A River Walk in December   Wednesday, September 30, 2015

If you are on any part of the 15 miles or so of  San Antonio's Riverwalk, from the Witte Museum, through downtown or all the way out to Mission San Juan Capistrano, furthermost of the 5 San  Antonio missions, you will be taking pictures. And if you are not taking pictures, you will be very angry with yourself for leaving your camera in your hotel room.

My pictures this week are limited to the downtown and near downtown section of the Riverwalk. The photos were taken in December, last year. December in San Antonio is a little bit of a  gamble for visitors. Most of the time the temperatures are cool and the sky is clear and deep blue. But there is always the chance that a norther will blow in and it will be very cold, wet and miserable. You just have to take your chances. Just avoid the first of January when they drain the river for a week or so of cleaning, unless you think you might enjoy the Mud King coronation and festivities. Actually they don't  drain the river, they just divert the full flow of it through the tunnel that goes under downtown. The tunnel was built as a flood control diversion many years ago after a devastating downtown flood. It is also how  they keep  the river at a uniform level through  the downtown Riverwalk area.

My new poems are from last week. As I explained last week, New Days and New Ways, my most recent (actually not all that recent) book of poems, is divided into 6 sections. Last week I did  poems from the first section, this week I take my old poems from the last section,  "Out There," a collection that considers the grander scheme of things.

My library poems next week are from Postmodern  American  Poetry, a Norton Anthology published in 1994.

I watched the Pope's speech to congress. I like him very much, but as an atheist, I have to add, too bad  about the church.

Frankie for President

the Pope on TV
addressing a congress of politicians

he's one too
and better than most

a question
for  any political scientist in the room
regarding Constitutional

can an Argentinean  Pope
be elected President of the United States?


any wiggle room
in that?


oh, damn,
back to the clown car

First from Section  VI. "Out There" of my book, New Days and New Ways, this little piece of astrophysics.


   I believe
we are all children

of the big bang
and that nothing truly new

has been added to the mix

and while I don't know what came
before the bang

I'm guessing we'll  figure it out
before the end...

multiple bangs, maybe;
bangs within bangs;

bangs bouncing off bangs
like a six bank corner pocket

perpetual bang,

one bang banging another,
like steel balls hung from strings

banging one after the other
in forever and ever progression;

bangs banging out there, banging in
somewhere else -

that's one to imagine,
creation in reverse, the Garden of Eden

returning to unplowed field -
or it could be a single, once-and-done bang -

that  would make us really

us and all the universe we know
or  don't,

our stars,
the only stars anywhere,

you and me
the only us anywhere...

I just don't feel that special

Here, first from this week's anthology, Postmodern American Poetry, is this piece by Ann Lauterbach. Born and raised in New York City, Lauterbach has taught at Columbia, Princeton, and Brooklyn College. At the time the anthology was published, she was teaching at the City University of New York and was a contributing editor of the magazine Conjunctions.


Recumbent against any mirror, any stardom,
Dazed to be included, at last, in the night
You imitate day stretched across a beach
Noted by those of us for whom the sea is reflective
But is the sea a film of the sea, ageless?

Seventeen, a mime. This one way to hide
Lack of authenticity, although style
Carries clout in crowd scenes.
You have painted your toenails Car Hop Pink,
A clear choice against the sky's transience.

The sea mimes the sea. It seems  ageless,
Whichever hues the waves  hit.
Her face,  projected on a screen,
Records the gaze of capitulation.
Gene Tierney walks along the cliffs, reflective.

Pavese said sentiment, in art, accuracy,
But the poem would not  stretch
To phrase the red cliffs, the seizure of place.
You see the world as self.For  us, she
Is world, enduring veracity of was
Being what is. We cannot look
At what we love without failure,
The failure of the world to reflect itself.

From last week, a spooky kind of morning as the seasons begin their  transition.


no  morning breeze
to rustle the leaves,
no  dogs  barking at the moon,
no moon,
no rooster cackling at the dawn
still absent,
no doves softly lulling
from the trees,
slow clouds darkly moving,
stroking darkly the deep black belly of early

we all wait...
in  an hour or so the sun  will rise
and we will know for what...

in an hour or so it will be another day

or not...

Again from  Section VI of New Days and New Ways.


like starbursts
and blazing clear...

dark  and cold,
the sky
on a field
of  razzle-dazzle...

another creature of nights and days
looks to the dark
above his indeterminate head
and sees the brilliant mark of mine
among the billions
on the canvas
of his sky,
just as I see above me
the fire that warms
his night
and lights his day...

we imagine
other -
star-gazing brothers
the universal
extended family
the further-most  reaches
of nights and

alone still,
but no longer lonely

Next from the postmodern anthology, here is a poem by Gregory Corso.

Born in 1930 on Bleecker Street to Italian immigrant parents, his mother died and his father deserted him when he was still a child. In trouble for most of his young years, he began a prison sentence when he was seventeen, where, despite being a sixth grade dropout, he was introduced to literature and begin to do his own writing. He left prison in 1950 and in 1954 he was invited to Cambridge to speak at the invitation of Harvard and Radcliffe students who later gathered the money to publish his first  book in 1955. Becoming a prominent poet of the beat generation, Corso died in 2001.

Dream of a Baseball Star

I dreamed Ted Williams
leaning at night
against the Eiffel  Tower, weeping.

He was in uniform
and his bat lay at his feet
-  knotted and twiggy.

"Randall Jarell says you're a poet!" I  cried.
"So I! I say you're a poet!"

He picked up his bat with blown hands;
stood there astraddle as he would in the batter's box,
and laughed! flinging his schoolboy wrath
toward some invisible pitcher's mound
- waiting the pitch all the  way from heaven.

It came; hundreds came! all afire!
He swung and swung and swung and connected not one
sinker curve hook or right-down-the-middle,
A hundred  strikes!
The umpire dressed in strange attire
thundered his judgement: YOU'RE OUT!
And the phantom crowd's horrific boo
dispersed the gargoyles from Notre Dame.

And I screamed in my dream:
God! throw the merciful pitch!
Herald the crack of bats!
Hooray the sharp liner to left!
Yea the double, the triple!
Hosanna the home run!

This poem from last week, a memory of the time I lived across the  road from Corpus Christi Bay.

winter on the gulf

from Banquete to Ingleside
the road  drives straight,
like a plumb line
across the

the sun
direct ahead
and just high enough
to clear dark churning clouds
on the horizon,
the black angry face
of a storm in morning, blowing
in from the bay, the fury of its storm front
past the island, pounding
now the seawall
and the white sand of
Aransas Beach...

the sun has risen
over the gulf
and now blinds me
as I drive into

and the winter storm
follows, lashing the coast,
soon to cover my sun
and thrash  me
as well

a morning storm on the Gulf,
blowing a thousand miles
of salt-smelling air
and seaweed
and fish

winter on the gulf...

From Section VI. a consideration from a quote by a Haitian poet.

chaos management

  "I am not afraid of chaos because
   chaos is the womb of light and life.
   What I don't like is the mismanagement
   of chaos."
                              - Franketienne, Haitian author,
                              poet,  playwright, and painter

   there are patterns to the
from the orbits of galaxies
to the circling
of the tiniest electron
around its mother neutron anchor,
to the greening and falling
of leaves,
to the daily commute
of bankers and painters
and donut makers,
to the soft sleep of babes and the long
dry nights
of old and time-worn  men,
all circling...

all circling
each circle a  world within itself
inter-acting with its fellows in
of  confusion,
like looking at the color patterns
of gumballs
encased in glass,
patterns seen only through a one-eyed
squint from some great distance,
the further away,
the clear becomes the
red upon green next to blue under yellow,
each placed in a structured chaos,
like the universe
in all its chaotic glory,  structured truth
we can never get distance enough
to see, an  incubator spewing  chaos,
indestructible unalterable
only through the indirection
of unseen hands
that must never fumble
or chaos will solidify and all the circles
will stop their spinning
and fall to the lethargy of inertia stilled
and all that is, will, like Lot's wife,
turn to  salt crumbling on a silent plain
in a steady wind of never-

The next poem from the postmodern  anthology is by Diane Wakoski.

Born in 1937 in Whittier, California, Wakoski graduated from the University of California in Berkeley in 1960. Identified early on with the beats, her book Emerald Ice (which I have and have used here) won the William Carlos William Prize from the Poetry Society of America in 1989. She was Writer-in-Residence at Michigan State University at Michigan State University when the anthology was published and is currently Distinguished Professor Emeritus at that university.

Blue Monday

Blue of the heaps of beads  poured into her breasts
and clacking  together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers  lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head  a
gush of blood-red lizards.

Blue Monday, Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the blue waters.

                  You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
                   I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
                   is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.

                   Monday is the first of the week,
                   and I think of you all week.
                   I beg for Monday not to come
                   so that I will not think of you
                   all week.

You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my breasts, the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;

there is electricity dripping from me like cram;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use - like acacia or
jacaranda - fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.

                   Love  passed me in a blue business suit
                   and fedora.
                   His glass cane, hollowed and filled with
                   sharks and whales...
                   He wore black
                   patent leather shoes
                   and had a mustache. His hair was so black
                   it was almost blue.

                   "Love," I said.
                   "I  beg your pardon," he said.
                   "Mr.  Love," I said.
                   "I beg your pardon," he said.

                    So I saw there was no use bothering him on the

                     Love passed me  in the street in a blue
                     business suit. He was a banker
                     I could tell.

So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.

If I could sing the last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I  would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.

1964                                                    1968

I read the  Einstein quote in this poem on Facebook and and it reminded of my belief that all our monsters are fictionalized genetic memories of creatures that were real in a time far before what  we know.

stories that light the spark

ancestral memories
of the most  remote  of our ancestors
turned into stories of our kind
when not yet  quite
our kind...

a time of monsters, all seen
by our tiny  predecessor-selves
from behind sharp un-eroded rocks and verdant
forest foliage,  remembered,
monsters still living
even in the now  of our genetic
memory, stories told over thousands of campfires
it and burning over thousands of years...

fairy tales we call them now...

Einstein said, to raise and intelligent child,
read to them from  the fairy tales, genetic
memories of the  giants who preyed upon us
and also from our genes
memories of how we defeated them,
lessons from the past before our time, sometimes
before our kind, all these tales
primers on how we came to be and how we might

stories that light the spark  of a fully conscious

Still from New Days and New Ways, Section VI.

in the time of emergence

   an old Navajo chant
speaks of the "time of emergence"
and I think
of the all-there-is emerging,
not a product
created by the hand of a god,
but a creation
that  emerges from the mind  of
the all-mother/all-father,

creation not of a single event,
a job of work, completed
over the course of a week of seven god-days,
but a continuing process
of never-ending creation, a
an emergence of ever-deepening truth
lie the night emerges
from the night emerges a day emerges
and from the day a night;
like the sea
emerges from the deep, beaks
on shores far from
where its water-essence began,
the returns to the deep that sent  it,
and back to the same or different shores,
far-traveled, enriched by its journey;
like rain on hay
left in the field overnight,
the fire of creation
processing within,  its
musty odor rising again
with the fallen rain to become a cloud,
drifting over  continents,
over prairies and mountains and cities
and great forests, across the ocean
bring the musty smell of hay
wet with new-falling rain
around the world and back again
to the mowed field where it began;
like we begin
in a moment of passion  emerged
from one of us to another,
from the continued emergence
through a life of ins and outs, comes
and goes, contributing as we
come and go,
our own passions to  the universe
we are part of again, flowing
through our time
until our end in a moment of
death-ecstasy, souls singing as we re-join
the all-there-is from whence
we emerge...

our part in the great  emergence
until we, like the sea,
return again to new and different
by our own time drifting
in the creator's emerging

From the anthology, Gary Snyder, my very favorite of the California poets.

Right in the Trail

     Here it is , near the house,
A big pile, fat scats,
Studded with those deep  red
Smooth-skinned manzanita berries,
Such a pile! Such droppings,
Awesome. And I saw how
The young girl in the story,
Had good cause to  comment
On the bearscats she found while
Picking blueberries with her friends.
She laughed at them
Or maybe with them, jumped over them
(Bad luck!), and is reported
To have said "wide anus!"
To amuse or annoy the Big Brown Ones
Who are listening, of course.

     They say the ladies
Have always gone berrying
And the all  join together
To go out for the  herring spawn,
Or to  clean green salmon.
And that bit set of lessons
On what bears really want,
Was brought back by the girl
Who made those comments:
She was taken on a year-long excursion
Back up in the mountains.
Through the tangled deadfalls,
Down into the de.
She had some pretty children  by a
Young and handsome Bear.

     Now I am on the dirt
Looking at those scats
And I want to cry not knowing why
At the honor and the humor
Of coming on this sign
That is not found in books
Or transmitted in letters,
And is for women just as much as men,
A shining message for  all species,
A glimpse at the Trace
Of the Great One's passing,
With a peek  into her whole wild system -
And what was going on last week,
(Mostly still manzanita) -

     Dear Bear: do  stay around. Be good.
And though I know
It won't help to say this,

Chew your food.

Kitkitdizze X.88

I have reached that unfortunate stage of life when it seems for many people all I am and have been can be summarized in a two-digit number, my age.

Karma, I guess, payback for twenty years of senior citizen discounts.

legion of the late-dawning dark

most  who understand  what I have done
are gone,
or lost in their own bitter


we are an angry
generation, grew up thinking
old didn't matter

we know better

understanding now we are not
special, not exempt
like we thought
back then...

understanding now that
even at our best
we are still just a part of the decay
that  produces new life, our
function to be not the flourish that blossoms forever,
but only fertilizer for the next
spring's flowering...

that even the tallest tree
will someday
in a silent forest fall

not the way we expected
it would be...


I march with a cohort
of the angry,
legionnaires of the
late dawning

New Days and New Ways again.


   it's all  a circle,
these lives we  lead,
everything goes,
and in its time, comes

like this bright
beautiful morning,
sky clear, the light blue
of bright - yellow sunshine
and yellow-laced

I've been here before and will,
with luck be here again
and again and again, knowing
even as I luxuriate in this cold bright
that dark will come again,
that dark,  for bright
is not bright without it, as
day is not day without
the brackets of night - people
who  live in a dry desert, how they
welcome the rain, the people who live in
a forever cloudless sky, how they
marvel at a cloud's slow passing...

and I think of my circular life,
I think of my dog,
lovely, sweet Reba,  for whom
every minute is the only minute, like
all dogs, living in the moment,
every minute a lifetime, sixty lifetimes
in an hour, how
disconcerting, how wonderful
to be so afflicted, so
to  live like that is to  live
outside the circle of time,
to  live in the constant changing
forever strange and

and I wonder
if I could  ever be dog enough
to live a life of so many

John  Wieners was born  in 1934 in Massachusetts. He received his degree from Boston College in 1954 and studied at Black Mountain College. He worked as an actor, stagehand, teacher  and poet. His life and his writing was closely connected to politics, deeply involved in education cooperatives, political action committees and the gay liberation movement. He wrote directly and eloquently of his homosexuality and of his periods in state mental hospitals, subjects which kept him from the literary mainstream of the 1950's

He died in 2002.

Two Years Later

The hollow eyes of shock remain
Electric sockets burnt out in the

The beauty of men never disappears
But drives a blue car through the


The Loneliness

It is  so sad
It is so lonely
I felt  younger after doing him,
and when I looked in the mirror
my hair was rumpled.

I smoothed it
and rooted for someone else
or wanted to satisfy myself,
Almost  seven,
No hope left.

How can a man have pride
without a wife.

I spit him out on the floor.
Immensely relieved
After ejaculating
Imagining myself up my lover's ass
he coming by himself.

Looking out the widow, for no reason
except to sooth myself
I  shall go to the bookstore
And pretend nothing happened.
Enormously gratified

Feeling like a girl
stinking beneath my clothes

1972                                               1988

It is an affliction, this unceasing urge to do.


I am harassed by  time

even  when I have nothing to do
I do it with urgent

it is about boredom I think,
boredom being
in my philosophy an early stage
of dying

I seek quiet contemplation
but hear always
the noisy jabber of the world
all around

and cannot help but pay attention
for buried in the jabber
are stories
someone must tell

I have no idea why I think
it must be me
that tells them, but
there your go,
some seek out their mission

some are just appointed...

Now, last for the week from New Days and New Ways, "Section VI. Out There."

Actually, two pieces because I  couldn't decide which of the two to use.


what they are now calling
"the age of man"
meaning, I'm not sure, either
the time humans
began to occupy the earth as
masters or the period beginning
earlier when man  existed
as small scampering jungle

but I'm pretty sure "the age of man"
however defined, came after
the "age of dinosaurs"
about which I'm not5 sure, were
they reptiles or mammalian cousins
of man who just happened to lay eggs
or as I've begun to hear
somehow related to chickens and
I'm not sure if chickens are reptiles
or mammals with wings
or something else entirely different
along with turkeys and hawks
and eagles and red, red robins and even
carrion eating vultures

but I am delighted to hear there is a chance
that the "age of man" might have followed
the "age of chickens" and considering
how stupid chickens are
whether the "age of man" could have ever
come about had we been competing
for an age of our own with something smarter,
say a dog or a pig, maybe leaving us,
had it been thus, sleeping
in a slop  pen in the "age of pig"
and putting all that ancient history aside
one can't help but wonder whose age
the next will be...

considering our  record so far
during any particular part in the "age of man"
the "age of ash and cinder"
might seem a fair prospect for the next age,
maybe a
better case scenario, the "age of cockroach"...

think of that the next time you squash a cockroach
with your pointy-toed cowboy boot
that it might be your heirs you are squashing
and, heaven forbid, that they have a long memory...

plan for the future -
that's what you have to do
when you're responsible for a whole


across the way,
a herd of deer graze across a broad pasture,
except not bunched like a herd,
but scattered individually across the field, as if
each deer walking its own way decided
on its own to stop  for a bite
at the pasture across the way, solitary deer,
each at its own meal, not Texas deer,
too much alone, New York deer maybe
at a quick-stop  pastures
adapting to the "age of man"

and my cockroach mean mood is lifted...

maybe there's a chance for an "age of deer" -
a return to golden fields and forests, a return to
the "age of first nature"
before the jealous god  split time
and brought the misery of ages
to human and all other

if I believe that hard enough
it will make, at least,
a better

a fan of little things

   just finished
breakfast, thinking,
best damn super-extra-crispy bacon
in my whole doggone life
on this planet, which I thank
for creating the corn or whatever that fed the pig
that became the best damn super-extra-crispy bacon
of my whole existence on this planet,
not counting the times
I might have been the corn or the pig
or whatever else was involved in creation
of the best damn super-extra-crispy bacon ever,
thank you God, if you exist and if you had anything
to do with it, and I'm thinking, damn
I wish I could wake up again
and come in here again and order my breakfast again
and eat my best damn super-extra-crispy bacon
all over again, enjoy
the super-extra-crispy crunchy pleasure
all  over again as if it had  never ever happened
before and the super-etcetera pleasure
was completely new to me, experienced
for the very first time...

that's the way I am,
a fan of little things, the little atomic thingies
that come together to make up bigger
and bigger things, like stars that, in turn
come together to make galaxies and
constellations and ultimately
the whole damn universe laid out before me
as I lie in the grass at night, looking up at it all,
thinking of all the teensy-tiny things that come together
to make wondrous things  like stars
shining against a universal backdrop of dark
somewhere/nowhere and pleasurable things like
cool breezes in summer, cold water splashing
on my droopy-morning face, little girls
who giggle when I wink at them
and, as you might guess by now,
super-extra-crispy-crunchy bacon,
the best I ever had, just this

Last from this weeks anthology of postmodern poets, here are two poems by Denise Levertov. Born in 1923 in England where she was raised and where she published her first book, she moved to the United States shortly after and spent the remainder of her life, teaching and publishing a number of books of her poetry. She died in 1997 at the age of 74 from complications due to lymphoma.

Overland to the Islands

Let's go - much as the dog goes,
intently, haphazard.  The
Mexican light on a day that
"smells like autumn in Connecticut"
makes iris ripples on his
black gleaming fur - and that too
is as one would desire - a radiance
consorting with the dance.
                          Under his feet
rocks and mud, his imagination,  sniffing,
edge ways, there's nothing
the dog disdains on his way,
nevertheless he
keeps moving, changing
pace and approach but
not direction - "every step an  arrival." -

Illustrious Ancestors

The Rav
of Northern White Russia declined,
in his youth to learn the
language of birds,  because
the extraneous did not interest him; nevertheless
when he grew old it was found
he understood them anyway, having
listened well, and as it is said, "prayed
                      with the bench and the floor." He used
what  was at hand - as did
Angel Jones of Mold, whose  meditations
were sewn into coats and britches.
                       Well, I would like to make,
thinking some line still taut between me and them,
poems direct as what the birds said,
hard as a floor, sound as a bench,
mysterious as the silence when the tailor
would pause with his needle in the air.

Those who are not fans of basketball and specifically the San Antonio  Spurs and Coach Popovich will not understand the joke in the title. For those unfortunates I include a URL that might explain.

I want some nasty

I am looking out on Broadway,
through windows, the glass so clear
only the lack of street sounds
suggests it is even there, beyond
the  glass, bright  street, bright sun
under a blue, cloudless sky...

it is a tourist-friendly day,
the kind of day folks from all over
will cherish as the remember
the  crowds on the Riverwalk, the peace
of the Mission Reach expansion,
the smell of dry pious dust of ancient mission walls,
sitting in the shade of a broad-leafed tree
by the waterfall and the clear pools and brilliant colors
of the Japanese Sunken Garden, and the museums
and the strolling mariachis - San Antonio
at  its most beautiful...

but, sorry, tourists,
Chamber of Commerce,
sorry, raspa sellers in their booths
on Alamo  Plaza, sorry, Wax Museum
and Ripley's Believe It or Not across from the
shrine, sorry all of you, but damn,
I wish it were a rainy day again,
glorious wet falling on me
as I sit in my backyard,
rain filling the cracks
that spread under dry grass,
the crispy dry grass crackling
like ice when I walk on it, the neighborhood
smelling like the musk of a fresh-mowed hay field,
all the trees and flowers and grass 
and me, re-hydrating
on a tourist-ugly, sales-tax losing

sorry, but I can wait for a beautiful
day,  right  now, I want some 

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 to me

Also usual, I am 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, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

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


Sonyador - The Dreamer

                                                             Peace in our Time


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The Days Come as Always
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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