, Alexandra is also the
co-founder of OneLight*® Authors & Creations. She is presently
working on several projects that include new publishing and artistic
ventures, the latter, namely, in the areas of digital art and graphic
design.
Why not visit OneLight* News Page |
Maria Alexandra Oliveira Legends with no Gods [the secret valley] in the depths of this valley, the water runs, sometimes leaps over the stone. they ride each other and become a singular entity that sings, surges ejaculates, imbibes, then whispers, not entirely tame, a long and fluid caress. the water’s mane then brushes the stone’s torso, both still warm tiny bubbles of kiss bursting tiny wet suns and sprinkling rainbows all over the firmness that is nonetheless flexible, because it pulses with life. above this whole nudity, nothing but the wind, brief, and maybe a leaf or two rippling the water skin as it ripples, in turn, the core of the stone. one never knows when the water will leap over the stone again in that cadence of wild lucidity which floods the valley with a scent of rosemary and ripening fruits. all houses have crumbled a long time ago, but… who cares about houses when there are palaces in the whole air and in the sea, not far, and when the gods retire to let the ones who made them in? - the ones who made them and always will, as long as there is fire surging from the waves and there are waves tearing, with their salty nipples, the air; as long as there are divine tongues of sun curling around nights and moons upon dunes, perfect temples; and as long as there are dolphins singing those secrets that the gods never knew but the horses and bulls, who graze on the light even when it is dark, clearly do. and I know and you know, in blended lips, what the gods merely dream in our dreams and the dolphins, the bulls, the horses, understand and substantiate, in the depths of this valley where they become and we become water that rides the stone of the palace - close and within: the mysteries burning here, immortal and sacred in the essence of this air. and the whole body kisses, as it flows like water, the blazing stone – its soul; again. Beveled Arrival (a tribute to Fernando Pessoa’s “Beveled Rain ”) for once, no reply from echoes or shells; the island fades, lined of wind in the dispersal of gods and time recoils within the cadence, vertical delayed by the cloud; but I untie the call upon the muted sand and then listen to the corporeal chant of a fluid longing… thus, I rise my face to the words, and the antiphon draws clefts upon the shore when the rain pours, at last beveled and humanized. blind drawing bb it is of wind, today, the drawing on the sand. neither do I see it, nor am I wrapped in what it brings to the verge of this salt that the lips close or to the hair untied in a dance, oblivious to whispers traced by the sea. robes of a linen much too fine and strands of pearls that the breasts roll yet do not warm, sing of cold and rip tender heartedness in tiny ribbons of colours fainter than the air to then pervade the fluid nacre in brief sobs that are also the laughter of a scent that was balmy when dream, yesterday, swept the dune of granules percolated by some star. I don’t even know to where my fingers run if I’m not going anywhere within these lines that the wind makes sinuous, in the manner of a form nude, reclined and forgotten of itself in antithesis of that impulse throbbing a pliable essence, yet never docile, in the passions or clefts of flooding tide which, so often, it carved. so, I stop, between the deliberate blindness and the drawing that the wind, in a dash, unveils in my body to promptly veil it, with the help of the sand in the eloquent soul and in the foam of another vision. © All poems by Alexandra* |
a twenty-five year old recluse |
KRISTINE ONG MUSLIM Carnival Season (2006) They gaped at the taped pixies on the walls, waiting for the meat grinder man and his one-eyed assistant to polish the wriggling creatures’ tiny wings and press them into the chutes that would make the pixies explode into shards of colored glass. Dirty Laundry The showerhead skewered Securely in the wall Above the chaos Of you and your soiled clothes. Smug and stubborn, Both you and your grimy clothes Complemented each other With surprising appropriateness Like aging Siamese twins Married to each other. You sort them out One by one Stained and dank Filthy and rank Your multicolored clothes Spilled and dissolved Into your tattooed skin. They fused into your body Like viruses addicted to their host Until a limb sprouted out of your mouth. (First appeared in Lost in the Dark #2, Summer 2004) Finishing Touches To get the ripened batch of changelings Ready to be set out to the world below, Smirkin patted their baby skins dry And taught them how to hide their teeth. Outgrowth His back ached Silently. Stirring, humming Pain that one day Turned into an infernal Itch. The doctors said that the pain Was only in his mind. He believed his agony Would diminish into something Unremarkable like a mute scar. But when he woke up The first morning of May His ribs protruded against his chest At amazingly grotesque angles. His unbelieving eyes Could not understand the bony bulges Until they broke out Of the skin And sprouted Out of his body. (First appeared in Lunatic Chameleon #5: Misfits Issue, Feb - March 2005) Withdrawal Syndrome One fine morning in May You wake up, tense and thirsty For your daily fix. The knot of fixation in your stomach Turning into a circus of pain and itch. It feels easier last night To hang on to your resolution Of giving up this addiction. You reel and stifle your screams When your intestines nudge and move Out of your belly button, Uncoiling and wriggling to get you. (First appeared in The Horror Express #3, Winter 2004) © All poems by Kristine Ong Muslim, 2004,05,06 |
PAUL WILLIAMS
was born in 1959 and has had a long and varied career; serving time as a Bingo
Caller, a Coal Miner, a Soldier, Insurance Salesmen, Security Advisor,
Countryside Ranger and more besides. He has traveled extensively,
especially during his 10 year military career and speaks German and
Spanish (badly). He studied English Language and Literature at college
and subsequently became a teacher of the subject. He no longer teaches
but occasionally does give private instruction. |
PAUL WILLIAMS Izanami Remembers(2006) Izanami had seen it all before long ago, a heroic sacrifice in a sacred war. A little girl, an innocent in a violent world. She remembered, sitting in the school room looking at the clock on the wall; 11:02 am and the noisy silence that followed. she remembered that day August 9th 1945 well. She remembered, a scorching hot day; 3000, 4000 degrees cicadas singing in the trees, lotus blossom floating on a listless breeze then long ago. But…even now she hears the screams, the sound of the dying, burning in her dreams. She remembered being too stunned to cry, and feeling no pain in the ashen rain. Sitting in the rubble waiting for the sun to rise. She remembered no pangs of hunger but a strange weakness, sickness and diarrhoea; A tiny purple body covered in lumps, her hair coming away in clumps, and for many years she cried crimson tears, then long ago. Izanami had seen it all before she knew he was back to settle a score. She would not survive, not this time. She was glad Kagutsuchi had come again, he looked more beautiful than before. Her last thought, before he rooted out her eyes and she remembered no more. The Prophet 'Apparently people in Rotherham seem to prefer hanging a more traditional route for suicide'…that's what he said the man in the gutter, who coughed and spluttered and spoke in an alcoholic stutter. The Prophet? The Nutter? With the sun-dried face. What did he mean? This persona-non-gratis a collection of rags covered in fleas exuding an odour that stank of cheese. A remnant of a life held together with string. Special Brew clinging sloppily, to a well-mane'd chin. I was about to ask, when... bloodshot eyes gazed out from deep black holes and shot a stare that burnt the soul. Smiling a toothless grin in wizened disgrace, this prophet? This nutter? With the sun-dried face laughed menacingly, then began to utter... 'They're better off out of it - the dead! It's all there! In ancient texts and sacred scrolls, even in the political ramblings of martyred souls the death of your identity, consumed by techno-rapture, keeping up with society trying to avoid capture, reaching for the singularity betraying the Gods.' You’ll get what you deserve you arrogant sods. The foundations of life you know so well will melt beneath your feet in a sea of fire and angry heat. It’s the end of your evolution, a summary demise and from the ashes there shall arise… a new species…led by I The Lord of the Flies.’ Said the prophet? The nutter? With the sun-dried face. Coincidental Poem I am a synchronicity of thought and make light of what the darkness says, born of a death regenerated pronounced in silence. I speak volumes in unhearing dreams, I am the process, a future where reason denies what reason is. A life less ordinary hewn in marbled stone, a place where ill-starred ideology has no home. I am what I become, nothing and everything but sometimes a poem. © All poems by Paul Williams |
|
R S PETRANEK
|
R S PETRANEK Cathode Generation (2006) Traveling by train it becomes quite apparent what we needed all of this land for- trailer parks, department stores, Pizza Huts, crumpled cars electric stoves, tires, diapers, cans copper wires, green bottle glass air conditioners, shoes, and ash boneyards, landfills, and cemeteries for the charred remains of yesterday’s children Mortgaged to paralysis on American Dreams… And you can see it, too, in the Sleepwalking Faces as we slipper out to retrieve the morning paper- unsure, confused, gaunt, and dazed. a Nation of us on Medication, to blunt the trauma of Desperation- A Roman Chorus, echoing ‘what ifs’ coming from Manhattan, rolling through the Grand Canyon, then floating up through the highest leaves of California’s Redwood trees… resounding until we don’t even know what we believe anymore
And
yet- it’s all so easy, and cheaper every
day Everything’s a convenience store, Everything’s on sale! to be hip, in the here, and the now! arcing across the open plains Mansions Oh, I hear the louder ones laugh And talk their sports scores As they drink coffee with the daybreak I watch them notch their heavy belts and enter through the cavernous mouth of what’ll soon be a three car garage… Then, they start a hammering and sawing away workboots echo on the hollow floors voices curse, and voices call, and drills screetch to twisted, all the sudden stops- With my cats and coffee I sit, in this little old pink two bedroom sinking now in the cold shadow of my neighbors-to-be At my kitchen window now, there’s a wall where these forty-odd years I always liked to watch the sunset. Would I have ever imagined a Mansion going up next door to me? Who’s moving in? A king, and queen? Here, on quiet Sunset Street? How can all these young kids afford such things? In nineteen seventy, we finally saved up enough money to put up a one car garage… I remember the pride in Howard’s eyes it was the weekend before the fourth of July We had a garden then, and no, it wasn't much But the girls and me kept it perfect My little sunburned Emmy would bring in green onions, and juicy bellpeppers for me to dice them up into the eggsalad sandwiches I’d send along with Howard in a brown paper sack, back when he worked the railroad… Now, the girls have long since finished up school, both have married off… And the Diabetes took Howard in 93’ And mostly, all the old neighbors have passed, or moved away… And again I hear those workboots clomping and now I’m just waiting for them to come up one morning and pull a big, white sheet over my house. ©All poems by RS Petranek 2004,2006 |
For a number of years now, Richard James has been editing the quarterly online poetry magazine ANCIENT HEART MAGAZINE, (ISSN 1742-6049). Many new and promising poets have seen their work published in this magazine which seems to have a loyal following already.
 |
The Alchemy Post An online poetry journal and contemporary visual artists' gallery, coedited by poets D. Haar and Jim Dunlap. |
WAKAN: Revista alternativa de Cultura
One of the best Spanish journals on music, cinema and poetry, edited by poet and artist Tesa Duncan.
Autumn Leaves
An US-based online poetry journal.
Voices for Africa Edited by Jim Dunlap |
Find poets and poems published on our earlier issues:
- © Poetry Life and Times 2006