Featured poets this month are Moshe Bennaroch, Rochelle Mass, Bob Childs, Marc Awodey and Richard van der Draaij. Many thanks to all contributors.

Moshe Bennaroch MOSHE BENNAROCH Moshe Benarroch has published two collections of poetry in English "Horses and other doubts" (114 pages, $9.95) and "You walk on the land until one day the land walks on you" (248 pages, $16), both available from Amazon, Borders and Barnes And Noble. He was born in Morocco and lives in Israel. He writes in three languages, Hebrew, Spanish and English and his poetry has been published in hundreds of magazines worldwide. He was featured poet in the international Austin poetry festival, 1999, in poetrymagazine.com (july 2000) and has read his poetry in Israel, Spain and the US. He has published ten books, of poetry prose and one novel. For more information and more poems: See Moshe's work at spree.com and Authors' Den

LES ENTRAILLES DU POSTE © Moshe Benarroch When they did the autopsy they found pages and more pages full of poems written in seventy languages more and more pages and no blood no gallbladder and no heart only words each line a different tongue, and they brought the biggest linguists until they deciphered every language but one, one who sounded so ethereal even the professors started to cry and people read the sounds of these poems and they could not understand a word not one word resembled any known word in any language but when they heard the sounds they cried and cried and when their tears ended they were happy like never before, like never known. TEARS WAITING TO FALL © Moshe Benarroch Some tears they have to fall sooner or later, they wait for years in the kidneys, stick to the liver, the heart the eyes, the eyebrows, until they fall. and whatever was dry becomes wet, and on the wet land more rain will fall, and wherever there is rain flood will come until these tears we hide for generations fall upon our chest, fall upon our graves. ANOTHER PLACE Take me somehere else lead me to a place I've never seen the waves are closing on me too many words, too many words I don't understand, too many sentences that don't make any sense to me just make me long for another place A place of sand and sea, of little waves that sing like birds, like coconut trees a place of dying cars, a place of women A place where no one has been or too many have a used place where war has not arrived only been heard by old men with decaying teeth. PREDICTIONS Loaves of bread flying over the moon and you stare at me with one eye are you there is it me when did he die when did the bird fall on the tree branch I predict rains of birds in a full moon when I was a prophet nothing was clear people would ask for directions and predictions but I only had questions, more questions and tears. "You are loved", she said, now you can go to bed and sleep. "loved, ain't it wonderful to be loved even by someone you don't love?" "No, not really," the flying bird sang. He was red and his eyes were blue. moben@inter.net.il

Rochelle Mass ROCHELLE MASS is an editor, translator, text writer. She is Canadian born, living in Israel since 1973, most of that time on a kibbutz in the Jezre'el Valley, now in a small community above that valley, nestled in the western flank of the Gilboa Mountains. Pending publications - Rochelle has book of poetry and short fiction being published this March by the Canadian feminist press: Ride the Wind publishing - titled: Aftertaste and a poetry chapbook also to be published this month by Premier Poet's Series, Rhode Island titled: Where's my Home? Web sites: My work has appeared on the following web journals: Poetry Magazine, PoetryPoetry.net., Ygridsal, Zigzag, Kimera, PoetryKit, Girlswrite, WIN Magazine. Published in: London Magazine, Karamu, Canadian Literature, Parchment, The Jerusalem Review, ARC, The Gasppareau Review, Canadian Writer's Journal, Woen's Studies Quarterly (CUNY) and other journals and anthologies in Israel and abroad.

TIME © Rochelle Mass MY FATHER WAS A WATCHMAKER; I ALWAYS HAD A WATCH that worked. I learned that watches marked real or artificial horizons, time was mapped, testified to living. Time pulled reality apart and reassembled it into meaningful patterns, I learned. I watched my father repair wandering hands, oil mainsprings. Time would start again when he'd replace parts, then twist the face back on, re-set. The tick-tick would resound as loud as Big Ben. My father had started time once again setting up space for new events. The hands would begin to sweep, ready to testify. Minutes, I learned, were negotiations, settled and re-settled in a reasonable sense into delicate transactions. I watched my father return precision to other people's lives while he missed the passage of mine. I learned that time is swollen and scattered, holds sun, yet can be soaked with sharp rain. Often it smolders - separating, stroke by stroke, the language of the past. It transports the day traces effort, marks energy, rattling minutes like shells at the beach. Time resists capture, avoids confinement, yet gives us tools to mark boundaries. The magical distance from then and now and to be still has a mysterious grip on me, it remains a power without a name. I call it sacredness. It is forward, not permanent; sweet, not lasting. The suppliant moment. UNLIKE PINATA BALLS © Rochelle Mass WHEN I OPENED THE DOOR THIS MORNING, BEES FLOCKED IN, ARE NOW PRESSED AGAINST the panes in the kitchen, crawl along the table's edge. I tell this to my neighbor who shouts across the hedge: bees belong to their keeper. Not sure what this means, I think back to when I was ten, when I walked into a farmer's field, stepped on nests that burst with wasps. Unlike pinata balls that spill out gifts when struck, wasps swarmed, first attacked my hands, eyes, lips. Then pierced my neck. I didn't move - the screams turned howls. My parents drank cool juice on the farmer's lawn not knowing I was beating off stings gone into my legs and ankles till I couldn't shout nor move. Finally his dog yapped so much the farmer took a stick, came to check for trouble. I lay on their daughter's bed, lips like balloons. Could only move my fingers a little. They rubbed me with a baking soda paste that hardened, held me till the pain reached the surface, passed. That's what I think of today as I watch bees that have been in my house since morning, eroding the relief of where I live. I walk out into the still grass hoping they will follow. They have stained the yellow mood summer has brought. THE RIOT HAS BEGUN © Rochelle Mass IT STARTED DAYS AGO WHEN DESERT WINDS LEFT THE GARDEN BRITTLE. I watch leaves turn in like shells, twist shadows over my yard as the heat presses on. I wonder if people make their own weather. In the winery, we lean toward the wine merchant who says as if a secret: this is wine for spring, it's that light. I watch my glass fill with sun, feel more bound to the earth, my throat turns slippery. People need to incite their spirit, I think looking at my friend, who reaches for a year-old Merlot as the liquid slips past my tongue. I watch him close eyes, test. Somehow I know more about how the world is classified by watching this man. I want to trust the process, go slowly enough to follow it. Don't want to destroy the mystery by explaining too much. I wait for evening, for the street light to bring the shadows in, make my coffee cup or reading chair into something so large it stops being what it was before. I move past the lines of my life when that happens. ORDINARY THINGS © Rochelle Mass BLACK LICORICE AND SWIMMING AT NOON ARE NOT CONFUSING like politics or falling in love. Politics flatten my vision, love inflates hopefulness. Ordinary things are clear, straight as stalks of corn. A new scarf, a winter soup - are basic, necessary as a field of oats. Others think them short-witted or dull, but they rarely refuse to pleasure me. Hardly visible, they have the power to reflect what's going on. Like morning porridge for those who must have it, ordinary things have staying power, don't have to be bent into being. When other things are firm, questions of politics and love turn frantic steps round me, bind me in a dance. I keep pace till upheaval becomes comfortable as black licorice. massr@israsrv.net.il

Bob Childs BOB CHILDS As a writer of song and poetry in his youth, Bob kept a low profile regarding his work until 1994 when a cycling accident resulting in head injury drastically altered his life and opened a floodgate of creativity that would later help steer him to a course of recovery. Much of Bob's work deals with the madness of head trauma and mood disorder while always keeping a watchful eye for emotional fulfillment. Bob hopes to use his writing to communicate a message of support to others dealing with this disorder. Bob (also known as Doomwheels in the kite sailing world) maintains a website that features excerpts from a book of his poetry: http://www.doomwheels.com/poetry/. Once an extreme sportsman and a business owner, Bob has recently given up house and home to travel to foreign lands on a journey of self renewal. Along the way he has chronicled his experiences in a travel journal that he hopes to edit into book form and share with friends.

WOMAN © Bob Childs Woman I honor you A seed dissolved of its husk You are exposed to the wind Vulnerable Woman I envy you A voice willing to listen A tune able to touch Compassion Woman I praise you Confused and misguided yet Well aware of your connection to the earth Understanding Woman I admire you But only in the night Only when it is advantageous For in the day I can only pity you as I Step up on your hip to climb over you As I stand on your head to gain a Clear line of sight that I may see My goals Opportunity I collect as pennies Status falls in shivers from my coat pocket Choice rises and arouses and reduces me 'til I'm Flaccid and numb I take of your words and place them between The weather and the classifieds I take of your pain and stick it between My tongue and my cheek I take of your love and leave only Cold pools drying in the small of your back Woman I honor you But only from a distance For when in arms reach I can only devour you. Vincent © Bob Childs Vincent remembers well the day he rode up to his love and knelt at her feet. Taking her hand, he left his kiss soft and wet upon her fingers fair. The words he spoke gave waves of chill across her arms. "I shall love thee with all my blood until my veins become brittle and spent. I shall follow thee and harbor thee and parade my love about thee for all of my life. Not soldier nor serpent shall prevent me from laying my love down before thee." Now Vincent is doing 3-5 in county lock-up for breaking the court appointed restraining order. ROPE SWING © Bob Childs I thought I may have known her name But maybe it was only wishful thinking If I were to describe her I would have to wonder Was that really how she was Or was it just how I wanted her to be Dark lines The perfect balance of Shadow and light across her face Creamy skin With a delicate spray of Freckles on her shoulder Full lips Painted a deep red most people Wouldn't have the nerve to wear in public Wild hair Flowing in waves over her shoulders Untying as the stirring of wind Carries it across her face I wonder if she posed for that picture Her boots raising up again as she Swings out over the river Twenty feet from the ground she holds the Rope loosely with only one hand Her skirt Hiked up between her legs Dances in the breeze Brushing aimlessly against her thighs Head back Hair sweeping behind her as if it were only The winds that held her there in open space Such mystery behind those eyes Obviously effected long ago by something dark She's the kind of trouble that no one wants But most find too irresistible to avoid I saw the baited grin Airbrushed at the corners of her mouth And the crunching of her eyes as she Dropped back out over the gorge Flying away I thought she may have smiled at me But maybe it was only wishful thinking. Golden Anniversary © Bob Childs "Better get to the laundry", she said Stripping the bed, she smelt of his pillow and thought… "My God, fifty years! I wonder if one could put an accurate number to How many times we've worked well into the night to Make this house our home How many times we've planted new seed in the spring to Fill our bellies in the fall I wonder if there are numbers high enough to Count the times I've made your bed in the Morning only to messy it up with you late at night Four children now grown, the result of our love "Each day with you has been a balance of My life equal to yours My desires merged with yours to become Our shared adventures I'll tell ya… My parents never kissed after fifty years Yet I kiss you every night and Carry you fresh on my tongue into Each new day …Fifty years!" She lets go of the pillowcase Dropping it into the basket It'll be a short load today "Remember long ago we were so young and we Laughed at the thought of growing old and wrinkly together? Two hobbled crows crabbing about 'Oh my aching back!' But it's been your laughter Running soft as silt across my skin That has soothed my aches It's been your faith Thick as tree sap filling my bones That has kept me young "We did it all together We lived out our lives But now you are gone And I realize it's not death that I fear As much as living the rest of my life Without you.” shhhnotalking@doomwheels.com

Marc Awodey MARC AWODEY 2000 Poetry Slam National head to head Haiku Champion. Poems by Marc Awodey have appeared in approximately 175 publications worldwide including: In print- Humanitas, Defined Providence, Writer's Journal, Portland Review, Nomads Choir, The Vincent Brothers Review, The Aurorean, Flying Horse, The Dry Creek Review, Poetry Motel, Tight, BlueLine, Plainsongs, Parnassus Literary Journal, Midwest Poetry Review, The Higginsville Reader, Voices International, Southern Poetry Review, Eccentricity, 12-gauge Review, 32 Pages, Obscure, Yomimono (Japan), The Poets Edge, Illyas Honey, Kimera, Afterthoughts (Canada), Sierra Nevada College Review, Yomonamo, Emu, Papier-Machete, Axxion (Argentina); Internet - About.com, Inter/face, The New Voice, Lexicon, Zuzus Petals Quarterly, Poetry Cafe, World Wide Writing, Poetry Magazine, Immortali Et More, Thoth, Fresh Ink, Southern Ocean Review, Glossolalia, Brooklyn Poet, Anthem, Park & Read, A Room without Walls, Gravity, Recursive Angel, Ygdrasil, Gazet, Galapagos, 15 Credibility St., nrv8, Reflections from a Murky Pond, Pogonip, Slumgullion, The Astrophysicists Tango Partner Speaks, Sparks, Friction, the Implosion, A Writers Choice Literary Journal, Write On, Webgeist, Asili, Grepoetry, Black Street/Yellow Moon, Pauper, Night People, The Poetry Pavilion, Log Cabin Chronicles, New Works Review; ...and many others. Anthologies - In Their Own Words- Voices of Generation X (MWE Publications- Raleigh, NC 1999); The 1999 Poetry Calender (CAC communications, Laguna Beach CA, 1998). Poems by M. Awodey have been broadcast by C.B.C. radio- Montreal; WBUR- Boston; Go Poetry!- NYC. New Hampshire Public Radio. He has received several minor poetry awards, and been the featured poet on many websites. Individual, and group readings with poets of the Minimal Press have included The Knitting Factory, NYC; Mobius, Boston, MA; The Middle East Cambridge, MA; The Gathering of the Tribes, New York City; The Baggot Inn Greenwich Village NYC; New England Artists Trust Congress IV Newport, NH; Gibsons Bookstore, Concord, NH; Zeitgeist Gallery Cambridge, MA; Out of the Blue Gallery, Cambridge MA; Manifest Poetry Festival, Northfeild ,VT; The Common Basis Theater, Chelsea NYC... and many other venues. He is author of: Telegrams from the Psych Ward and other poems by Marc Awodey (WPC Minimal Press- Warner, NH 1999, perfect bound 100pgs). Known reviews- Southern Ocean Review, New Works Review, Sparks, Turk's Head Review, Times-Argus, His work has also been published in many chapbooks, including Art & Machine: 95 theses, available through www.minimalpress.com His new book TELEGRAMS is available from amazon.com Marc Awodey is founder of Rhombus Gallery/Artspace in Burlington, VT. He is also an award winning art critic (contributing writer Seven Days) and a visual artist. MFA (painting) Cranbrook Academy of Art 1984.

SEVERAL UNTILTED HAIKU: © Marc Awodey * forgive me cricket one of us must do this job- and trout like you best * swans are nasty birds they honk, bite and chase children- poets lie for swans * my candor frightens the few remaining old friends who once knew me well * my woods grow darker- is it the trees or the sky shedding such kindness? * first- my slate roof burned then an unforeseen sunrise inflamed my whole house * a praying mantis leapt from a leaf to my head- she rode quite awhile * the whole day is gone i watched cars pass wrote haiku- a productive day * there were once giants but they were overwhelmed by trivial concerns * tonight we shot pool my game was off distracted by discreet poems * i fell asleep in my spectacles- broke them- composing canzonettes * earthworms chant at dawn swooping robins congregate to silence their song * transfiguration seems to happen every day- a sad miracle * i am seeking an unremembered universe- one with fewer stars * if we met again you would not recognize me- i wear rougher clothes * the songs i composed when music filled my bright hours are now voiceless psalms * my wife walked alone to a christmas party as Baudelaire stalked me * fading into sand i live like a hermit crab- blind meticulous marcawodey@mac.com

Richard's new CD rom Lost and Found RICHARD VAN DER DRAAIJ has been writing poetry for a number of years and since Spring '97 has started to be published, first in print magazines such as 'Still magazine' of the U.K., and 'Famous Reporter' in Australia, among others. More recently his poems have appeared on the internet in various poetry zines and poetry- related sites. His new CD rom LOST AND FOUND by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press is pictured above, price $12.50 - click image for details. Motto: "Poetry is Passion!" Two sites for some of his poetry: http://personal.nbnet.nb.ca and http://www.dreamagic.com/poetry/draaij.html

WORDSPARKS © Richard James van der Draaij Words, in a frenzy flying, Words and whispers in a rage of dying- -alone. Simple or crazy and complex, conveying all to one with ears, nothing to those with none. Stones of verbal structures remain amid the rivers of my mind, All the world's asleep right now, and dreams of heroic verse, myths of monsters, praise of psalms intermingle, intertwine. Thoughts and mystic powersparks all from one sacred fire, locked away inside, Glowing, burning, glowing, fading. Rest a while with me here, we sit and hardly speak, conversing none the less, And heartfelt wishes, aspirations keep on pouring into you, into me. Give me one good reason not to simply love you, Stars and age-old moon above; witnesses to this thing. To say it is to do, and act upon the stage. ISLAND OF SWANS © Richard James van der Draaij Along the winding track a thing of beauty appears: Green vivid oasis in water, On the island, around it, encircling five, six or even seven swans, Delicate creatures resting. Pure white angelic beings flocking together at long last, Not a care for the world, the present, future or past. Tranquillity by a railroad track, still thinking, I don't look back, And whenever I am speeding by they are always there, Delicate creatures resting. Dressed © Richard James van der Draaij Watching your features dressed in tomorrow's dreams, moments before dawn. Morning © Richard James van der Draaij Morning like no other Report for a year in green, Army days relived. richard@vanderdraaij.fsnet.co.uk