Before the Drought; Before the Flood   Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Photos this week are from our back yard in 2013, before the drought the killed anything and then the flood that turned everything not dead into a jungle of mostly weeds.

Serious death-weeds last week as I was writing my daily poems, some of that here, also some better memories.

It's a week.

I will not write about this

Carly Sachs
The Beginning of Cubism

Julie Cooper-Fratrik
January Thaw

the birds

Victoria Garcia-Zapata Kline
Ode to Your Giving   

about the gay lifestyle

Stanley Kunitz
Route Six


Du Fu/Tu Fu
Leaving in My Boat  
A Lone Goose
A Traveler's Night    

another question without an answer

Chelsey Minnis
from Poemland

the commander's daughter

Shulamis Yelin

marriage and the art of accommodation
creating perfection
the weight of a butterfly, multiplied
intelligent design
regrets, Memorial Day, 2006   
something simple

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

home fires
to cut a long  tale short
poem on a napkin
revival week
sunshine after a week of rain

C. N. Bialik
from The Matmid
I saw you silent

Fulton Street hustlers

the thing about memories   


It happened last week, and though I did not want to, I had to write about, once, and no more..

I will not write about this

I will not  write about this

about the number killed, the obscene number

about the tears, the grief, the vigils, the weeping,
the wailing, the gnashing of teeth

or the preachers  preaching

or the politicians 

or the agitators agitating

or the white-sheeted racing to identify the murderous other

or the apologists, and the pacifists and all other brands of pie-eyed  stupidity

or the presidential candidates campaigning

or the florists raking it in

or the gun-nuts, high on their  NRA crack

(well he didn't need the gun you know,he didn't need the gun,  he could have killed them all with
apples, throwing  apples  at  them,  deadly head trauma from hard Granny Smith  apples thrown
with extreme radical strength and speed - they train for that, you know, special camps in Saudi
Arabia, you know, training apple assassins) 

or all the cries of "do something, do something"

and all the promises of  "we're going to think about doing something,  we're going to talk about
doing something, meanwhile can you send a couple of bucks for my next campaign so I can
think about it,  talk  about it better and with much greater sincerity, promise, promise, promise"

and I'm not going to write about, in the silence  of true grieving, somewhere  where mothers and
fathers and sons and daughters and neighbors and bosses and co-workers, all puzzled over the
random fates of hate

no, I'm not going to write about any of it

because I know, because I know for certain
that somewhere in this great  country
some evil, insane fuck, probably more than one, maybe in your neighborhood
is basking  in the reflected glory of the latest evil insane fuck
to  take action

watching it all on TV
the glory the glory the glory 
for the newly famous evil
insane fuck,
damn I got  to get me some of

From  Runes, A Review of Poetry, their anthology, Signals, Winter Solstice 2005,  published by Arctos Press, two poets.

The first poet is Carly Sachs, a professor  in the Creative Writing department at George Washington University.

The Beginning of Cubism

1. The painter

He takes her apart. It is April.
That  which is vertical, that which has edges,
that which is not recognizable.
A torso is a line. The baby is in the corner.
It has not yet been born.
The way it bends means nothing.
He pulls the shapes from her skin.
This is your heart in the center,
where it tricks the eye into believing

2. The model

She dreams he is touching her,
the way his hand moves up and
down the canvas,, the way his stare
breaks her open. She imagines him
gutting a papaya, reaching inside her,
pulling the seeds out. The way he will devour
her nipples, the tongue kiss of his  brush
as he flecks them with pearls, how she will walk
off the canvas,  her image  burning into
the smaller canvases of the mind

In the darkness  of sleep, she will ignite
every man's  fantasy.
How they will circle around her
wondering what it would be like
to draw the blush  from between her legs,
run their fingers along the contour of her hips,
the subtle hunger of her body, the first  peach
of summer.

3.  The canvas

When she looks  at the canvas,
she will not recognize herself,
the way he has cut her up.
The will not understand
that I  was beautiful,
she tells him. 

The second poet is Julie Cooper-Fratrik.

January Thaw

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.


Tulip in a glass
The napkin by your place
Your voice spreads out
Surrounding vase
And tulip. Night
Calls beyond
The pane.


Threads you keep finding and fingering,
follow back to their origins
(where do the threads begin?)

Taut strings  encircling bundles,
the frangible stones of your sculptures,
irregular pendulums gathering seconds of light.

Threads of this day without turning:
The spider's frozen web.


From the southeast, the  bluebirds come. By the dozens,they come.
Swooping, swirling,stopping bluing. this 11th day of January
stopping here, rising and falling. Circling lilac, alighting magnolia
on fire. Bouncing and buoyant, believing in blueness and bugs.
Little boys blue, boys blue.


In the glass
A woman reads a tulip
Beyond  the spreading vase
The night tied in a napkin
Inside the pane
Little blue sadness,
Be still.

I couldn't find a photo of the poet, but I did find this image of one of her books.

A little bit of get away from it all with some friends in the morning.

the birds

the birds
for me
in the morning at the coffee house,,
little fellas
(well, some ladies too)
perched outside on the ledge
by the window where I write, waiting
for their cookie  crumbs...

I've quit  reading the newspaper
for a while
and I've quit listening to NPR 
the birds,  the little fellas and ladies,
I feed the birds
and we talk,
 I listen,
staying determinedly
as my feather friends,
learn everything
I want to know
right now

This poem is by a local San Antonio poet, Victoria Garcia-Zapata Klein, and it's from her just  released book, Te Prometo. With poems in both English and Spanish, the book was published by Paloma Press.

I bought the book today at the IAMA coffeehouse.

Ode to Your Giving

          for Xavier

My other, you are
unlike any other  lover

you ask if I'm satisfied
tasting my
as through they were
at  La Dolce Vita
savoring every lick
with delight
simple yet  passionate
caresses and kisses
make my entire body
like Mexico City
I can  hardly move
except to

your hands placed
palms upon my
to your direction

I have not  been
one  to follow3
so this is where
your giving

let me lead
my own abandon
bursting into bloom

you let  me
use your hands
your legs
your lips

your mouth
just where I

pressed against
my  neck
tiny kisses
kindle smiles

As an old man with fond memories of the heterosexual lifestyle maybe I shouldn't write this, it being  like writing about the  Shriners without ever driving one of their  little midget cars in a parade.

But I did  it anyway.

about  the  "gay lifestyle"

people talk about the gay
makes me think of three men
who worked for me 
years ago

one was a young man, out,  HIV positive,
who, after completing divinity
school learned no church in his denomination
would accept him

so he went to work for me
and on his own time started his own church
where gays and lesbians and anyone else
who felt marginalized could go
to practice their faith...

he was  a good enough worker,
but,  arrogant and aloof and condescending,
displaying not much love or understanding  of people,
not really suited for a people-business
like mine

I didn't like him much and can't imagine
him as a friend...

the second of the three was neither closeted nor out, he
just was, happily and flamboyantly embodying every gay stereotype
you ever heard

a very young man, barely twenty years old, and, had he had a chance
to grow and mature,
I can imagine him as a friend, someone
interesting to talk to

but the last I heard of him
he was found floating in a canal in Amsterdam,
murdered, having been, I always thought, too much 
himself in too much the wrong place...

the third of the three was a man about my age, a quiet,
gentle man, an artist, unable,
despite all I could do to encourage him, to confront
the men who worked for him, who took advantage of him

he was with a man,
an engineer,
together, the two of them
for many years, his "spouse" before such formality
was legally possible,
who took him to work and picked him up at the end
of every day

they seemed to live like a typical mid-80s couple, good neighbors,
a friendly presence on the block where they lived - everyone
at work and presumably in their neighborhood,  knew
they were more than just roommates, and even
in the uptight 80s, nobody cared

he would be the best,  truest friend
anyone  could have, I think, and had our relationship
been  different I would have been pleased
to  have him as my friend

the last I heard he died of AIDS in the 90s,
long after I had moved on to another job in another

my point
(and I finally get to it)

how can anyone talk about a "gay lifestyle"
when considering these three men,  leaving such completely
different lives, the only one thing in common, the thing least
interesting about them, what they did in the privacy 
of their own  bedroom  and who they did it with, instead,
the important and interesting thing about them
was the way they lived as people,  not gay people,  just
like all the rest of us,


and this,  written I think to remind myself  as the headlines blare
and eh commentators spring into commentator mood, just to remind myself
of the nature of our loss,  not representatives of a "life  style" but real people
as different as the people in any crowded room, individuals with individual
lives and stories, their lives, their stories, ended no by an evil that still stalks
our world

if we're going to talk  about lifestyle now, it should be the murderer's not the
innocent he slew, who lie bloody on a dance floor...

maybe I'm the only one who needs the reminder

maybe not

The next poem  is by Stanley Kunitz, named Poet Laureate twice, first in 1970 and again in 2000.

The poem is from his collection,  Passing Through, The Later Poems, New and Selected, published by W.W. Norton in 1995.

Born in 1905, the poet died in 2006.

Route Six

The city squats on my back.
I am heart-sore, stiff-necked,
exasperated. That's why
I slammed the door,
that's why I tell you now,
in ever house of marriage
there's  room for  an interpreter.
Let's jump  in the car,  honey,
and head straight for the Cape,
where the cock  on our housetop crows
that the weather's fair,
and my garden waits for me
to coax it into bloom.
As for those passions left
that flare past understanding,
like bundles of dead letters
out  of our previous lies
that amaze us with their fevers,
we can stow them in the rear
alone with ziggurats of luggage
and Celia, our transcendental cat,
past-mistress of all languages,
including Hottentot and silence.
We'll drive non-stop  till dawn,
and if I grow sleepy at the wheel,
you'll keep me awake by singing
in your bravura Chicago style
Ruth Etting's smoky song,
"Love Me or Leave Me,"
belting out the choices.

Light glazes the eastern sky
over Buzzards Bay.
Celia gyrates upward
like a performing  seal,
her glistening nostrils aquiver
to sniff the brine-spiked air.
The last stretch toward home!
Twenty summers roll by.

Things have changed from these days long past. Legalized prostitution, and the red light districts that  sprung up along  the border, are no longer legal. I wonder if the women  are better off  now, without at least some government oversight (never  free) and medical care. Which of the cartels look out for them now, I wonder?


 la zona  roja

the red light district

in  Matamoros,
across the river from Brownsville
take the  first right past the bridge,
a dark narrow road that runs alongside the river,
until you come to  the zone,four blocks
lit in garish reds and blues and greens, with 
dark side roads, la zona mala, where even  the toughest
rig hands and cowboys don't  go,
drugs,  opium  dens, women in dark doorways
too old,  too ugly, toothless and too used
for anything but 50 cent  blowjobs...

and bars on the lighted street,
women lined up against the walls
on three sides, like supermarket tomatoes
lined up for the choosing,
young women  and older women, not so long
from  la zona mala - when the roustabouts and drill pushers
get paid everyone gets a little business

and in some
a young girl dances, strips slowly, teases,
between dances that never quite take her  all the way,
she sits on the lap of a young boy, 15, his first  time
in the zone

oh how angry she gets, screws up her pretty face in disgust,
when halfway through the evening of watered-down
drinks, her hand rubbing his crotch, he tells her
he's spent all  his money

and another bar,  an outside patio, past
the latrine ditch where the men piss, so much beer,,
so much piss, the  patio a dark  place with  brick floors, a fountain
in the middle,  men sitting around the square, and a door,
curtained, on one side, a naked woman, enters and dances
around the square,stopping in front of each table to writhe,
to grind her hips, to thrust her pelvis,taking bids at each table,
high bidder gets to go back with her through the  curtains
from where she came, and when she is gone, other women
come in,not as pretty, not as young, as the dancing one, stop
at the tables, sell drinks, make their pitch, $10, no, too much, $8, $6, 
like an auction in reverse until the price is set, okay, $5, come with me...

a lot to take in for a fifteen year old, the soft, greedy-fingered bankers
and dentists and merchants and businessmen, still powdered and shaved
from their afternoon Chamber of Commerce meeting,and the big-bellied
union president with his gold watch and rings (he'll be lucky to get back
across the bridge alive) and  the hardcases,  the laborers  with their rough
and sunburned hands, and farmer-tourists from Ohio, Kansas, and Iowa and
prairies north and east, out to plow some Mexican fields while theirs lie
fallow back home, in this secret land they never imagined and will talk about
with the boys at the VFW hall when they get back to Ames but never
ever where  their wives might hear, their little man-talk secret

and along with all of them the kids, for the first time seeing what the cheerleaders
have under their pom poms,  usually wanting more while some go
once or twice and never go back, some open only to learning the hard way,
like the boy,  some years later on a side street  in Nuevo Progresso
lined  up against  a wall, a rifle pressed against the back  of his head,
by a squad of Mexican soldiers  looking for
rumored gunrunners, a lesson hard
learned on  a cold
Easter Sunday

lessons come and lessons go;
some never remembered
some never

These are three short  poems from the Chinese master from Tang Dynasty,  Du Fu (sometimes called Tu Fu), born in 712 and died in 770, considered one of the two  greatest poets of his time.

The poems  are from the anthology The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry - From Ancient to Contemporary, the Full 3000-Year Tradition. The book was published in 2005.

Leaving in My Boat

A longtime guest in the southern capital, I  plow southern  fields
though the north-gate  view khurts my spirit,  I still sit by the north window.
One morning I  take my old wife  on a small boat
and when it   is sunny, watch my little son bathe in the clear river.
Butterflies flying in pairs chase each other.
Twin lotus flowers are blooming on one stalk.
We carry the tea and sugarcane juice that we need,
and porcelain bottles are as good as jade jars.

A Lone Goose

The lone wild  goose doesn't peck or drink,
just flies and cries out,seeking its flock.
Who cares for the tiny piece  of shadow
lost in ten  thousand  layered clouds?
Does he seem them where visions  ends?
Does he hear them through his deep sorrow?
The wild ravens have no feelings.
They just caw raucously, flapping,  flapping.

A Traveler's Night

A traveler's sleep never arrives,
yet the autumnal sky refuses o dawn.
I roll up the curtain and see a shadow of leftover moon,
stack  my pillows high and listen to the far off river.
I'm at my wit's end for clothes and  food.
At road's end my life depends on friends.
My old wife has brushed many letters  to  me
and knows the emotion of  this unreturned  traveler.

A scene from my window at the coffeehouse, unfortunately not such an unusual scene.

another question  without an answer

he walked
right past my window,
going  north on Broadway

a thin man,
middle-aged, workman's khaki pants
and a short sleeve shirt  with a flowery pattern 
that reminds me of the shirts  my mother sewed  for me
from flour sacks when I was
a kid

he walked,
intense, turning around every three or four steps
to look back the way he came, his face twisted with rage,
waves his arms,shouts obscenities... 

I watched him over the next block
as he turns, shakes his fist,
shouts at someone who isn't  there,
a  ghost from his past,
a  shadow of his

a man afflicted by rage...


just one of thousands walking our streets,
lost, some silent in the misery
of their crumbled
like this man,
Jeremiah, raging prophet,
lost  in fury against evil
only he can see...

who were they,
these men and women
of the street,
before the world turned
left them
struggling against a new gravity 
that pulled their sanity
from them
like water gushing from a milk jug
turned bottom-side

Next, the poet Chelsey Minnis,  from her book,  Poemland, published in 2005 by Wave Books. It is a strange book, no titles, not  even on the cover, tiny bites of poetry that in aggregate tell  a story. I'm using just a few of the tiny bites here, little taste.

Born in 1970 in Dallas, Minnis has published several volumes of poetry.

This is when you throw your shoe at the door...

And it is moving the old man's hand to your knee..

And it is  like poking someone with their own crutch...

Your behavior does not please god but pleases your own self.


This is supposed to be an independent  thought..

But it is just a strained leash...

This is a poem!

You should be able to figure it out alright...

The first theme of it is "old fashioned drinking"...


In a poem...

You have  to make a charitable sentiment...

But I like it without any of that fluff...

I like to be obscenely old fashioned like an old fashioned


You pull a knife  out of your head and threaten with it...

You sway like a child-drunk...

You take a painkiller because of the pain like mental boar tusks.

There is a conchlike muscle that keeps you from  crying...


If you want to be a poem-writer then I don't know why...

It hurts like a puff sleeve on a child  prostitute

Nothing makes it very true...

Except the promised sincerity of death!

Here's a memory flash from 1968.

the commander's daughter

the commander's
sunning by the pool

a tanned island
in a foaming sea of men
2,000 miles from

libidos flare
the desert sun

the ancient mountain
a millenia of sighs

old stories to be
told and told

These two short poems  are  by  Shulamis  Yelin, a Canadian teacher and writer described as "a fixture in  the progressive Yiddish-speaking world of  first generation of Montreal Jews."

The poet was born in 1913 and died in 2002. Her poems are from her book Seeded in Sinai, published by Re-constructionist Press in 1975. I notice a number of my second-hand books are  signed. This one is signed by the poet in 1992  with a note to a friend.


Smoke-rings wreath your face,
You say, "God's finger  points the way,"
as we, from Eden chased with Eve  and Adam,
find re-entry
capsuled in a few  short days.
And the knowledge of its  fleeting matters little
asword  and sun
and wave of morning in the sea of summer
toss us high,
and turmoil turns to quiet murmur,
and laughter  rises in the yeasting waters of our
and we  lie still and close and silent and
     content -
two half-souls reaching out to one another
and wholeness trembles in the hand of God.


And I who am so dangerously intellectual,
And you who are so dangerously cautious,
Tantalize each other from afar.
Reaching for the grape.
And bending for the water,
We wait for each recession,
Self harbor  from each other.
Tired, puppeted we famish.

I used to write some pretty good short poems, but I seem to lost the knack these days, as my stuff just keeps  on going on and going on.

Here are some short poems from the past to maybe rekindle what ever skill I had it in those days.

marriage and the art of accommodation

being of patient
I do no respond
when she tells me
to cover my mouth
every time I  sneeze

even though being
sixty-two years old
and long a master
of proper sneezery

I do know how to do it



a woman in red
stands quiet and still
before a  red wall

becomes like a shadow
on the wall

while I standing
as it passes
become a shadow
on the parade of daily life


creating perfection

a small mole
at the base of her spine
calls to me as she walks away

this tiny imperfection
on taut tanned skin
creating perfection

like a god
who laughs
at the absurdity
of his creations


the weight of a butterfly, multiplied

all  gossamer wings
and sweet intentions,
a single butterfly lands
on a limb in the light dappled
green of a Mexican rain forest

and another lands
and another and another

and another
until the limb breaks
and falls to the forest floor
in a melee of sunshine
and Monarch color

such is the weight
of a butterfly, multiplied,
like the small
passing lies
of lovers


intelligent design

designs the future

eliminating the failed
and all of failure's brood

death judges us now,
if there is a place for us
in its evolving pattern


regrets, Memorial Day, 2006

fallen in fields
of blood exploding

now in fields
of quiet honor

to this bloody
honored end
by those of us
who did too little
when madness
became our ruler's
guiding passion


something simple

have dimmed
my day

is what I need

so it's time
to play the

imagine red


For a period in the  late 50s/early 60s Yevgeny Yevtushenko was one  of  the very few rock-star poets to catch the attention of poetry lovers and many others in this country. Building on a reputation  as a dissident in the Soviet Union on the basis of a single  poem, he was greeted in this country as a sign of the thaw under Khrushchev. Though he was  a bit more cautious than his reputation suggested it still required a level of courage never required of American poets.

The poems are from The Face Behind the Face, New  Poems, published in 1979 by Marion Boyars Publishers  of London. Translation is by Arthur Boyars and Simon Franklin.


 Like a reminder of this life
Of trams,  sun, sparrows,
And the flighty uncontrolledness
Of streams leaping like thermometers,
And because  ducks are quacking somewhere
Above the crackling  of the last, paper-thin ice,
And because children  are crying bitterly
(Remember children's lives are so sweet!)
And because in the drunken, shimmering starlight
The new moon whoops it up,
And a stocking crackles at the knee,
Gold in itself and tinged by the sun,
Like  a reminder of life,
And because there is resin on tree trunks,
And because I am madly mistaken
In thinking my  life  was over,
Like a reminder of life, -
You entered into me on stockinged feet.
You  entered - neither too late too early -
At exactly the right time, as my very own,
And, with a smile, uprooted me
From memories,, as from a grave.
And I, once again whirling among
the painted horses, gladly exchange,
For one reminder of life,
All its memories.

More shorts from the past.

These four are from 2004

home fires

full moon bright
on black winter sky

     wisp of cloud
     like  chimney smoke

drawing me home

to cut a long tale short

mice tree



sun lies low
behind gangly scrub oak  branches 

yellow jigsaw

at the end of day

poem on a napkin

Starbucks brown
and flimsy
with little space
for things profound,
this small memorial
to the moment
our eyes met
and the future 
was  foretold

And these two are from 2005.

revival week

a heavy
sad-sack face
made light by the sight
of her born-again lover

brother and sister in Christ,
and more, for this week
of born-again fervor

some will be saved
by passion
for the Redeemer's grace

and some will be saved
by the grace
of mid-summer passion

sunshine after a week of rain

like the birds
who shake dry their feathers
and return to their interrupted song

we throw our arms wide
to greet the sun,
our song sung
in unself-conscious mime

And this one from 1970.


old woman 

with a hundred wrinkles 
                                                                  s                                         g
                                                                          m                           n
                                                                                 i                i
she tells
of her life

Next from my library, two short poems by C.N. Bialik, from the book  Selected Poems, published by Overlook Duckworth  in 2004. It is a dual language book, Hebrew  and English with  translation by David Aberbach.

The poet, born in 1873, was a Jewish poet, writing primarily in Hebrew,  but also in Yiddish. He died in 1934.

from The Matmid

When young I hard these voices,
I saw these mute toilers;
brows furrowed, wide-eyed,  pale-faced -
as if begging mercy.
Each furrow and glance - a strangled urge,
a dead spark; they stirred my thoughts;
scalded, my heart recoiled,
but remembering their cry at night,
like men  being slaughtered,
I cried out:
God! What are they dying for?

I saw you silent...

I saw you silent, desolate tonight
as I lurked outside your room
     your eyes searching,
bewildered in the window,
     for you lost soul....

searching  recompense
for the devotion of your youth.
     and you did not see, my love,
how I slapped and struggled at your window
     like a terror-stricken dove.

This is an old poem from 2007. I made reference  to Fulton Beach on the South Texas coast when posting photo on Facebook, which reminded me of this poem. I couldn't find it anywhere in my own stuff, then remembered it won  a very minor prize on a poetry forum. So I googled the poem and there it was. Facebook forgets nothing.

Fulton Street hustlers

it's eleven
in the morning
and you can tell
the drinkers,
in the mid-
day sun
as they cross
Fulton Street,
leaving their
motel room
heading for
at one of
the dozen
taco shops
in the neigh
chorizo and
eggs with
a side of
beats, two
flour tortillas
black sludge
coffee and
six aspirin
for the head
that won't stop
aching until
they get their
first beer,
their scrambled
eggs chaser
that officially
starts the day

mostly men
careful with
fresh shined
boots, sharp
creased jeans
and starched
long sleeve
cowboy shirts
with fake pearl
pool shooters,
dart throwers,
penny tossers,
pinball wizards
and hustlers of
most every kind,
living on the edge
always, on the edge
of losing usually,
the live on alcohol
and beer nuts,
meals at flytrap
eateries and
dark places where
the truth is only
what you can see
in a smoked bar
mirror, where pre-
tending is easier
than not

Ending the week with this new poem, trying to  recover my lost short poem mojo.

the thing about memories

they are like smoke
in a glass

in their day
they were real

even real
fragile as lies

like smoke
blown away
through the passing
of lives

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 as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so 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

at 2:27 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

except for yrs of course (lol) so many poems here are prose in my book- i think poetry should b magically charged- i think i have sent u my manifesto

wm c wms opened a flood gate of bad stuff, in my opinion

Dylan Thomas? Hart Crane? Wallace Stevens- they give us music. I love music....after all- the highest form of art.

Post a Comment

May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
January 2018
February 2018
March 2018
April 2018
May 2018
June 2018
July 2018
August 2018
September 2018
October 2018
November 2018
December 2018
January 2019
February 2019
March 2019
April 2019
May 2019
June 2019
July 2019
August 2019
September 2019
October 2019
November 2019
December 2019
January 2020
February 2020
March 2020
April 2020
May 2020
June 2020
July 2020
August 2020
September 2020
October 2020
November 2020
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