Featured poets this month include Jerry Jenkins, Amir Or, Lenore Ambergis, Averil Bones, Mike Levy and Jan Sand.

Many thanks to all contributors.

Jerry Jenkins JERRY JENKINS Jerry H. Jenkins' poems have appeared in printed publications and anthologies such as The Formalist, The Lyric, Mobius, Mandrake Poetry Review, Harp-Strings, Amelia, Cicada, The Piedmont Literary Review, Mail Call Journal, Pirate Writings, and Star*Line. His online publication credits include work in Octavo, Terrain, The Able Muse, La Petite Zine, Eclectica, Pyrowords, Poetry Life and Times, and Dark Planet. His award-winning chapbook Avian was published by Anamnesis Press, and a book-length collection of his poems, in collaboration with Keith Allen Daniels and Ann K. Schwader, is published by Anamnesis Press under the title "The Weird Sonneteers." He is a former Marine Corps officer with 26 years of service. He holds degrees in psychology from the University of Texas, in computer science from the US Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey California, and is a Distinguished Graduate of the U.S. Naval War College. He recently retired from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia, where he was Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology. He is now an organizational dynamics consultant in Louisville, Kentucky.

Cat As Trophy: A Rivalry Won © Jerry H. Jenkins I love you when the weather's dry and cold. What better time to snuggle by the fire, flames subsiding, passion growing higher - then your cat butts in, a jealous scold. Two's OK but three? no way! Behold; it glares at me in territorial ire. I'm bashful anyhow, and even shyer when it wedges in so brash and bold. You smile at it indulgently, and go to find a snack for kitty. In a snap I pace your carpet, thwarted dynamo. My shoes glide smoothly on its woolly nap. Felix leers, a smug fat gigolo, until I stroke him: Sizzle ~ CrAcKle! ZAP! Pedro Gonzalez Wields His Monkey Wrench © Jerry H. Jenkins There is no absurdity so palpable but that it may be firmly planted in the human head if you only begin to inculcate it by constantly repeating it with an air of great solemnity. Schopenhauer Green phosphorescence limns Manila Bay on midnight tide out of the China Sea, and paints the waterfront. Along the quay, blind freighters wallow, groaning restlessly. Pedro Gonzalez wields his monkey wrench upon a battered windlass that has stuck and will not turn. The cable, inch by inch, has seized the axle. Pedro, full of pluck will try all night to solve the Gordian knot. Determined, lacking craft, his lonesome hope that stubbornness will work when skill will not. Obsessed and obstinate, he tries to cope. Nearby, a monkey frets within his cage, prodding at the lock, which will not yield. And so it goes, age after tedious age, as man and monkey seek new tools to wield. So they perform their mindless midnight medley, dim Oppenheimers, groping for the light. When inspiration comes, it may be deadly. Meanwhile, the ships rust in the restless night. Extremophiles © Jerry H. Jenkins Where others die, we live. We probe each lethal space. In ice and fire, we thrive in climates you can't face. We probe each lethal space - glacier, vacuum, steam, in climates you can't face. We own the world's extremes. In glacier, vacuum, steam, in bubbling lava vents, and all the worlds extremes, you'll find our salients. In bubbling lava vents, where you say life can't be, our stubborn salients confound biology. Where you say life can't be, our colonies are crammed. Confound biology. Linnaeans all be damned. Our colonies are crammed in ice and steam. We thrive. Linnaeans all be damned. You'll die, but we'll survive. Auspex © Jerry H. Jenkins A careless driver killed the goose that strutted with its lifelong mate along the street. The male survivor wandered, desolate. We mourned its loss and made it ours, felt ourselves somehow bereft. Summer passed. We thought the gander must have died or left. This autumn evening, on my walk, migrating flocks flew overhead. A dark shape lighted near the pond the two had frequented. It honked, from habit or from hope, till sunset flamed the autumn wood. Its plangent crying pierced the twilight, and I understood the gander's meaning as it rose to join the southbound flock alone. What broke its heart, I realized, would one day break my own. Alas in Wonderland - for Edward Gorey - © Jerry H. Jenkins A is for Albert, who ate bumblebees. B is for Bertha, gobbled by geese. C is for Charlie, who licked a tree frog. D is for Dinah, who vanished in fog. E is for Edwin, abraded by eels. F is for Fred you can still hear his squeals. G is Georgina, smothered by mites. H is for Hugh, vaporized by the light. I is for Ignatz, who ate too much mustard. J is for James, carried off by a bustard. K is for Kevin, or what's left of him. L for Laverna, who fell from her limb. M is for Murgatroyd, asteroid-struck. N is for Nancyann, stalked by a duck. O is for Olive, who ate puffer fish. P is for Petri, who boiled in his dish. Q is for Quincy, by lightning enblackened. R is for Rhett, whom the fire ants attackened. S is for Sue, who ate too many carrots. T is for Tolliver, peckened by parrots. U is for Uncas, done in by a pickle. V is for Vince, pierced by falling icicle. W's Willie, destroyed by a Monica. X is for Xexter who swallowed harmonicas. Y is Yolanda, who swirled down the drain. Z is for Zack, who dissolved in the rain. jerryhjenkins@home.com

Amir Or AMIR OR was born in Tel Aviv, Israel in 1956. Among other occupations he has worked as a shepherd, a builder and a restauranteur. He studied philosophy and Comparative Religion in the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where he later lectured on Ancient Greek Religion. He is the founder of Helicon Society for the Advancement of Poetry in Israel, and currently he is director and chief editor of Helicon poetry Journal. Or has published numerous papers, articles and essays on literature, theology and the classics. He has translated poetry and prose from Greek, Latin, English and other languages. His collections of poetry include I Look Through The Monkeys' Eyes (1987), Faces (1991), Ransoming The Dead (1994), So! (1995) Poem (1996) and Day (1998). Selections of his poems have been published in translation in the books Poetry is a Criminal Girl (Arabic, Faradis, Paris 1995), Miracle (English\Hebrew, Poetry Ireland, Dublin 1998) and Drowning, He Breaths Living Water (Macedonian, Peliades series of the SPE poetry festival, Struga 2000) as well as in various anthologies and magazins in German, English, French, Spanish, Russian, Slovenian, Polish, Arabic Korean and Japanese. Or has also published books of his translations, among which are The Gospel of Thomas (1992), Limb-Loosening Desire; An Anthology of Erotic Greek Poetry (1993), and Stories From The Mahabharata (1998). Among the awards Or received are the Prime Minister literature award, the Mordechai Bernstein prize from the Israeli Publisher Association, literary awards of the cities of Tel Aviv and Bat Yam, and the Culture minister honorary award for his translations of classical Greek poetry.

POEM © Amir Or (translated from Hebrew by Helena Berg) This poem will be a poem of another century, not different from this one. This poem will be securely concealed under heaps of words, until between the last sand grains of the hourglass, like a ship inside a bottle, it will be seen, this poem: the poem that will speak of innocence. And common people that ostensibly were shaped by time, like tardy gods, will listen to it for no reason that wasn’t there before, rise their backs like snakes from the junk, and there won’t be anywhere else to hurry from, and it won’t have an end different from its beginning. It won’t be rich and won’t be poor. It won’t bother anymore to promise and keep or carry out its utterances and won’t scrimp, or sail there from here. This poem, if it will speak to you, woman, it won’t call you muse-babe, and won’t lie with you like its fathers; or if to you, man, it won’t kneel or kill, won’t apply makeup and won’t take off its words and flesh, as it has not has not -- what. Maybe now I’ll call it here, the bad poem of the century: here, sick with health it barely walks drags its legs in the viscous current of thoughts of the time or is stopped to show papers and to have its trivia counted with arithmetical beads. The inventory: flowers and staples, corpses (yes, no worry), tall glasses. After staples -- also butterflies, and many footprints and other hooks and shelves for the arguments of scholarly criticism, and also just to fool around, teeth against teeth, in the anarchic smiles of a chameleon that doesn’t know its colours have long since turned into a parable. Or in incomprehensible tranquillity to try someone else’s luck in games of to and fro that have no goal other than, let’s say, a bit of fun the length of a line. Spread orange on the blue of evening sky: now, plaster a little cloud. Climb on it, see below: sea of sea, sand of sand. Or fingers. Ten jointed worms move in inexplicable charm. Now they encircle a ball whose circle is faulty, wonderful, fleshy,further more, you may say a word (it’s a fruit, it’s called a peach). And these words their taste is full of the taste of its being, of a tone that accompanies the sight with wonder and not with a thought-slamming sound. And this is the poem: it sings, let’s say, to the tar that stuck to the foot on the shore, to plastic bottles, to its own words. It only sees: black atop white, transparent, or grainy. It is not less naked than you. Also no more. Only in this exactness that has no measure, but by the curves of a female-dog, a pot of cyclamens, or a hair strand on a bathtub railing. The creatures here don’t want to know. The creatures there, that only want, are, for now, a possibility of becoming the creatures that are here, of becoming this antiquity that has nothing to say other than me, me, without limit without you. A dog lies on a step in the afternoon sun, and does not distinguish itself from the flies. BLUE JOB © Amir Or translated by Vivian Eden He skipped all the way to the park in the drizzle. He plucked a large leaf and wore it on his head. Then he got rid of his shirt. Then his shoes. Beside the lake he stopped and stared at the water. He rooted his toes in the black mud and swayed in the wind. He was fired and free. There isn’t, wasn’t, won’t be. Clouds and more clouds. A curious duck probes between his toes, a lightning hand, he pressed and pressed. Now with both hands. He twisted its neck around like they used to do at secret parties among the chicken coops at the kibbutz. The duck ran, maybe ten yards without its head and collapsed on the water line. The face of the waters exploded and turned blue. He stood there, like a gutter and urinated at length. He had no shirt. He was cold. EPITAPH © Amir Or translated by Vivian Eden O walker, leave the path a while, sit among the berry trees and vines, water and trees and stone so white. Here I, a boy and king, do lie. My face cold marble, my hands, my feet. I am dressed in ferns and fallen leaves. I too never went far afield I too once lived and breathed. O walker, leave the path a space, crush wild berries on my face. helicoml@zahav.net.il

Lenore Ambergis LENORE AMBERGIS has two published collections Soul Candy 1996 and The Erotic Soul 1999. She has also been published in several anthologies, most notably The Avalon 1993, and The Dancing Rose 1997 and 1998. One of her poems was recently chosen to appear in the foreward of a novel by Author Constance O'Banyon. She makes her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Shell Hunting © Lenore Ambergis This one stood out in the sand among the many; rusty patterned, hued like exotic hennaed swirls. A tiny cone stuck with sand lying among icy colored glass, remains of coral towers, and stones smooth, begging to be skipped. I knew they were just pieces now of once whole sea kingdoms, but this one, this one was once the prize shell in a many layered necklace which floated about a mermaid's throat - as she in rapturous beauty sang for love. La Jeune Martyre (The Young Martyr) Floating in the warm waters bound by love and martyred. Crowned by light, pale fleshed and naked you strip me bare-- of everything. Left with passion only flaming in my breast, I cannot hide or ghost my soul away. What is left, what have you left, but the swollen flesh wan and weak- unable to rise even to save myself. A Question of Death © Lenore Ambergis Someday my body will nurture the Earth. I am a mother and understand this, and am moved by it as deeply as nursing babies at my breast; will it be warm and happy like that? All energy and electric spark that I am will join the rest; perhaps a passing thought or Conception, something new and beginning again? Secretly parting from now there is another, obscure, yes, the unknown of us. Happily letting go, diploma gained, reborn, reborn and then...? Midnight Swim © Lenore Ambergis Fields of stars gathered 'round and I Celestial wanderer in an ocean weightless. The infinite pool of sky to swim, Venus floating, body turning deep in that glowing void, languid, surrendered. Look-- so much space, and it's not empty, not empty at all. Lenorepoet@aol.com

Averil Bones AVERIL BONES Averil Bones, 27, lives in Sydney, Australia. She has studied journalism and native bushland regeneration, and is currently working in the publishing industry. Averil's work has been included in an anthology of new Australian poets called Sensory, and she is a regular contributor to Poetry Downunder. The most influential part of her life is the ocean, and she tries to remain an active environmental campaigner.

GANYMEDE & CALLISTO © Averil Bones Brilliance; further, beyond - just darkness. White radiance; cool rays mirrored by far moons. Ganymede's hidden sea, encrusted with flourished light and cadence, catches Callisto's millennial eye. She sighs. Brilliance; and further, daydreaminings of delight. Darkness; a cushioned bed of sleep, and restlessness, desire. A sea that ebbs and flows, flows and ebbs, with water's weight. He sighs. Brilliance; further, what can there be but despondence? WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE MILKMAN? © Averil Bones Some cold school mornings, cereal box in hand, I'd open a sleepy-eyed fridge to find no milk. So I'd turn down the hallway, open the front door and there on the doorstep, there would stand milk. I don't remember even seeing the milkman. Although I remember hearing his truck. I remember the tales of other men; the ice man, the dunny man, the man who fixed saucepans, sharpened blades. But these never came; only shadows of their visits heard in distance of childhood from history. I wonder the day the milkman didn't come isn't a milestone in my mind; wasn't a day of sadness and despair, of dry breakfasts and strong black tea; continuing into weeks, shadowed by hopeless rationing without end. I wonder that my father didn't call the council, make some civic complaint; that the milkman himself didn't appear, come to say goodbye perhaps; that he would deliver no more here, so we could thank him for his early risings, give him one last Christmas beer. I remember the tales of those other men, so fancied and strange, and never thought that my very own milkman would go to join them as they lay down their reins in pastures green and far from wheel ruts, where sleeping late a common pastime and cows peaceful, undisturbed by hungry schoolgirls. BLACK SNAKE © Averil Bones Black snake whip cracked by rubber blends grey on black bitumen's slate. And the shivery rustle of his snake's scales scutters up my leg from poking toe. Now, the snake is gone, ascended on witherings of angel down, and I can only pray that in heaven the roads are far from hungry for the taste of black snake's bite. A HAND TOO LARGE FOR MATCHING © Averil Bones A hand too large for matching marks my wall. Its padding is too wide, digits too tall. Its presence brings forth echoes of the night, so details in your handprint sound delight. A SILENT POOL © Averil Bones A silent pool lies drifting, stilled by stars' reflections and shimmered times by wind. * * * * It draws me in 'til gasping fills my liquid skin, and, growing gills from lungs, I swim. Averil_Bones@mcgraw-hill.com

Michael Levy MICHAEL LEVY Michael Levy is the author of WHAT IS THE POINT ($9.95, Paperback - 110 pages, October 9, 1998, ISBN: 0966806905) Minds of Blue Souls of Gold ($9.95, Paperback - 127 pages, January 20, 1999) Point Of Life Inc.; ISBN: 0966806913) Enjoy Yourself It's Later Than You Think ($9.95, Paperback - 128 pages, June 10, 1999, Point Of Life Inc.; ISBN: 0966806921). Michael's website is at http://www.pointoflife.com. His Articles and Poems are now on over 1000 web sites and growing daily.

THE VEIL OF SILENCE © Michael Levy, Dec 2000 Mystical vibrations reverberate throughout empty Space, Who is listening? Infinite messages with Boundless energy ricochet everywhere, But who is listening? Hush be still, The Veil of Silence is about to be lifted, Dark matter has opened it's secret and all is clear, Give and we will Receive, Empty Vessels Admit the One. THE TRUE ALCHEMIST © Michael Levy Dec 2000 New Lamps for old, New Lamps for old, Echoes off the Enlightener. New bodies for old, New bodies for old, Bounce off the celestial constructor. New minds for old, New minds for old, Reflects off the Sparks of Thought. New Souls for old, New Souls for old, Rebounds off the Wall of God. The True Alchemist will turn misery into Joy New for Old. CHAIRMAN OF THE BORED © Michael Levy, Sept 1999 Attracting restless company is the Chairman of the bored, tormentor of minds in a power hungry hoard, starved of joy and love, makes for easy prey, only money matter dragging the hours through the day. Devil makes work for an idle hand, banking on the gullible, notes on demand, stepping on the innocent, dealings from below, villainy lurking behind the Corporate Logo. Large Corporations ruthless to the core, mastered by "more" greedy plans to explore, blueprint of unhappiness, made forlorn trips, fryers of the devil, cooking new blue chips. A world full of corruption, locked in the stocks, manipulate the innocent, lust never stops, pent up houses, sadness in the clouds, deposits have no interest in markets covered in shrouds. MIKMIKL@aol.com

Self-portrait by Jan Sand 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.

These three poems are taken from Wild Figments & Odd Conjectures by Jan Sand, his own illustrated collection on the 4-book Kedco CD "A Way With Words" THE DOMAIN OF THESAURUS REX © Jan Sand Royally he treads the land, The earth, the countryside, The fields, the farms, the dirt, the sand. He howls of these Multiplicities To flood, submerge, inundate The febrile mind in words, In terms, nouns, verbs to conjugate, To tickle fancies into fantasies, Shriek metaphors and similes, Diddle with the functions Of prepositions, exclamations, Punctuations and conjunctions Leaving us to flee in fear From this assault upon the ear, Overwhelmed by lexicography Seeking pure cognography. A MOMENTARY GLANCE © Jan Sand A quarter of a century ago My father died. Someone telephoned at 2 am That he had gone. Some points are marked in time Like gigantic obelisks On the flat plains Of all the everydays That pave our lives. He had no outstanding wisdom But he was kind And he cared strongly About the world And about me. We did not look too much alike But, just last night, He looked at me From out my bathroom mirror. He seemed as startled as me. I miss him. SUMMER STORM, BROOKLYN, 1935 © Jan Sand There is something visceral In the sound of distant thunder From the roiling underbelly Of a pregnant summer sky. At first, a gentle knocking, A cautious testing, tapping On the roof and on the windows As the trees begin to sigh. Suddenly there's silence, A still anticipation, A waiting and a watching With an apprehensive eye. Now flash! A whip of lightning With its bang-snap-crack of thunder Stampedes the herds across the roof. The streets all start to fry. The trees are writhing now In waves of throbbing rain That mist and bend the twisting shapes. All solids liquify. The sky is firing salvoes Of stroboscopic glare While an avalanche of monsters Reverberates the sky. The cavalcade of noise and blaze Subsides to glows and grumbles. Downpour inundates the streets. It's Venice in July. Barefoot kids race gutter boats To seas of clogged up drains. Their matchstick ships do flops and flips And spin and sink awry. The thick damp smell of hot concrete Yields its wet in steam Which rises up like streaming ghosts Who flee back to the sky. jan_sand@hotmail.com