Thinking Out Loud   Wednesday, January 29, 2014

My photos this week are the result of a random ramble though my image files, stopping along the way
as I saw something I thought might be interesting, pleasing, whatever. Nothing else to it.

My anthology is The KGB Bar Book of Poems. The book was published in 2000 by Harper Collins.

The KGB Bar is a Soviet-era themed bar located in New York City's East Village. The second-floor venue was a speakeasy for Ukrainian socialists who met there, behind locked doors, during the McCarthy years. Since the bar opened in 1993, it has become a New York literary institution, with free poetry and fiction readings five days a week (Sunday through Thursday).

The book is a collection of poems read at the bar during its first three years of operation.

More poems from my library again this week, as well as new poems (memory series) and old poems from me.

This would be the this of it.

come  the resurrection

Erin Belieu
Your Character is Your Destiny

an instruction in the grander scheme of things

Daniel Nathan Terry
The Field (Fredericksburg
Still Life Outside the Surgeon's Tend (Fredericksburg)

continental  divide

Thomas Lux
Plague Victims Catapulted  Over Walls Into Besieged City

I dissemble convincingly
bright day

Samuel Hazo
Accident Ahead

gravity's gold

Tom Carey

Monday notes

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
from A Coney Island of the Mind  #s 21, 22, 23, & 25

seasons changing around us

 Mark Strand
The Night, the Porch

charcoal cat

Li-Young Lee
My Indigo

three days on the mountain 

Paisley Rekdal
on getting a dog and being told what I really wanted was a child

season of zombies walking      


This is my first new poem of the week, a continue of the menu series I started last week.

come the resurrection

the path down and back
is steep and arduous, especially
for older people,
though benches along the way
provide a place to stop and rest
a moment to breath thin air
and listen to the wind
between canyon walls,
the stubby trees
restless in response

birds call along the way
but go silent
among the ruins,
homage to the ghosts
who patrol the bare adobe rooms,
guarding the ancient wall
until those who left
return again, pull from storehouses
the grain and seed they left
for this very day
of resurrection

we are silent visitors,
with the birds, waiting for the
tread of soft
so long absent from their

(Mesa Verde, 1979

My first poet from this week's anthology, The KGB Bar Book of Poems, Erin Belieu.

Born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska, Belieu received advanced degrees in poetry from Boston University and Ohio State University. She has taught Washington University, Boston University, Kenyon College and Ohio University. She currently teaches in an MFA/Ph.D creative writing program at Florida State University.

According to the book, she read this poem at the KGB Bar on May 18, 1998.

Your Character Is Your Destiny

          but I'm driving
to where the prairie sulks
like ex-husbands, pissing
awake his downtime in a day-old
shave, the permanent arrangement
this sky moved out on years ago

You're in my jurisdiction,
the territory that makes old men
look older than their unpolished boots;
where only truckers get by, cranked
on speedballs and shooting up what passes
for an incline; where dead-eyed ranch
dogs drink oil from a roadside pool.

sick in the kind off viscous heat that will
fuck you without asking and
whenever it feels the need.
You're the straight out of my town's
post office, not the face on
the flyer but the blank propping
behind him. You're the new stoplight,

the red direction from nowhere,
the unnecessary signal I want to run.


Here's an old poem from January, last year.

an instruction in the grander scheme of things

in the grander
of things
the world is
at least
my part of the world
is wet
which is wet enough
for me
since non-wets
in other parts of the 
don't  affect
wet is
the grander 
of me and mine
your not-wet
has entirely
no effect
on my wet
which is the
scheme of my thing
you may have guessed
is wet
and it is cold too
which is another part
of my grander
scheme of things today
and if you're hot
and dry
in the Gobi Desert
big fricking deal

since I can't see
how that has anything
to do with
cold and wet 
is my grander scheme
of  things
and searing desert
have not part in

any questions?

First several poems from my library this week is by Daniel Nathan Terry, 2007 Stevens Poetry Manuscript Winner. The poem is from his book, Capturing the Dead, published by NFSPS Press. The book is a collection of Civil War poems, often  referring to  specific participants in the war.

A former landscaper and horticulturist, Terry teaches English at the University of North Carolina in Wilmington.

The Field (Fredericksburg)
                                               Private Haydon

A mercy: I cannot see
my comrades writhing in the mud.

A mercy: I cannot feel
my legs.

I hear drums. Cannons. My heart
beats slower than my blood

Let my mother weep.

Let my father's ghost smile
upon his fallen soldier.

Let my brothers raise the plow, turn
the earth of home.Let the what grow

ripe with sun.

Still Life Outside the Surgeon's Tent (Fredericksburg)
                                                                                            Noah Williams

A white-enameled
wash pan  -

the kind you bathe
babies in -

with severed feet.

                    Mathew Brady

"A spirit in my feet said 'Go' and I went." - Brady

Despite my calling,  I'm not a messiah. I cannot be
everywhere at once and rarely anywhere twice.
Despite sending men - good men like O'Sullivan
and Williams - into the fields of war  to be my eyes,
there are photographs I've missed. Even my presence
is no guarantee of success. Circumstance

and nature sometimes conspire - inclement weather,
faulty equipment,low light, artillery smoke,
and my own failing eyesight. But I am not
the only short-sighted leader blinded by the limits
of mortality. I have heard from my man Gardner,
who heard from some other,

that among the un-interred of Bull Run
an orderly on grave duty made a singular
and telling find: while lifting a skull from the field,
he heard a hollow knock then a low rattle from within,
but when when he flipped the skull over
to search for an assumed bullet, out rolled

a glass eye.


Again, another new poem in the series.

continental divide

backed up by pine

7 years old,
the first time he's seen
this much snow,
out of the car
pushing through hip-deep snow...

first snowball,
hits me on the chest,
I return fire,
snow battle ensues
until we collapse laughing
in the snow...

shadows pass
in forest silence,
behind thick pines,
giving no apparent notice
to the strangers
and their loud, unfamiliar games
in the virgin snow...

fresh storm coming,
first flakes fall,
wet flakes
hitting with a splat
on our coats,
the windshield

to get off the mountain

(Colorado, late October, 1990)

 Here's a little bit of a strange poem from the KGB Bar anthology. The poet, Thomas Lux, read the poem at the bar on December 1, 1997.

Born in Massachusetts in 1946, Lux teaches at Sarah Lawrence College. 

Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City 

Early germ
warfare. The  dead
hurled this way turn like wheels
in the sky. Look: there goes
Larry the Shoemaker, barefoot, over the wall,
and Mary Sausage Stuffer,  see how she flies,
and the Hatter twins,, both at once, soar
over the parapet, little Tommy's elbow bent
as if in salute,
and his sister, Mathilde, she follows him,
arms outstretched, through the air,
just as she did
on earth.


Here's another from January,  last year.

I dissemble convincingly

been up
for nearly three hours now
and the bug 
time to get your acey-duecy ass
back to bed

work to do
I protest

to keep

I can get all that done this
I dissemble  convincingly
to my own self

until the
my acey-duecy ass
is going back to bed

bright day

bright day
morning clouds
burned away;  sunshine
folds itself around
afternoon shadows

Next, a poem by Samuel Hazo, from his book A Flight to Elsewhere. The book was published by Autumn  House Press in 2005.

Hazo is the author of poetry, fiction, essays, various works off translation, and four plays. He was named Pennsylvania's first State Poet Laureate.

Accident Ahead

Caboosed behind a funeral
   of truck after truck after truck
   you edged downhill until
   you passed the relics of bus
   hoods crumpled like excelsior,
   station wagon overturned
   and compact  cars compacted
   even more just hours earlier
   and left for scrap.
   in helmets  and hip-high boots
   still browsed the berms.
                                          Fire engines
   and an ambulance kept idling in case.
Later a newscaster would claim
   that six of the fifty lives affected
   by the pile-up ceased on impact.
He blamed black ice.
                                   "It's what
   you never see until it's much
   too late because it fools
   the naked eye."
                             That sounded
   too impending to be overlooked.
It  spoke to you of more
   than January roads.
                                   The more
   you drove, the more you saw
   the implications and the risks
   as if you were a target in a  hunter's
             With both hands
   tightly on the wheel, you steered  
   into the unforeseeable and unforeseen
   but definite black ice ahead,
   beyond and all around you.


Number three new from last week. More in the series.

gravity's gold

Bella and I, her golden fur
blazing like the bright
of a second sun shining, and me,
devote disciple of the church
of intermittent napping,
sit  together on a park bench
in the central plaza crawling
with people seeming all
tourists, the only likely
resident habitues, the aged hippies
sitting behind us strumming
guitars, talking about everything
from starships to moons shadows
on the plaza in dim early

the tourists who pass,
old couples, pretty girls
with accents, all stop
to talk to Bella, to stroke
her head, as if she were,
indeed, the sun with the sun's
gravity, pulling them
to her orbit...

while she, usually so distant
and unwelcoming to anyone
who is not me, more
like a cold far star than
the warm draw
of an afternoon, basks
in the attention...

doesn't want to leave
when I get tired of

(Santa Fe, 2013

Tom Carey read at the KGB bar on March 23, 1998.

He was born in Santa Monica, California, the scion of two generations of cowboy actors, appearing, himself, such films as Plaza Suite and The Day of the Locust. He moved to New York in 1977, where he sang, acted, wrote, and finally, in 1988, became a Franciscan brother in the Society of  St. Francis.

                  for Jane DeLynn

I keep meaning to tell you
about the thirteen mystics
expelled from Spain
by the demonic  Isabella.
how  they knew the secret
of  binding words to air.
And when the light poured
like oil
over the hear of Aaron,
they saw love,
indifference and need,
objects speeding through time,
low speaking clouds.
So, someone cuts
and someone eats
and someone always remembers
the agony and grace.
A five-year-old
running into the spray,
falls over a wagon.
Now this is the question:
The boy wailing
into the daichondra,
droplets cupped in green
and the sun in them.
The thirteen exiles stood,
their backs touching
a wall in Safed,
and they watched
while one at bread
and knew it mattered more
than they knew.
One elbow's on the table
the knife's
on the kitchen counter.
Neurons never actually touching
remember Second Avenue.
If it was, never was,
don't matter.
Everything's a mess.
Something speaks
in the arrangements.


 January last year  again.

Monday notes

overcast day

too  bad

found my  sunglasses
I couldn't find
yester-sunny day


45  at sunrise
60 by noon, great for squirrel chasing
at the park mostly Bella
while me,  mostly I'll be watching

she'll never catch a squirrel
but she doesn't know
and I'm not telling

ambition -
it's  important
even in a dog's life

From A Coney Island of the Mind, I have several short poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

 The book was published in 1958 by New Directions. I was 15 or so  by the time the book got to me, Ferlinghetti, the first poet I read who seemed from a different universe than the poets they were stuffing down our throats at that time. It got better in a year or so when some subversive poetry editor sneaked e.e. cummings' buffalo bill is dead into our textbook.

Ferlinghetti couldn't be bothered to title his poems, a shortcoming that always pissed me off.


She loved to look at flowers
smell fruit
And the leaves had the look of loving

But halfass drunken sailors
staggered thru her sleep
scattering semen
over the virgin landscape

At a certain age
her heart put about
searching he lost shores

And heard the green birds singing
from the other side of silence


Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass
Kids chase him
                         thru screendoor summers

Thru the back streets
                                 of all my memories

Somewhere a man laments
                                          upon a violin

a doorstep baby cries
                                   and cries again
                                                            down steps

Which helps the afternoon arise again
to a moment of remembered hysteria

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass
Kids chase him


The Widder Fogliani
                        otherwise known as Bella Donna
                                 the Italian lady
                                                      of American distraction
the Widder Fogliani
                                was a merryoldsoul
                 she had whiskers
                                             on her soul
                                                            and her soul was a pussy
But she had a hard coming of it
                                                 that time I beat her
                   at her own game
          which was painting moustaches
                                                            on statues
                                                    in the Borghese gardens
                                              at three in the morning
and nobody the wiser
                                  if ever she gave
      some stray Cellini
                                   a free Christmas goose


Cast up
            the heart flops over
                                           gasping 'Love'

a foolish fish which tries to draw
   its breath from flesh of air

And no one there is to hear its death
                                        among the sad bushes
        where the world rushes by
                                    in a blather of asphalt and delay


 New from last week.

seasons changing around us

late getting there,
the park closed for the season,
so we are alone,
mile after mile of rolling hills
covered with the colors
of autumn, spread across
hill after hill,
like a box
of Crayolas spilled
in the summer by some  child,
left to melt in the sun
when mother called,
hardened now
in the cold,
to multicolored streaks
running where
summer flow had taken

an early winter storm
follows us,
closer behind
every time we stop
to take in the fragile beauty,
its seasonal end
buried in snow on the hills
so bright before
the surviving glory of the lost season
all around and ahead...

we leave the parkway to stop
for the night
and in the morning
find our intended route
over the mountains blocked
by very heavy snow...

we take the low road
and leave the mountains
for another day

(Blue Ridge Parkway, 2011)


Mark Strand was born in Canada  of  American parents in 1934. He served as U.S. Poet Laureate and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999. He read at KGB March 12, 1998.

The Night, the Porch

To stare at  nothing is to learn  by heart
What all of us will be  swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling  the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at  least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter,  which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For  something whose appearance would  be its vanishing -
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There  is no  end to  what we can learn. The book  out  there
Tells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.

This poem from January, last year,  is about a feral charcoal gray cat who lived on  our front porch and went walking with the dog and I every morning. She disappeared about a month ago,  and I miss her and her affection for the dog, even though she never, in the course  of a year and a half, let me touch her.

However, she was pleased to have me feed her, several times  a day.

charcoal cat

charcoal cat
a shadow in the dark,
her plush gray
coat fades into the night,
shifting between trees, picking
her hidden way
finding all the dark pools
along her way,
a mysterious early-hour specter,
a presence unseen
until she steps too  close to the light
and I see her choose her soft lurking way

she is so surprised

Next from my library I have two short poems by Li-Young Lee from his book, Rose. The book was published in 1986  by BOA Editions.

Lee was born in Indonesia to Chinese parents. His grandfather was China's first Republican President and his father was Mao's personal physician. After relocating his family to Indonesia, Lee's father spent 19 months in a prison camp there. When released, the family fled anti-Chinese sentiment, beginning a five year trek that took them through Japan and Hong Kong, before settling in the United States in 1964.

Lee attended Pittsburgh University, the University of Arizona and the State University of New York. He is a widely honored and widely published poet.


That scraping of iron on iron when the wind
rises, what is it? Something the wind won't
quit with, but drags back and forth.
Sometimes faint, far, the suddenly, close, just
beyond the screened door, as if someone there
squats in the dark honing his  wares against
my threshold. Half steel wire, half metal wind,
nothing and anything might make this noise
of saws and rasps, a creaking and groaning
of bone-growth, or body-death, marriages of rust,
or ore abraded. Tonight, something bows
that should not bend. Something stiffens that should
slide. Something, loose and not right,
rakes or gorges itself all night

 My Indigo

It's late. I've come
to  find the  flower which blossoms
like a saint dying upside down.
The rose won't do, nor the iris.
I've come to find the moody one, the shy one,
downcast, grave, and isolated.
Now, blackness gathers in the grass,
and I am on my hands and knees.
What is its name?

Little sister, my indigo,
my secret, vaginal and sweet,
you unfurl yourself shamelessly
toward the ground. You burn. You live
a while in two worlds
at once.


Another new poem in the series.

three days on the mountain

after two days of climbing
we crossed
from west to east
in a heavy snowstorm,
knee-deep in half a winter's
between the trees

it was about 2 in the afternoon
when we crossed
the crest,
within two hours
we found the clearing
where we slept that night
under a diamond strewn

a bright rising sun
woke us
under a cloudless blue sky
broken by the thing contrail
of a jet flying higher, even,
in the cold morning firmament
than where we slept

coffee over an open fire
and freeze-dried eggs
frying pan and coffee pot
cleaned in the snow,
breakfast eaten quickly
before the last day's trek
down the mountain,
an easy day,
each of us, as we spread out
along the trail,
quiet in our thoughts,
the past months,
friends now,
who we knew, in just a few days
would be gone,
unlikely to ever be seen

our last memories -
the mountain
and the three days
we spent together on it

(New Mexico, December, 1964)

Last for the week from my library, a poem by Paisley Rekdal, from her book, A Crash of Rhinos, published by the University of Georgia Press in 2000.

Rekdal  grew  up in Seattle, her mother Chinese-American and her father Norwegian. She received a BA degree from the University of Washington, an MA from the University of Toronto Center for Medieval Studies and an MFA from the University of Michigan. Widely published and honored, she teaches at the University of Utah.

It is a very interesting poem I have selected from her book. Perhaps sometime in the future after continued study, I will figure out the title.

on getting a dog and being told that what i really wanted was a child

For years I considered the journey.What meals
I'd make,  what cities I'd  conquer, the foreign thighs

of walls tattooed with graffiti. I imagined
the exhaustion of mornings up,

without a home, the pushing on, and thought
of sailors hovering the frozen

river crusts,  or the way stones
stuck the mouth of Magellan walking

through the Verzin gates. How they burst
through lip and gums! And how dangerous

their animals must have seemed to him with their yellow
faces and small teeth.And then,  of course,  I  thought

about how Magellan knew  his  men all  hated him, the one
Portuguese on a ship of Spaniards,  irritating and obvious

as a nipple. How they plotted
to revolt at each intersection of the sea

and cheered when the unknown natives
threw stones. Perhaps I am promiscuous,

the way some sailors  choose to love
themselves on long journeys

and Magellan, when he reached each new port,
lay on its fish-rotted quay

and sobbed. What I want
 is the dust of canyons

full of dead seas and the sun a killing god.  No need
for wars or discipline,

to make my body a bark
for  others cast adrift, bobbing like buoys

or ice flows. There are monsters on the Pole, Magellan wrote,
And giants, a handsome people.

Though he never knew what to  say of the woman
who  crawled aboard his boat to see if it was true:

that dingies suckle from the mother ship like pups
from wooden bitches.And  snuck to loosened nail  deep

inside herself to carry as she hobbled home,
nursing it in secret

as if its iron
was really gold.


This is the last new  poem of the week, a break from the series I've been working on.

season of zombies walking

two weeks
of  cedar fever

the highest count
of cedar  allergens
in fifteen years

sniffling drippling
watery eyes.
and ambition
down the great
sink of Blatzovia-Kaplatz

I do not wish
to get  out of bed

I  do not wish to do
anything but sleep,
wrapped tight
in my blue  blankie of snug,
my  blue-raggedy, womb-memoried
nest of contented murmur

I live in a world
ob snuffling
blindly shuffling

at least,
seems that way
through my own zombie

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and me.

I mention it every week and it's  still true, I'm Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, eBookPie, and Kobo (and, through Kobo,retail booksellers all across America and abroad)


Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer


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The Shortest Stories Fill the Days   Wednesday, January 22, 2014

I return to Blaise Cendrars for more of his travel poetry instead of the customary anthology (which, come to think of it, hasn't been so customary for the past several weeks.) As I've said before, there's nobody in the world I would rather travel with than Condrars who seems to make himself at home no matter where he is and who sees all with wide-open and sympathetic eyes.

The book is Blaise Cendrars Complete Poems, first published by the University of California Press with translation by Ron Padgett, in 1992.

My photos for the week are mostly from the same places as last week's snow pictures, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and Nevada, in just a different season, with a few ringers from Texas. The other exceptions are a couple of pictures taken in Germany in 1967, uploaded from a 35mm print as were several photos from the 1980s.

And, as usual. poems from my library and my own old and new poems.

Here they are:

 discussing the true nature of things with my dog

Blaise Cendrars
from Islands

I have a secret

Edna St. Vincent  Millay 
Three Songs of Shattering

good old joe

Blaise Cendrars
more from Islands

the woman weeps

Tony Hoagland
Dear John

cold facts of life and death in black and white

Blaise Cendrars
from The River
a great tree
M.S. Merwin
One  Valley

remember me the story of it

Blaise Cendrars
from Elephant Hunt

a sullen sun

Naomi  Shihab Nye
Brushing Lives
Morning Paper, Society Page
For the 500th Dead Palestinian, Ibtisam Bozieh

Animas in the a.m.

Blaise Cendrars
from travel notes

alive, alive-o

Gregory Orr

caution and commitment

Blaise Cendrars
more from Travel Notes

I hate it

Page Richards 
Looking Ahead
Folk Festival

               how is it possible?              

My first poem of the week, inspired by a picture of our dog Reba and my  wife, sitting together in the back yard in intense discussion. This was at least 5 years ago.

discussing the true nature of things with my dog

the true nature of things
with my dog
on a brisk winter's day

I find she and I have
only a few areas off agreement
but in those areas our agreement is
intense, like, for example,
the issue of birds' nests hanging
high and alone at the top
of winter bare trees which to both
of us is a lonely sight, yet equally a sign
of hope, for though the home
is vacant during these months, it remains,
waiting for the spring and spring's
new chicks, hanging there in their
bushy bed, protected and fed by their mother,
singing, preparing them for their life's  first flight

dog and I both see  life lessons
in these empty nests and the certainty
that in their time they will be filled again
with new life,  persistent life, coming
again in good time,  not deterred  by
the difficulties of a passing season...

dog knows that while there may not be
a soup bone today, the power that governs all
is preparing her bone for tomorrow, that is her lesson
taken from today's empty nests,
for me, I am reminded that tomorrow
is not yet  lost,
only waiting for me to find it,
to fill it again with
like a mother bird coaching
flight out of her chicks,
like her chicks,  finding the courage
to  take mother's advice to defy
the seemingly insurmountable force of
gravity, to confront the inertia of fear and
soar among the high clouds
according  to creation's grand


As I explain in this week's introduction, I'm putting aside the regular anthology section again this week to return to the travels of Blaise Cendrars.

from Islands

I. Chow

The little port is very busy this morning
Coolies - Tagals, Chinese, Malays - are unloading a big junk with a
    golden stern and sails of woven bamboo
The cargo is china from the big island of Japan
Swallow's nests harvested in the caves of Sumatra
Sea cucumbers
Pickled bamboo shoots
All the merchants are very excited
Mr. Noghi pretentiously dressed in an American-made checked suit
    speaks very fluent English
Which is the language these gentlemen use in their arguments
Japanese Kanaks Tahitians Papuans Maoris and Fijians

III. The Red-Crested Adder

Using he hypodermic needle he administers several injections of
    Doctor Yesin's serum
Then he enlarges the arm wound making a cruciform incision with the
He makes it bleed
Then he cauterizes it with a few drops of lime hypochlorite

IV. Japanese House

Bamboo stalks
Thin boards
Paper stretched across frames
There is no real heating system

VI. Rock Garden

In a basin filled with Chinese goldfish and fish with hideous mouths
A few have little silver rings through their gills

VII. Light and Delicate

The air is balmy
Amber musk and lemon flowers
Just being alive is true happiness

I hate to write introductions to my poems since it makes me feel  like I'm tell people what to think before they read the poem.

So starting right now, I'm not going to do it anymore. Instead, I'll just say "this is a new poem" or "this is an old poem." If it's an old poem, I'll say how old.

This poem was written in January, 2012.

That's it.

I have a secret

I mentioned
Ma and Pa Kettle
in  a crowded room
and no one knew what
I was  talking about

as in a couple of weeks
I will complete my 68th and begin
my 69th year on this earth,
a reminder of the things I know
that those still  struggling with the
challenges of youth
do not

important things
not  restricted to Ma and Pa Kettle
and The Bowery Boys
and Boston Blackie

important things,
I can  see,
for better or worse,
the string of  my life fraying
and know the  string which frays will  someday

an epiphany
denied to the young of 28
or  38 or 48 or even
who never  notice
the string of life
they traverse
in the humdrum of their daily
until the day
its sorry state is made clear to them

until then,
death is an unfortunate event,
affecting others,
never them in all their glorious

not that they think in those terms

and immortality,
issues, like the price of potatoes
in  Cambodia,
that just don't apply to them
no matter how many the see
laid out cold and still in a box,
no matter how many they follow
with their eyes as the unfortunate
are lowered into the earth, no matter
how many losses of those they know and those they love
they experience in their lives -

the  idea of one day it might be them lost,
them cold and still,
their physical essence beneath a mound of fresh turned earth

an abstract
like the collision of  galaxies  in a faraway star system

the relevance of death to  all living creatures,
the inevitability of decay's deconstruction,
is the  shock  that comes unbidden
on a birthday like the one I have coming,
the unwelcome candle that flutters and dies...

this flesh and blood recognition of the fate
of our own flesh and blood
comes only with the fatigue off age,
it cannot be imagined before the dues are paid -
innocence must be lost
before the loss of innocence can be known...

this is when
like me, begin to face
the all we still want to do
and the uncertain time we have to do it

I picked up a couple more books for my library last week. The first one was Early Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The book was published by Dover Publications in 2008.

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, Millay was born in 1892 and died in 1950.

Three Songs of Shattering


The first rose on my rose-tree
    Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
    Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
    Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -it must have been
    Very pretty.


Let the little birds sing;
    Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here, and so 'tis spring -
    But not in the old way!

I recall a place
    Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
    And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
    And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring -
    But not in the old way!


All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
    Ere spring was going - ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like off you and me, -
    Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
    Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me.
    And weeds were tall on all the paths that led the way!


Like I said,  this is a new poem.

good old joe

this morning as I luxuriate in my first cup of coffee
the days when you could get a good cup
for the price of a nickel

sorry that those days are gone
and you can't hardly get a cup of just plain old joe
for less that two bucks fifty

that I'm old enough to remember
when good old joe
went for a

it's the worst part
of aging...

all those good old days
remembered, but
forever out of


Here's more from Blaise Cendrars, picking up again from where I left off.

more from Islands

X. Hatuara

She doesn't know anything about European styles
Her frizzy blue-black hair is swept up Japanese-style and held in place
    by coral pins
She is naked under her silk kimono
Naked to her elbows
Strong lips
Drowsy eyes
Skin like light copper
Small breasts
Opulent hips

The way she moves is alive and direct
The young look of a charming animal

Her specialty: the grammar of walking

Se swims the way your write a 400-page  novel
Beautiful sustained prose
She catches tiny fish which she holds inside her mouth
Then she dives straight down
Gliding between the corals and multicolored seaweed
Soon to reappear
Holding two big sea bream with silver bellies

So  proud of her brand new silk dress her houseshoes with gold
    embroidery her  pretty coral necklace given to her just this morning
She brings me a bucket of spiny and weird crabs and some of those
    tropical jumbo shrimp known as carrack that are as long as your hand


And this is an old one, another from January, 2012.

the woman weeps

the woman weeps

the coffin lowered slowly into the open grave

women all around weep  as well, women
who have sat where the weeping woman  sits
and women who someday will

the men watch, knowing
there is a box waiting for them
and a hole being dug
a little deeper
each day
to contain it

Also new to my library this week is What Narcissism Means to  Me by Tony Hoagland. Born in 1953, Hoagland is widely published and honored. The book published by Graywolf Press in 2003 was a Finalist for the National Book Critic Circle Award.

Dear John

I never would have told John that faggot joke
                     if I had  known that he was gay;
I really shot myself in the foot with that Neanderthal effort
to make a witty first impression

I thought he was just a skinny guy from New York City
with clean hands and allergies, come to Vermont
he knew mainly from the pictures on the side
                    of a gallon can of Log Cabin maple syrup.

I could tell he was  nervous about how real the maples really were,
and the guys in their flannel shirts and dirty hiking boots,
so I made my tasteless remark to put him at his ease.
That was before male idiocy had been

officially recognized as a chemical imbalance
but he forgave me and let me be his friend,
and I can say so without  sounding patriotic about myself,
there's something democratic

about being the occasional asshole -
you make a mistake, you apologize -
                and everyone else breathes easier -
John helped me through the whole lesbian thing

when Margie decided to take her feminism
in a recreational direction, and I got him a recording
of simulated gunfire and police sirens
to help him sleep through the towering
             old-growth silence of the Vermont night.

He still calls sometimes when his phone and memory
are working at the same time.
I don't know what he does for  sex or money
but it's taken me a decade to recognize the I love John,

- not for  his cuteness (he is)
or for his endearing manner of being always on the brink
          falling apart,
but precisely because he doesn't  ever threaten to love me back.

On someone like that you can lavish your affection
in perfect safety -
that's nothing to be proud of, I suppose -
and yet,  obscurely, I am.

 A new poem, beginning of a series, maybe.

cold truths of life and death in black and white

atop a rise
a mound of earth
an ancient burial mound
looking out over
a  snowed-over field
white field
black skeleton of  a winterized tree
thin black line of a frozen creek
five black horses
led by a white horse
ghost  against the snow
legs lifted high
above the snow

(Colorado, February,  2008)


Now, more Blaise Cendrars.

In the poet's turn of the century day, anyone who traveled as much and as far as Cendrars spent a lot of time in boats of various kinds, mostly powered by steam, as the traveled across oceans and seas and up and down rivers. As here.

from River

The Bahr el Zeraf

There isn't any tall grass along the banks
Great flat stretches of lowlands fade away into the distance
Islands almost flush with the water level
Big crocs warming in the sun
Thousands of big birds cover the muddy or sandy banks

The country changes
Now there is some light brush with a sprinkling of stunted trees
There are some beautifully colored small birds and coveys of guinea
Now and then in the evening a lion roars and his silhouette is  seen on
    the west bank
This morning I killed a varanian a yard and half long

Still the same landscape of flooded plains
The Arab pilot has spotted some elephants
Everyone is excited
We go to the upper deck
For each of us it's the first appearance of the emperor of animals
The elephants  are about three hundred yards off two big ones a
    medium-sized one three or four babies
During lunch ten big fat hippo heads are seen swimming ahead of us

The mercury hardly moves
Around 2 in the afternoon it's  usually 90 to 100 degrees
The dress is khaki good shoes leggings and no shirt
One does justice to the good cooking on board and  the bottles of brown
In the evening, one simply adds a white jacket
Kites and vultures graze us with their wings

After dinner te boat moves out into the middle off the river to elude the
    mosquitoes as much as possible
The banks drift by covered with papyrus and gigantic ephorbia
The trip follows its slow meandering way down the river
We see a lot of rather tame antelope and gazelles
Then an old water buffalo but no rhinoceros


An old poem, January, 2012 again.

a great tree

this tree
when Christ's cross
was virgin timber

to grow as millions
have come to life
and died

false gods
and their believers
from the lists of the living

the true God
if she exists
lives here


Next from my library I have a poem by W.S. Merwin. The poem is from his book The Shadow of Sirius, published by Copper Canyon Press in 2008.

One Valley

Once I though I could find
where it began
but that never happened
though I went looking for it
time and again
cutting my way past
empty pools and dry waterfalls
where my dog ran straight up the stone
like an unmoored blame

it seemed that the beginning
could not be for then
as I went on through the trees
over the rocks toward the mountain
until I came out in the open
and saw no  sign of it

where the roaring torrent
raced at one time
to carve farther down
those high walls in the stone
for the silence that I hear now
day and night on its way to the sea

New, last week.

remember  me the story of it

she had wanted to see this
most of her life

imagining it
from the backseat
for fifteen hundred miles
on our way there...

but age brought great fear
of heights
wouldn't get out of the car
to  see it

so afraid
the solid earth
would sink away from her
would be gone
the minute she put her foot on it

wants me  to describe it
for her
wants me
to tell her  the story
of  it...

so I can remember
having been here,  she said,
so I can remember it
and what it was like

(Grand Canyon, 1988)


 Again, from the travels of Blaise Cendrars.

I recommend, by the way, reading a Cendrars' biography. He was an  extremely interesting man, reinventing himself several times over, a close friend and associate of many of the leading  avant-garde writers, artists, and musicians of is time.

from Elephant Hunt


There are elephants in the plantations
The strident noise of branches broken ripped off is succeeded by the
    duller sound of big banana trees turned over with a slow push
We're coming right up on them
Climbing a rise I see the front of  the nearest animal
With the moonlight coming straight down on him he's a handsome
His trunk in the air pointed toward me
He's caught my scent there's not a moment to lose
The shot
Immediately a new bullet goes into the Winchester's breech
Then I light my pipe
Te huge animal looks as if it's sleeping in the blue clearing


On a big plain to the north
At the edge of a forest  big female a little male and tree young
    elephants of different sizes
The height of the grass keeps me from photographing them
From the top of a termite hill I watch them a long time through my
    Zeiss field glasses
The elephants seem to be having their desert with an amusing delicacy
    of touch
When they smell us they clear out
The brush opens up to make way for them and closes again like a
    curtain over their gigantic forms


An oldie, but not that old,  2012,  February. Spent most of  January writing the 31 stories that became my book, Sonyador, the Dreamer, not so many January poems.

a sullen sun

a sullen sun
through urine-yellow mist

slithering trough high grasses,
winding through wet-hanging trees
like a snake in a garden

the morning
and darkly

a morning

another  one
to add to all the ones

a morning

victory over  dark conclusions
one more  time

Now from my library, my favorite San Antonio poet, Naomi Shihab Nye, with poems from her book, Red Suitcase,  published in 1994 by BOA Editions.

Born in Missouri in 1953 to an American mother and a Palestinian father, Nye lived in Ramallah, Palestine, the Old City in Jerusalem and San Antonio where she later received her BA in English and world religions at Trinity University. An internationally known poet of her own work and editor of books of mid-east poetry, she travels around the world and still calls San Antonio her home. 

Brushing Lives

In Alexandria a waitress skimmed between tables
in a black sheath skirt, her jaw precise and elegant,
hair waving out from a definite scalp like 1942 -
I saw the most beautiful woman of my life that day.
She held herself brilliantly, one gracious arm
balancing a stump Coke bottle on a tray.
Said "yes" and "thank you" in a deep, dazed voice.
And the men went on talking. And the cars outside
were not headed toward her door.

Later my father appeared with a husky voice.
In a shop so dark he had to blink twice
an ancient man sunk low on his stool said,
"You talk like the men who lived in the world
when I was young." Wouldn't say more,
till my father mentioned Palestine
and the gentleman rose, both arms out, streaming
cheeks. "I have stopped saying it. So many years."
My father held him there, held Palestine, in the dark,
at the corner of two honking streets.
He got lost coming back to our hotel.

Who else! They're out there.
The ones who could save or break us,
the ones we're lonely for,
the ones with an answer the size o a
pocket handkerchief or a shovel,
the ones who know the story before
our own story starts,
the ones who suffered what we most fear
and survived.

Morning Paper, Society Page

I can never see fashion models,
lean angular cheeks, strutting hips
and blooming hair, without thinking of
the skulls at the catacombs in Lima, Peru.
How we  climbed down from the blurred markets
to find a thousand unnamed friends smiling at us
as if they too could advertise
a coming style.

For the 500th Dead Palestinian, Ibtisam Bozieh

Little  sister Ibtisam,
our sleep founders, our sleep tugs
the cord of your name.
Dead at 13, for staring through
the window into a gun barrel
which did not know you wanted to be
a doctor.

I would smooth your life in my hands,
pull you  back. Had I stayed in your land,
I might have been dead too,
for something simple like staring
or shouting what was true
and getting kicked out of school.
I wander stony afternoons
owing all their vastness.

Now I would give them to you,
guiltily, you, not me.
Throwing this ragged grief into the street,
scissoring news stories free from the page
but they live on my desk with letters, not cries.

How do we carry the endless surprise
of all our deaths? Becoming doctors
for one another, Arab, Jew,
instead of guarding tumors of pain
as if they hold us upright?

Some in other countries speak easily
of being early, late.
Some will  live to be eighty.
Some who never saw it
will not forget your face.


Here's another moment from last week.

Animas in the a.m.

5 a.m.
walking main street

dog impervious to the cold

not me

across the railroad tracks
past the hotel

slick sidewalk
alongside the Animas River

snow deep  on both sides
river iced at the bank

solitary duck
climbs frost-glistened


no other sound
but the rustle of the river
as it eddies and curls and slides
over rocks

across the river
five  deer gather
in a clearing

silent as the morning

a car crosses
the bridge at the end of the block
lights reflecting on snow
all around
tire scrunching froze-crisp ice shell  on the road

and the deer
flipping their tails
high leaping

(Durango, Colorado, 1997)


These are some of my favorites from among Cendrars travel poems.

from Travel Notes

Waking Up

I always sleep with the windows open
I slept like a man alone
The foghorns and compressed air whistles didn't bother me much

This morning I lean out te window
I see
The sky
The sea
The dock where I arrived from New York in 1911
The pilot shack
To the left
Smokestreams chimneys crane arc lamps against the light

The first trolley shudders in the icy dawn
Me I'm too hot
Good-bye Paris
Hello sun


The ship tangos from side to side
The moon the moon makes circles in the water
As the mask makes circles in the sky
Pushing with its finger to the stars

A young girl from Argentina leaning over the rail
Dreams of Paris while gazing on the lighthouses that outline the coast of
Dreams of Paris which she's hardly seen and misses already
Those turning fixed double colored intermittent lights remind her of the
    ones she saw from her window over the Boulevards and which
    promised she'd come back soon
She dreams of going back to France soon and living in Paris
The sound of my typewriter keeps her from going all the way with her
My beautiful typewriter that rings at the end of each line and is as fast
    as jazz
My beautiful typewriter that keeps me from dreaming port side or
And makes me go all the way with an idea
My idea

La Pallice

La Pallice and  the Ile de Re are set on the water and painted
Like those awnings on little Breton bistros around the Gate
Or those ghastly watercolors sold on te boulevard de la Madeleine by a
    hirsute dauber dressed in velvet whose hands have been gnarled since
    birth who paints with his elbows and lays his spiel on you through his
Real true-ism

La Coruna

A compassionate lighthouse like a giant madonna
From outside a pretty little Spanish town
On shore it's a dungheap
Where two or three skyscrapers are growing

En Route to Dakar

The air is cold
The sea is steel
The sky is cold
My body is steel
Good-bye Europe which I leave for the first time since 1914
I am no longer interested in you not even the emigrants in steerage the
    Jews Russians Basques
Spaniards Portuguese and German saltimbanques who miss Paris
I want to forget everything and no longer speak your languages and sleep
    alongside black men and women and Indian men and women
    animals and plants
And take a bath and live in te water
And take a bath and live in the sun wit a big banana tree
And love the big buds of that plant
To segment my own self
And become hard as a rock
Drop straight down
Sink to the bottom

35/57 North Latitude
15/16 West Latitude

It happened today
I'd been waiting for it  to happen since we set sail
The sea was beautiful with a heavy groundswell tat made us roll
The sky had been overcast since morning
It was four o'clock in the afternoon
I was playing a game of dominoes
Suddenly I yelled and ran out on deck
That's it that's it
The ultramarine blue
The sky a blue top gallant sail
Warm air
No one knows how it feels or how to define it
But everything increases one degree in tonality
The evening gave me four proofs
The  sky was now pure
The setting sun like a wheel
The full moon like another wheel
And the stars bigger and bigger

That proof lies between Madeira on the starboard and Casablanca on
    the port side

This is an old poem, February, 2012.

Reba appears in many of  my poems. As I've mentioned  before, after being with us for nearly 20 years, she became the victim of constant and severe pain that could not be eased in any way, leading to the very hard decision last year that the only relief we could give her was to put her down. I held her head in my hands as the vet  administered the fatal injection, looking into her eyes as the life-light immediately faded and was gone.

alive, alive-o

I was walking
my dog  yesterday
(this being another  dog
poem so all you cat people
and snake people and gerbil people
and lizard people and bird people
and cricket people and centipiggler
people can just accept
that it is not, except
maybe indirectly, about you
and your choice of furred, finned,
scaled, of  feathered creature
to befriend)

this is a dog poem
about Saint Reba about whom
I have spoken before
and our walk yesterday
down by the creek, still high from
several days of  rain,  scrubbed
by fast-running water all the way to its
pale, flat limestone  bottom, the water
clear as freshly Windexed glass

and I was walking across
a  little dam that holds the  water
from passing too  fast
further down the creek bed,
a tiny little dam about a foot
and a half across and
instead of doggishly following
me, Miss Reba decided to go
around me which ended her up
asplash in the creek

white-eyed panic
at first as she dog-paddled furiously,
then a gradual relaxation of her eyes
as she found sufficient  purchase on the bank
to allow a sloshly chamber out of the creek
with the realization that
this splash-splash ting
even at  40 degrees is fun
and she climbs up the bank
jumping and running and leaping
about, let's-do-it-again,  let's-do-it-again
as clear in her leaps as if she were yelling over
her shoulder, let's-do-it-again

and when I  finally got  her home
and dried off, she,
this old lady who can hardly
get out of her bed in the morning
because of her aching bones
was  running in circles in the back yard,
alive,  alive, alive-o
like she was six months  old again
with vim and vinegar
and life, a-life-o

like a good morning swim
to get the old

Here's another poem from my library - this one by Gregory Orr, from his book City of Salt. The book was published in 1995 by the University of Pittsburgh Press.
Orr, author of ten collections of poetry, was born in Albany, New York in 1947 and grew up in the Hudson Valley. He has a BA from Antioch College in 1969 and an MBA from Columbia University in 1972. He teaches at the University of Virginia where he founded the MFA Program in Writing in 1975.


If you wander into the market
you'll find little signs
of infiltration - a certain crudeness
in the carving of a ladle
or a mask whose features
differ subtly from the temple god's.
I'm not saying the  trader
is himself a barbarian;
it's more elusive than that.
Maybe he merely passed
some time among them, yet
his wares have changed
the way a lake in sun is not
the same lake when a cloud comes
or the way your wife smells
different after a party
when she's talked with other men.


 New again from last week.

caution and commitment

fine-looking woman
dark hair, dark eyes,  shapely,
dressed to  kill, or, at least,
draw serious attention

here for the second day
in a row

obviously lonely,
wants to talk, to sit and talk
and talk...and more, it seems

and for a moment,
an oh-so-brief
caution  and previous

but do  no break

(Reno, Nevada, 1981)


Here are my last bits from Blaise Cendrars for this week. I may come back to him in a few weeks for some of his longer work.

still from Travel Notes


Never again
I'll never drag my ass into another one of these colonial dives
I want to be this poor black man I want to be this poor black who stands
    in the door
Because the beautiful black girls would be my sisters
And not
And not
These stinking French Spanish Siberian German bitches who furnish
    the leisures of gloomy functionaries dying to be stationed in Paris and
    who don't know how to kill time
I want to be the poor black man and fritter my time away


Everyone talks about sunsets
All travelers are happy to talk about the sunsets in these waters
There are hundreds of books that do nothing but describe the sunsets
The tropical sunsets
Yes it's true they're wonderful
But I really prefer the sunrises
I wouldn't miss one for the world
I'm always on deck
In the buff
And I'm always the only one there admiring them
But I'm not going to describe the dawns
I'm going to keep them for me alone

Cabin No. 6

I  live here
I should always live here
I deserve no praise for staying shut in and working
Besides I don't work I write down everything that goes through my head
Well not really everything
Because tons  of things go through my head but don't get out into the
I'm living in a breeze the porthole wide open and the fan whirring
Not reading


It is Sunday on the water
It's hot
I'm in my cabin as if trapped in melting butter


The coast of Brazil is strewn with round bare little islands we've been
    sailing through for two  days
They're like speckled eggs laid by some gigantic bird
Or like volcanic dung
Or  like vulture spincteroids


It's odd
For  two days now that we've been in sight of land not a single bird has
    met  us or followed in our wake
On the other  hand
At dawn
As we were entering  the Bay of Rio
A butterfly as big as your hand came fluttering all around the steamer
It was black and yellow with big streaks of faded blue

(New ship after long stops along the way.)

Cabin 2

It's mine
It's all white
I'm going to like it
All alone
Because I have a lot of work to do
To make up for 9 months in the sun
The 9 months in Brazil
The 9 months with friends
An I must work for Paris
That's why  already like this jam-packed sip where I see no one to
    chat with

Cape Fria

I heard tonight a child's voice through my door
Rising and falling
It did me good


Last oldie of the week.

I hate it

I hate it
when I read a really good poet
who makes clear by her example
what a sloppy, slapdash gurgitating
of words I do
and call it poetry

I have no shame
in moments like this
when my own incapacity
is held, squirming beneath the light of actual
craft and sensitivity

my stuff?

this is what I did today and this is what I think
of this or that, safely espoused on paper,
but if I tried to corner a stranger on the street
and so emote
I would be whisked away
in a nonce (now there's a poet work for you)
to some highly-fenced facility
where white-coated
guard their charges
from the attack of killer carrots
or whatever

I'm just lucky I write this stuff
and never say it
out loud

I flatter myself
and say I am of the ancient Chinese
poetry convention,
art, maybe or maybe not, but precious
for persons interested in the lives and times of ancient
lives and times
while you read this and say
what a waste of time that was,
I am assured
that in millennia hence
te Pletomanians
freshly arrived from the Pletamania galaxy
will discover my trove
of daily musings
and say

what a bunch  of crap,
but how very interesting
were these ancient  peoples
before their inevitable reduction
through kaboom  and kabash
to the bone and ash
of those lost and  forgotten

and by the way
as an unserious wordsmith
I insist upon the right
to use words like gurgitate
instead of regurgitate because it is not possible
to re-anything until one as done the thing referenced first

this kind of logical approach
will greatly impress the Pletamanians
I am assured
is another way of saying
I don't care what critical thinkers might think
because my time in the Pletomanic sun
will surely someday come

Last from my library this week, I have a poem by Page Richards from her book Lightly Separate published in 2007 by Finishing Line Press.

Richards has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing from Boston University and a Ph.D. in English and American  Literature and Language from the Harvard University. She directs post graduate studies in creative writing at the University of Hong Kong School of English.

Looking Ahead

I, late to  arrive and lean, finish
by eight with rehearsals. A girl
to be sure I climb the rails, stare
at a woman catching her breast
in the poster. My flamboyant man
is made to wait. Someone's  there.
The folds of  rain beyond the door
reveal a careful girl who wants in.
She remembers a place  on the floor
where with me she danced with him.

Folk Festival

It was when the rains came
and Judy Collins took off her shoes
I put my head way back
to look for you ahead of me

and the stars suffered
a heave and a ho on our strained behalf
but for a minute
while I packed up our things.

Clear sheets of water bristled
and broke into lousy thousands
thumping our heads as though
we'd won something back.

In a quiet moment
when our towels lagged brown
behind us, wet and full,
you finally turned to me

the way and abandoned box car
settles into funneled desert sands.
I knew it was our last year, last month,
I saw it happening, and I shiver.


Last new for the week.

how is it possible?

how is it possible
that I  do not remember them
after four years of being
with them?

not just individuals I do not remember
but almost none of them
are there in my

even though
they were there
in fact

is this  the ultimate segregation?

separation so complete
that the Other
seem displaced from time and space,
become ghosts,
invisible at the time,
invisible even in memory
of the time

how is this possible?

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and me.

I mention it every week and it's  still true, I'm Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, eBookPie, and Kobo (and, through Kobo,retail booksellers all across America and abroad)


Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer


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Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Poems Niederngasse
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
The Blogging Poet
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet