fromeasttowest_winter0809

8/14/2019 fromeasttowest_winter0809

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from east to west: bicoastal verse

Table of Contents:

p. 3 a southern girl poetry & art, Coleen Shinp. 14 magic will rise poetry, Pris Campbell & art, Diego Quirosp. 23 travel various poets & art by Lauren Simonep. 39 indoor life of the heart poetry, Alice Persons & art, Donna Youngp. 47 Contributors

edited by PJ Nights and Ray Sweatmancover art by Donna Young

all works 2009 by each individual poet and artist


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poetry & art by Coleen Shin

Little Kiss And Cute Boots

he puffs up walking past her door, swaggers til the dust coats his bare feetat eight, he is a child no more, he cannot wait for her to find the white flower

the rubbed shiny cobalt piece of glass from the shore, and the live mousein the felt lined shoe box with one perfect lettuce leaf and a cats eye marble.

a diorama of his affection, the loot and booty of his sincere and sweaty esteemhis black eyes squint at the sun, by his best reckoning it is only nine o'clock

the mouse should be ok for a couple of hours, though it shouldn't take that longshe practices foreign languages in the back garden with a teacher early

then skips her rope out front, he thinks no one skips as long without missingas she does, counting snakes, mistakes, and how many kisses does it take

he imagines only one


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Coleen ShinAs Told in Prophesy and Telemundo

It is not too late, we have mercy in cold storage,in black galleons off shore, under a thousand waves.

to dispense a magic that is simple as a basic chord.Forget everything you know about power, about light

about tomorrow. wander with your eyes closed

hand map every contour of the closest body.

This is your neighbor, your stranger, your whoresit in a congress of two and lay out your monies.

Some won't think it a valid transaction, it's only one

or it's 3.3 billion smaller more murderous factions

I'm a simple soul, and it's worth less than it ever wassold on the open market We fall away one by one.

Science, never once did it keep me warm,

now it's the only thing that does, when it's cold

when every shoulder is sloped, turned black

as crow and harsh as the caw from a winter tree.

I would hate every wake and every dream

to be that alone, to know it like a liver or spleen

knows only what it does and nothing morethough integral to the whole, we still don't get it..

I am over here collecting dents, tiny speakers in my ears

music I borrow from strangers, my rose hued lenses

work as well as they are meant to. The sunwill take a thousand million years to make its point.

A shame, I love its warmth, sit in bright pools of it

like a brittle, bent elder, forgetting what is wrong.


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Coleen ShinSandScript

I wanted a little symmetry, to be half a star lit strandhoarding shells up my sleeves, in my pockets, and sandpoured slipping to fill the seams, a million small sparklesin my hand. Worried, I put everything, every bit of it back.Who would care, who knows it defines the woman I am.

I accomplish little, spend one perfect hour, a ripehour, watching the clock, each second sweeps past.Sixty minutes I warn myself , don't look awaythis is a test, part future, part past, part OCDpart some inherent lack. I should be able to look

see, learn something essential. I did. I hate time,love its round face and the purity of known absolutes.

This time I won't lie when my lover asks me if I got mine.Another habit to break, 13 times, it takes 13 timesto break a bad habit, but it's hard to not breathe his nameto wiggle my hips to speed the process. I wonder now,wonder if he knows, if he even cares, and nowit's really too late to ask. We own each other, gratefulfor those early reckless wars on the bed, the poor bedits broken slats. We are sound together still, though

the light has dimmed, it is as warm as it ever was.

Tonight, I will woo him, give it up with a dirty girl grin.

Remind him how we tumble down mountainshow we wreck like cars crushed and smokinglike a storm with thunder and white spider lightning, we'll rainall over each other, mud slick thighs and somewhere, elsewherethe riots, the howling, the screw, the news, the great big winwill mean nothing. We will matter We will rule benevolent.We will walk the dogs in the late violet nightrecognize the brighter stars, give each other their namesa gift of diamonds in the first dark minutes of early morn.


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Coleen ShinPoets As Pets

she writes in a rage because she is youngand beautiful and beauty like red flowersdraws attention to itself, baby pretty girllong calves, knees and elbows sharphair she draws like drapes to cover herselfshe wraps the magnets in her in russet hairshe throws ashtrays, crouches in closetsunder stairs, has too many uncles, sales menjust friends, rug burns and morning stained eyesshe will not make the cut deep enoughwhy should she? Lent will have her given up

she'll rest only long enough to call homeeasy breezy cover-girl lies, borrow saltfor her wounds, tape for her thighs, milkfor her bones and teeth, runaway to himfrom him to him, walk a desperate milefor the usual, neat, water back, everyone herehas always been here, every lie has been liedevery bruise looks like the virgin maryand must be photographed, memorialized.She sings when she's stoned in the mirrorsitting on bathtub's edge to a sleeping cat

in plastic sink, swearing a soft lullabya narrative for kittens on codeine a hymnfor him, a hum of her own, an aria to shower by.She writes as if no one will ever read itlike a wail from a well on an abandoned setwriting sex sonnets to a man she hasn't methates him at once, but loves him twicewants a pasture, a pond, peace, pie.Wants it to be over and over and over.Its never over, I could tell her thatbut I couldn't stand to see her eyes.


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Coleen ShinCriminal Mischief

slipping things under doors is my stylethis is a stick up, stay inside, slide the most valuableof your valuables in the envelope and push it back

I wonder why I'm not rich

I want for everything, the niche marketis limiting, is sadly compromisedby the nature of my entrepreneurial lackI've a collection of receipts, of room menusand second hand valentines

never a rolex, or ever cash

I'm unwilling to shoot through doorsabhor a sneaky hallway attackits not working out, I peel off the stamp.

do you wonder? should I find other avenuesto cruise in search of nervous ultimatums?

a list of my demands

1. stop it this instance2. wash my get away car3. remember my blood type4. tell me who you are

Its fitting I am a thief and a liarI've stolen every day from its berthbrought it in slim bright agoniesthrough the deepest fog

I asked you a question

who is this sudden drop in temperaturewhy is my shine graded on a curvewhere are we relative to the nearest tornado


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Coleen Shinits all an unlit hall of mirrorsa theme park with dark hollow rides

I fear the turns that throw us hard together

I'm glad we're on the same side


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Coleen ShinI Wont Die For You

there's nothing in it for me

I dangle my disease,try to catch a curewhen they cut me,I dreamed of babies

on my wide hip,their milk breath and eyeswanting to bubble gumon my breasts and sleep

my scars are happy, they smilefrom hipbone to hipbonethey fade as the years go byone puckers near my navel

when you fall on me at nightwhen you are hungryand I am a bone dry cynicI count ceiling tiles, I count

the ones who died inside meI count on you for everythingwrite inside my head a bookof lists, endless and useless

When you come, I goto shower away your minionsslippery and a wanton wasteI name them water nymphs

Tell them love love love youtell them better luck next lifewonder my self damp eyednone are mine, none are mine


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Coleen ShinIt's a good house, noisythe radio competes

the dogs are children and spoiledit isn't enough, you must be

won't you be? a lover at leastof my unborn things?my glib pick-pocket lifemy wet paint and dandelions?


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Coleen Shin4AM Hero Practice

He likes it when I'm fretful, fishing at sound outside the doorknows I will put a soft knee to his kidneys, curl into his haira whisper,go see, pleasewhile dragging his blanket and sheetbundling them to me, a soft hostage til his eventual return

He will go, stand sloe-eyed and sleepy staring at the contentsof the refrigerator, eat a few grapes, give a couple to the dogthen wend his way to the front door, look through the peepinto the night, make a bright showy sound of jiggling the knob

before following his yawn back here to me, crawl back in bed

divest me of wool and warmth, take even the pillow I lay onwhat was it, the soundI ask having left to stand one foot pinningthe other, to peek through a white thin crack in the door to the hall

It's some guy with a chainsaw, he has a flat, needs to use a phonethis favorite line of his prefaced with a little snort, followedin mere minutes by a sonorous full fledged snore well, fine thenI creep still anxious onto the bed, sit listening, leaned into the dark


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Coleen ShinSouthern Girls

So, you have dusted off a yearningFound a belle to ring yourswe who love you, love you welllisten intently at noon and midnightto crickets and frogs, to owlswonder why, wonder how, you seehistorically we are encrypted with doubtWe torture daisies for answersAre secretive and greedyGive and give and want wantonlyPine and pale, weave in and out

And if you are not mad yetIf you are not truly bent, bereavedIt's not enoughIt is enough, on only WednesdaysHow dare you, why don't youPlease and please and not nowA litany of lashes and poutseven then it is not that simpleYou must not know, but may assumeIts less treacherousAssume the door is open

That just bruised your noseAssume the water is sweet and coldMeasure in metric, absolve us of poundsGlances and simpers and sighsRead and read and write them all downThen for God's sake, burn itHave you a river of scars belovedWhat did you do to earn it?Did you long to know a secretThat might well break a stoic's heartThen drink all night to return it?Oh the past, the future, foreverToday, tomorrow and neverIt is a misery and we love thatA delight with undertones of decayMust like a broken fluttering thingBe petted and sung to, wept forWith shaking hands, a sainted heartSummarily packed away.


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poetry by Pris Cambell, art by Diego Quiros

Until Lilies Overpower

When we made our pact,lilies bloomed from my hands.I laid them on the gravesof dead lovers.

You were to come in the spring,wade with me in the seaswhere Vikings once sailed,

kiss my breasts until the sun glintedpink off the morning waters, but

I grow old waiting, love.My legs are pillars of salt.The lilies have dried upand long blown away.The sea snarls under my toes.

Only in my dreamsdo I see you, bearing gifts

of pale luminous gownsand bright bangles to spoil me.

You lay your body acrossmine until an early tide moans,and I wake suddenly, the scentof lilies overpowering


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosInnocenceIt's kind of like learningto slip your bra off underyour sweater so he can touchyou--those little tricks you learnover the years in some dark Chevyor maybe if you're lucky, a sofa.He learns to come with his jeans onbegging for more and maybe youcome too if he slips his hand downyour panties and touches you justright. You learn how to find

that safe line between teasing and pleasingbecause once you cross to the otherside you can't ever go back and youlearn later that innocence is an aphrodisiacand no boy will ever again quite love youlike he did that night with one hand on yourbreast, the other down your pants, 'your' songon the radio and the moon writingits name on every heartbeat.

~Previously published in Poems Niederngasse


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosAll There Is

Before it happens, you wonder...will it be like Rhett bearing Scarlet up the staircase,Brando's rough hands driving you crazybefore he goes back to Stella.Maybe Cary Grant, with his chin-cleffed charisma,handing you a hot diamond first.

You wonder about the blood.Will it stain the sheets or backseat,scarlet-letter your underpants?Might his rubber burst, your diaphragm

fail or the pill double-cross you?

But, it's no movie. He's young.His hands jam in your bra,zipper sticking, beforeramming to his sudden ahhhhhhthen you race to beat curfew, tissues in panties,feeling that sad thud inside,like when your ice cream drops off the cone,painting a puddled abstract on the hotsummer sidewalk.

You wonder if that's all there is.You wonder if the magic will rise for you, too,when the cinema lights next go down?


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosLost In Graceland

Elvis wanders through Graceland,wonders why the rooms are roped off,why strange women in Elvis tees,scarves over their curlers, walkthrough his house weeping.He's tired of hearing Hound Dogon the speakers, could care lessif he's anybody's Teddy Bear.

He wonders where Priscilla is,why Lisa Marie looks right through him.

He doesn't get the supermarket jokes,the bobbing Elvis dolls or why busloadsof strangers light candles outside every day.He hears rumors he's dead but figuresthe Colonel hid him, cooked that up for publicity.

Sometimes he takes a Caddyout onto the Memphis streets,shark fins cleaving a slipstreamgobbling the memories behind him.He dreams of his sweet mama,

peanut butter and banana sandwiches,his quieter days in Tupelo.

Most of his sequins have fallen.They leave a starry trailto trace and retrace each night buthe trembles when a new one tumbles.If they're gone before the Colonel returns,how will he find his way?


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosTruth and Other LiesHuddled under Nam's deepening shadowwe drank too much wine,ate burnt turkey, neglectedwhile wading the Hawaiian surf.

We strung shells into necklaces,talismans for our husbands to take back to war,promised friendships stretching to forever,but it's been years now since we spoke.

I fall dizzily to ground

ear the tremor of grass blades,hear old laughter and bare feetsprinting across gray sand,see youthful hands grasping forfutures never meant to be held tight.

~ Previously published inMiPo


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosRunaway

Bare on the stained mattress,hair spread beneath herlike the flame of a rising sun,this runaway, this woman fleeingher midlife, waits for the crazy man.

He lives in a jade forest,cabin carved with his fingernails.They've spied on him since Nam,he's told her, aiming satellites closein to listen, painting cryptic messages

across the sky with their jets.

She doesn't care.She half believes him, wantsto believe him in her rush to escapeher glass house by the sea.

For that moment,that sweep into another lifein her wish for a new man inside her,a fresh mouth suckling her breast

she has given up everything, but

he carves deeper into the forest.The voices say she's the enemy, too.Thorns cut her feet leaving.Judas kisses away her tears.A cross marks the road home.

~Previously published in The Cliffs: Soundings


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosRed Ones, Blue Ones

A trained corsetire,my aunt measuredlarge breastssmall breastsjust blooming breastsover the hill breastsrandy breastsshy breastswell used breastsnever been touched breasts.

At least once a weekshe spoke of her dreams.Balloons. Always about balloons.Red ones blue ones white onesall set adrift and rising until,peak reached and deflating,they fell to the earth in soft plops.Like a late summer rain.Like the sound of a boy's gaspas he jerks off to a photobought for a buck.

~Previously published in Ocho


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosLast RitesI have often paddledpast my margin of safety,once fucking a madmanin the lull of a hurricane's howl.

I have splashed eagerlythrough baptismal pools, immersingmyself in sins shed by others,to sample ungodly fruit.

I have seduced liars,

beggars, rich men, & priests,stolen chocolates fromold ladies, and calledevangelical talk shows justto rate my last bedded lover.

I do not come seekingabsolution, confessional wafersor prayers for salvation.

My only request is that

I exit this lifetimestraddling the lapof a warm, lusty man,muscatel tumbling emptyfrom one fading hand.

~Previously published in Poems Niendergasse


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Pris Campbell, Diego QuirosCity of Forgiven WhoresIn this citywhere birds fly upsidedown, and sadness is a weltmade by a raindrop he comes to me.

He speaks of sleep-talking dreamers,whores dunked by blind preachers,then kisses me like when we were young.

I tug him insideand we soar till our wings melt--

two candles, burnt to the nubof a universe rebuilding.

We fall past old godsconverted to new ways of seeinginto the clear cleansing river of Erosthat finally Huck Finns us away.

~Previously published in In The Fray


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various poets, art by Lauren Simone

Outside Oklahoma City

Room 428 of the Holiday Inn.I'm lying on the Mexican-print bedspread,scratching my dog's belly.A tiny plane flies over the strip of motels.Bountiful hours.Around the shiny, spreading city,big red land.The sun covers everything for a thousand miles,and I turn my belly to it.On the color TV Elton John is singing his line of sunshine

in a Donald Duck suit,and I'm on my way to downtown Oklahoma City any minute,a new American city, where space replaces time.

~Ruth Lepson


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travel, art by Lauren Simone'Paris'

after we took the photo, just trying tocapture the mist, I laid downin the snow, your mouth tasted likeblackberry, your eyes didn't scare mewith their loudness

heh. you painted them with yourskin till they turned quiet again

I had to lay, my legs were jello

WE had to lay AND we lost your white thong

your coat was scratchy

when I held you, I was back on thebayou, I was home

we were high & I remember knowingthat death was curled above us

you were drunk, your eyes

savage & their real green, the oceanunder glass

you said we would make it throughthe winter, that only our eyelids would beparanoid, that we could make paper boatsfor spring, buy a bubbly new houseplant, trya new tobacco

are you sure I said, bubbly?

yeah, I wrote it on the back of the photo

in you , I always forgot myself


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travel, art by Lauren Simonein me you were a velvet star, burning crimsonin me you were a man & a child, you were my

safety rope through winter, a storm that wasnot aimless

and you, you shook the grey out of each dayeven now you are still my word heart, aflower in the snow

~Tasha Klein


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travel, art by Lauren Simone

We Visit China

You are sitting aloneI come quietly into the roomYou look up and smileI kneel down to take off your shoesI kiss your dear feet.

Summer Journey

The farther you travelthe more beautiful the roaddeep through the deserted north countryA handful of leftover snowturns to water in your handWild geese are flying southThe river is deep hereNow, at moonrise, step to the brinkand tell me - What dreams?

~Grace Andreacchi


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneStone Journey

fugitive from bedrock,no longer pure,low-minded, stubborn,

content to lazeaside the sun's hip,hawking twinkleswith its quartz,

pestering shadows.

a boy picks it up,flings it to scorean owl hole in a pine,

and the stone just sitsin the dark, too proud to hatch,until the tree collapsesafter decades, and sunlightstreams again.

yet still the stone says nothing,

no commenton its hurtling trip,or the long dead boy,or the time it almostflied.

~Chris Crittenden


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneMorning Meditation

I go out into the bright Calumet dawnthe nearby church bells clamor a familiar tune

all this sun on last night's snowI'll need sun glasses to go to the harbor

on Cliff Drive, Seneca Lake is icesnow snakes along the road in light wind

brown grass and empty trees slip bya confusion of images until the cliff appears

rising on the left, top lost in snow mistno one on the road, even with me, no one

~Tom Blessing


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travel, art by Lauren Simonegreen spark at sunset

I am a shade of starsheart of the seadancing in the mist

a poet sometimeswithout words for life.

my possible companion,with me looking ahead atpossibility, timid and strong,across the vast dry plain.

and with a tongue of dewon lips of silent spaces

listen to this void whispereternally happy to try and benearby while haunting wordshunger for the time whenthe heart of the sea sheds its distanceand dissolves its mist; myblue warmth whetting spaces

whole, yet hilly,a horizon accepts sun,large eye, sparknestles ingreen comfort

~Jewel Forga


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneMt. Namsan, Gyeongju, South Korea

This heat exhausts us all.We rest for a momentbeside the smiling Buddhacarved into the mountain.Ours, for a moment,this sunlit cliff, cool windsliding over channels of stone.Upward we climb again,hand over hand, the last twenty feetof weathered rope.Young, red-faced and sweating,

we stand silent, breathing inthe breeze.

Gyeongju, South Korea

The hills disappear inthis constant humidity,this periodic rain.Distance gone, only what is near is real:the path on the shore of this lake,all these wordsI cannot read.

~ Kristyn Blessing


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travel, art by Lauren Simone

Oak Springs Trail

scents of yerba santa,rosemary and sage,young yuccas towering,sun-drenched erections

below spiralsof ochre-black hawks,a single feather falling,my hand soon its candle,

prop for speckled flame.

lifting fingers high,waxy with glistens,i watch quill flicker,hot in july wind.

then release it to fly,soaring on a wishthat extinguishes us both

~Chris Crittenden


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneAwaking to the sight of blue

wafting my nostrilsand dust fogging my eyesalmost viewing stacks of totesTea totally Jackto the stir of lattebathed in cucumber creamAnd steeped in chunksof instant Maxwell houseon a hotplateRinging red with passion

spent long ago in a farawayLouisiana Bayou swamping fliesand alligator bellysbooted with steel tipped spearsPiercing dark babies earsand sparkling spit through the gapin the old man's two front teeththat belonged to the old ladytwo doors down from a songand a sin lost in aqua eyesthat do not

belong to the bone child.I turn and ask, "whose 'u' is it held byblue?"fading into denimStone washed, scrapedand stitched by little fingersplaying tap docShoot the spotstriking words from the recordrestraining and strainingthe eggs through dropped soupas cross examination beganin the overstuffed reclinerBetween God and all cushions presentand unpresently accounted for and to

The pickup stalling timethen engining through the football goaltending Pucks fucking captainshats and croquet malletsas red and orange balls areSmacked through iron wicketsbent with a 'u' that was not included norConsidered as a dropped optionpicking up the rain checkwithout the purple umbrella

flipping backwards and upwardsin response to the howlsof the children as they bark delightin the darkholding rubbery shrubsScratching and sniffingsilent sounds of sightas lightning strikes twicedespite thunder chancesat 555-lite media style inputplugged looking for the router

and love in grand Paris.For the law movingto the law as it lays the lawyeragainst the wall gaveling the hammerbehind dark glasses and a black felt hattickling feathers of the crowfortified against the snowatop the phone boothwhere Superman finds his 'S'and fills the tightsto the brim of the tea cupstewing the old bag.

~Constance Pavliska


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travel, art by Lauren Simonepicking thimbleberries

we're both too thirsty and tired to keepwalkingand our bottle of la fin du mondelasted only long enough for the trip to thepointthe end of the worldwe're there, you saylaughing as you slap at blackfliesdeerflieshorsefliessandflies

andwhat are those?never seen those kind beforewell, they bite, just the samemy ears bleedinglike they always dostumbling among the broad, cloth-like leaveslook there!a whole ten yards of themalmost too ripeone week from falling off and rotting

but here we areready to save themthree quarters go into tupperwarethe rest we eatrich with juice and sugarslet the tourists pay ten dollars for a jar of jamwe're here at the sourceamazing where three miles can take you

Zachary Blessing


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneRelaxed Companions

They finish the cactus-juicecustard on the Beach of Souls,and walk slowly up the slopetoward the street, ruby heatof the setting sun penetratingtheir backs.

Custard cups bonk into the barrelwith the buzzing flies. They hear"mira!", and turn around to catchthe "Green Flash" just before the

sun's slip into the ocean.It looks like the flaring of atorch plunged in water, a dancingtwist of flame that dies out. Theywish upon it, per local custom.

Passing through the gate now, sheslumps against the stucco wall,closing eyes, filling lungs witha last draught of sea air.

Lips brush along above the collarboneand for a moment, only the touch exists,splashing across skin, bursting in thebrain, making ears ring.

He hums and helps her stand.There is only the sound of small waves,and the clicking of foam sandalsunder the darkening sky.

~Jim Knowles


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneAmelia Mary on Her Birthday

Holding the saucer with a steady hand,you lifted the Earl Grey to lipswhich lay across your facetwin leopards back to backmotionless now, but not asleep.

Such admirable hands.So capable.Motivated with equal measuresof kindness and precision.At home on the throttles

or with a pen / a napkin / a bandage.

The leopards stirred to receive their duewhile owls above your cheekbonesdivided the horizonand measured Montana acres spreading.One hundred and seven today.Im so happy you could be here.Thank you for coming.The deep owls glowedkeen with vitality;

in perfect ignoranceof their magnificence.

Something happened on the Big Flight.Ive told no one before today.The cup and saucer now set aside.Your head eased back;resting a grey maneon thick brocade rolls.

The runway at Laehad been left behind.Up into the July morningon metalled wings stunning.Nineteen thirty sevenand you soon to be forty.All was Pacificbelow and beyond,as well as within.

Above New Britain,and onward through the afternoon.Seeing the Solomons stretchNorth and South;then fading in the propwash.With the Ocean dominantnight arrived;and you spun your light into it.Midnight came and went,leaving no scent of passage.In the air

through many nights since May -cabin instruments updated constantbriefings;their insincere glow sangdangerous lullabies.It came before dawnHowland Island and bedalready made in the minds reckoning.Your heading,the Equator,the Date Line

and at that singular intersectionsomething left you.It was the feeling of a fire guttering out.A fire of need no longer felt.A fire of threat no longer feared.The Pacific had immersed you.

That was that.

Then, of course, a demonstrative dawn;a cheerful greeting from the "Itasca".Howland foundand the sweetest sleep.

There would be no more Big Flights.You had more than certainty.Many, many hours yetto indulge the verticaland return enriched -but no more need


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travel, art by Lauren Simoneto stretch your signaturearound the world,

so that it loved you.

There. A small moment in a great time.You know I think that I am ready.Yes, I think so.A nap is in order, do pardon me.You rose and strodefrom the sunroomwith only a hint of stiffness.Turning in at your dooryou gave the tiniest wave.

An hour had passed.Clouds played above,mimicked by flat shadowsdraped over fields or wood.I had an urge to see you.

Off with noisy shoesand down the cool corridor

toward the sound of your fan.You seemed a Bernini recumbentupon a granite back above [the] coversshoes together on the floor.Russell, curled at your feet,regarded me momentarilybefore returning to loud purrsand sleep hunting.

So it was that I saw you last.Saw your chest rise steeply;

then a savored exhalelong, slow and endingin absolute stillness.

~Neil C. Leach, Jr.


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneWaits is growling 'bout the one that got away

and i rememberall those poems

i thought ofwhile driving

from detroit tothe keweenawthose poems

that were lostin my memory

along darkhighways

beneath afull moon

reflecting offfrozen waves

along the shoresof Lake Superior

while teacooled in

the cup holderand Tom growledfrom the speakers

and morningseemed nomore than

a despicablemoment

where everythingseems distant

and false

~Tom Blessing


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travel, art by Lauren SimoneA Moment In A Latitude With Death

smiling like a widowwho's been through manylies of men,wanton as she goesfrom bed to bed,mansion to mansion,every foyerthat has given hopea try-

into jungles

where baboonsand tigers fade,back to sweaty profusehumanity,no longer a woman,more like a gaspthat stalls lungs,cashiers their chores.

off to a savannawhere elephants dwindle

down a tusky road-backto sick or violent people,legions of themfeeding the ground,and others beggingnot to go there, clutchingtheir wasted lives.

~Chris Crittenden


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poetry by Alice Persons, art by Donna Young

Revenge of the Metaphors

Untrue lover,your treachery laid me low.When the ugly end cameI carried a big empty spacejust behind my breastbonefor a yearand twenty yearshaven't revised the memory.

You were the soft slipperhiding a scorpion,a familiar knifethat slips and draws blood,the safe droppedon the unwary pedestrian.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungFeng Shui

"It's good to have poems that begin with tea and end with God."~Robert Bly

Cleaning out the pantry,I come across an old straw boxfilled with a motley assortmentof tea bagsgoing back years,and stand there musingover their histories,their provenance.

This Ceylon tea from a former friendwho faded away when I got a divorce;this jasmine tea a souvenir from an exlover's trip to Japan - the onewhere I called his hotel at 3 AMand a woman answered;this herbal raspberry tea from asensible vegetarian friend,during my regrettable phaseof swearing off caffeine and sugar.

These tiny scented envelopesrecall my younger selvesand those formerly vivid peopleonce close enough to drink tea with,to give and take small gifts.All the ghostly tea-drinkersare lost to me - goneto other countries,other friends,unknown lovers,gone to seed,gone to California,gone to God.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungStealing Lilacs

A guaranteed miracle,it happens for two weeks each May,this bounty of richeswhere McMansion, trailer,the humblest drivewayburst with color -- pale lavender,purple, darker plum --and glorious scent.This morning a battered station wagondrew up on my streetand a very fat woman got out

and started tearing branchesfrom my neighbor's tall old lilac --grabbing, snapping stems, heavingarmloads of purple spraysinto her beater.A tangle of kids' arms and legswrithed in the car.I almost opened the screen doorto say something,but couldn't begrudge her theft,or the impulse

to steal such beauty.Just this once,there is enough for everyone.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungSunday

Stores are closed; the library's locked.I drive through an empty downtown.Without people, trash takes over the streets.On TV, old gray and white movies,women with dated hairdos, dark lipstick.

Listen: the clock in the bedroom,a phone ringing next door,laughter blowing across the courtyard.

Drinking tea, I read until the print blurs,

undress in unbroken silence,lie waiting for sleepand vivid, human dreams.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungTo My Cat with an Eating Disorder

You were thrown out of a moving vehicleon a dirt roadin chilly winter downeast Maine,little fur scrap, and I hope you don'tcarry that memory with you,but the hunger, the deep fearthat you'll never see food againis still there five years laterwhen you are huge and sleek,a sumo Buddha of a cat.

I've seen you, after a big meal,heave yourself from a sound sleep,pad into the kitchen, launch your bulkonto the counter, and check the food supply,then crouch there chewing and chewing,green eyes empty, concentratingon your burden, your compulsion,doggedly eating, whether you want to or not.

There are stories about Holocaust orDepression survivors whose refrigerators

and pantries are always full, just in case,how some of them still wake in the nightand check their abundant supplies,run their hands over the packages,or eat without hunger, just because they can.

Cat, I stand in the dark kitchenstroking your broad back,wishing I could banish the fearsof one small, common creature,those bad dreams that awaken you,that hollow place in your memorywhich can never be filled.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungWhy I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man

you bring me all the things I orderare never in a bad moodalways have a jaunty wave as you drive awaylook good in your brown shortswe have an ideal uncomplicated relationshipyou're like a cute boyfriend with great legswho always brings the perfect present(why, it's just what I've always wanted!)and then is considerate enough to go awayoh, UPS Man, let's hop in your clean brown truck and elope!you ditch your job, I'll ditch mine

let's hit the road for Brownsvilleand tempt each otherwith all the luscious brown foods --roast beef, dark chocolate,brownies, Guinness, homemade pumpernickel, molasses cookiesI'll make you my mama's bourbon pecan piewe'll give all the packages to kind looking strangerslive in a cozy wood cabinwith a brown dog or twoand a black and brown tabbyI'm serious, UPS Man. Let's do it.

Where do I sign ?


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungNo More Nature Poems

Okay, plenty of us like to look at birds.Flowers are swell, sunsets,trees, the stars -- all dandy.But let's face it --it's all been said, described,coveredby thousands of writers.What could we possibly saythat would improveon the ancient Chinese poets, anyway ?I concede that a few poets since Li Po

have hit one out of the park,but how many of us are Hopkins or Oliver ?

I'm a city woman.Give me poems with kitchen tables,toast crumbs,books and magazines,Grandmother's plates,postcards from Florida,baby pictures,Scrabble tiles,

the smell of Sunday roast,the feel of the seats in Dad's old car,the Thanksgiving menu that never changed

what it was like to leave,how it feels to go back;what you left,what you carry with you --all the messy, vivid indoor lifeof the heart.


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Alice Persons/Donna YoungNight Walk

The dog and I silently pass by housesnondescript in the daytimenow open curtains and yellow lamplightgive me glimpses of strangers' livesfigures passing through roomsthe almost ubiquitous blue light of huge TVsoften the screen is big enoughso I can catch a fleeting look at what they're watchingcolorful explosions, a lion bounding after a gazellethe dog pulls me past quick snapshotschildren's artwork on the refrigerator door

in a bright yellow kitchen where someone's bakingsomething with cinnamon that makes my mouth waterenormous family photos crowding a walloften a silhouette upstairs absorbed in another blue screensometimes I'm rewarded with something differentthe soaring swell of a Verdi ariaa cat in the window regarding me intentlya quiet cottage with candles lit and no TV onand once, a house where the faint sound ofVan Morrison's "Tupelo Honey" floated outand two tall white-haired people

were waltzing through their living room


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featured poets

Pris Campbell's free verse poetry has been published in journals and poetrycollections such as Poems Niederngasse, MiPo Publications (print/digital/radio), East to WestJournal, Boxcar Poetry Review(her poem in the May 2007 issue won the issue's peer award), andThe Dead Mule. She was recently featured poet in In The Fray, Empowerment4Women, Tears in theFence and Thunder Sandwich. She has three chapbooks out: Abrasions, published by RankStranger Press, Interchangeable Goddesses, with Tammy Trendle, by Rose of Sharon Press, andHesitant Commitments by Lummox Press (http://www.lummoxpress.com ) for their LittleRed Book series. Raised in the Carolinas, Pris has lived in the midwest, Hawaii, NewEngland and now lives in the greater West Palm Beach, Florida with her husband, a spoileddog and a cat who sleeps on her rough poetry drafts. Formerly a clinical psychologist, she

has been sidelined with CFIDS since 1990.

Alice Persons lives in Westbrook, Maine. Her three poetry chapbooks are Be CarefulWhat You Wish for, Never Say Never, and Dont Be a Stranger. She is the publisher of Moon PiePress, which has published 45 poetry books, including five anthologies(http://www.moonpiepress.com ). The latest anthology is one of animal poetry calledAgreeable Friends, with the work of 46 poets.

Coleen Shin is a writer and artist living in Cedar Hill Texas with her husband andson. Coleen enjoys spending time wandering the wooded hills behind her home with herdogs and watching the seasons change. Published works include poems in Women of the Web,Mipo Magazines, an electronic chapbook on From East to Westas well as numerous works inonline journals over the past 9 yrs. Coleen hopes to eventually relocate to the deepestgreenest parts of rural SE Oklahoma where many rowdy little versions of herself roam andplay in the form of five beautiful nieces.


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featured artists

Diego Quiros is a poet, artist, and electrical engineer living with his family in SouthFlorida. He was born in 1962 in Havana, Cuba, lived in Spain for several years, and traveledto the United States by himself at age ten. His poetry, has been published in several issues ofOcho, Mipoesias, and Verse Libre Quarterly. Diego also co-hosted the MipoRadio showDeconstructions. Diegos first collection of poems Alchetry, a study on the four elementsof writing and their relation to the four basic elements; was recently published by Goss 183(formerly Menendez Publishing) and it is available at Amazon. In June of 2004, several ofDiego's paintings, mosaics, and stained glass panels were featured on a local PBS televisionstation in the Miami area. He credits all his work to conversations with a Muse he describesas a woman with long dark green hair, green eyes, and light green skin. He claims she walks around his home in South Florida and drops subtle whispers here and there. VisitDiego on the web atwww.diegoquiros.com.

Lauren Simone drinks tea too hot and too quickly. This is because she lives inPortland, Maine. When she's not teaching art, she draws. Sometimes she draws maps thatshe imagines. You can find her work at silentlanguages.etsy.com.

Donna Young has her head in the stars as lead educator for the Chandra X-RayObservatory. She constructs her art from photographs, images from vintage books andsheet music, and any other scrap that strikes her fancy. Her childhood farm in Maine isfeatured often. When going for Sunday drives with Donna, you may have to pull oversuddenly for her to snap her camera at moss hung trees, abandoned buildings, or a cow witha white bird on its back. Visit more of her altered art atwww.stonewallstudioalteredart.com.

travel poets

Grace Andreacchi is an American-born novelist, poet and playwright. Works includethe novels Scarabocchio and Poetry and Fear (Andromache Books), Music for Glass Orchestra(Serpent's Tail), Give My Heart Ease (New American Writing Award) and the chapbookElysian Sonnets. Her work appears in Eclectica, Word Riot, Pen Pusher and many other fineplaces. She lives in London and writes a regular literary blog 'Amazing Grace'(graceandreacchi.blogspot.com) and maintains a website at graceandreacchi.com.


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travel poets

Kristyn Blessing is currently an ESL instructor at Michigan Technological

University. She recently received her MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota StateUniversity, Mankato. She spent the summer of 2008 teaching English in Gyeongju, SouthKorea.

Tom Blessing lives in the old copper mining town of Calumet, Michigan wherewinters are long and life is good. He is also very please to have a son and daughter who arealso poets.

Zachary Blessing is too busy playing Katamari Damacy to write a biography now.

Chris Crittenden lives near a lighthouse in a remote coastal area. There are no trafficor street lights nearby. He believes poetry explifies the depth and honesty to which humanscan attain. Some recent acceptances are from Poems Niederngasse, Poetic Diversity, DMQ Reviewand Thick With Conviction.

Jewel Forga is a native Californian who resides in Long Beach. She has been writingpoetry for about ten years. Her poems have been published in Perian Springs, Tryst, WritersMonthly, andMannequin Envy.

Tasha Klein lives in the Chicago area. She is inspired by the poetry of Anne Sexton, Jim Morrison & e.e. cummings. Her latest publications are in Numinous , ConcelebratoryShoehorn Review: Issue 1 and 20, Starfish, Contemporary American, and Venereal Kittens.

Jim Knowles is an engineer, poet, and artist who grew up in Maine and lives inMassachusetts. His work has appeared in Mipoesiaspublications, in From East to West, as arunner-up in the 2008 Poetry Superhighway contest, and in the air at open mics and readingsin Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine.


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travel poets

Neil C. Leach, Jr. was born June 2, 1954 in Richmond, Virginia. He currently resides

in Concord, North Carolina and has been married 23 years to Katherine "Denise" Leach, aremarkable woman in every sense of the word. He has 3 sons: Marshall Derek Leach - age23 - United States Marine, Andrew Dallas Leach - age 22 - United States Air Force, andDarin Scott Leach - age 18 - United States Air Force. He attended the University of NorthCarolina at Charlotte, concentrating on the Bachelor of Creative Arts program; working inserigraphy, stone lithography, etching, and graphics of numerous media. He wrote his firstpoem October 6, 2002. He has been honored as a featured poet of Liquid Poetry for theyear 2002 and has several top ten NPAC finishes. He enjoys public reading from time totime and continues to pursue writing as a recreation.

Ruth Lepson is poet-in-residence at the New England Conservatory of Music inBoston. Her books of poetry are Dreaming in Color (Alice James Books), Morphology, and IWent Looking for You( both from blazevox.org). Her writing has appeared inJacket, Carve, BigBridge, Agni, and many other publications. In recent years she has been collaborating withmusicians & has a jazz/poetry group, low road.

Constance Pavliska is a writer/artist/imagist who resides in Old Town, Maine withher family and two dogs. Her work has appeared in The Stolen Island Review, MaineBeggar, GreenRock Review, Harlow Gallery, Lord and Carnegie Hall Galleries and is currently being shown

online in both The Maine Art Scene Photography Show and The Maine Photography Show.Her website address iswww.constancepavliska.com.


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