Wisenheimers Have The Con   Wednesday, December 28, 2016

A Christmas  Post (sorry, the best I can do)

feliz the works, amen

Christmas morning
after Christmas Eve dinner
with relatives, everyone 
sleeps in
but me
who never sleeps in unless
sick to within
of death

for a good senior  omelet
(huge omelet, apparently for
senior lumberjacks)
and two small pancakes
which I share
with Dee
thinking, how strange
that a place with "Pancakes"
in its name should make
such terrible pancakes, then
the Starbucks search,
there's always one open
on Christmas Day, it is for us
to find it
(and I did my fifth
the one by the strip club)
here I am at a strange Starbucks
my tall Pike, room at the top, plugged
into the electricity of my life
and writing this
does seem
a helluva a lot off thrashing around
to come up with nothing
but this squib of a

hey, it's Christmas
and I'm pleased to keep my Grinch
bottled up inside
long enough
to do  it
say, happy everything there is
you prefer
to you
and all you care about
and upon whom
you count on to share
the works

Happy Holidays to all, whatever makes you want to celebrate.

Nobody is going to read this over the holidays, but here it is anyway.

though I'd feel better if they had actually murdered someone

D. H. Lawrence

how to lose a lover in 15 minutes or less
if a tree fell in the forest
to cut a long tale short

Pablo Neruda
Pact (Sonata)

I am a person

Alex Stolis
We look  & see

the weight of a butterfly multiplied
intelligent design
creating perfection
fast times in Birdland

I'm getting kind of  tired

Friday morning at the diner

Naomi Shihab Nye
from What He Said To His Enemies

come out, come out, whatever you are
regrets, Memorial Day, 2006
something simple
early storm

Robert Bly
November Fog
Ant Heaps by the Path
After a Day of Work

they are ours, take them back 

Edna St. Vincent Millay
I Know a Hundred Ways to Die

marriage and the art of accommodation
wolves at the door

Piotr Sommer
Believe Me

an elderly woman died

Gu Cheng
Legal Case
One of My Springs

poem on a napkin
the pull of the moon
warning label
winter winds

Vicente Aleixandre
Three from The Immortals

there is peace in morning fog, and memories

Here it is, first for the week, still election obsessed.

though I'd feel  better if they had actually murdered someone

I'd like to write
about the clouds
and the trees and the birds
and all that stuff,, but
it's the damn politics that
has hold of my mind
these days, that damn  degenerate
Trump and the desecration
of our country's soul and history

and now the Russians
and one of the most effective
despots in the world today
with his hand at our

not that  Putin didn't  try,
but let's face it,
it wasn't him in the end,
it was our friends and neighbors
who did this, friends and neighbors
for whom
any affection is mightily strained...

I don't want to think they're stupid,
because I know they're not
and I don't want to think they
are as morally bankrupt
as the man they supported
because I know they are not

(not that there is not ample stupidity
and evil among
the Trump contingent)

I think I'm just going to have
to allow them the plea
of temporary insanity, because
after all, people get away 
with murder based on that plea
so I guess it's an okay excuse
for their vote,
though I'd feel better about
them if they'd actually murdered
someone instead of what they've
done to my country...

First from my library this week, this poem by D. H. Lawrence. The poem is from D. H. Lawrence, Selected Poems published in 1986 by Penguin Books.


I felt the lurch and halt of her heart
     Next to my breast, where my own heart was beating;
And I laughed to feel it plunge and bound,
And strange in my blood-swept ears was the sound
     Of  the words I kept repeating,
Repeating with tightened arms, and the hot blood's blindfold art.

Her breath  flew  warm against my neck,
     Warm as a flame in the close night air;
And the sense of her clinging flesh was sweet
Where her arms and my neck's blood-surge could meet.
     Holding her thus, did I care
That the black night hid her from me, blotted out every speck?

I leaned forward to find her lips,
     And claim her utterly in a kiss,
When the lightning flew across her face,
And I saw her face from the flaring space,
     Of a second, afraid of the clips
Of my arms, inert and dread, wilted in fear of my kiss.

A moment, like a wavering spark,
     Her face lay there before my breast,
Pale love lost in a snow of fear
And guarded by a glittering tear,
     And lips apart with dumb cries;
A moment, and she was taken again in the merciful dark.

I heard the thunder, and felt the rain,
     And my arms fell loose, and I was dumb.
Almost I hated her, she was so good,
Hated myself, and the place, and my blood,
     Which burned with rage, s I bade her come
Home, away home, ere the lightning floated forth again.

Looking through  old files, I found some shorter poems I haven't looked at in years.

how to lose a lover in 15 words or less

say little

listen less

assume surety
in a universe
of constant


thin crescent
in the still-light sky

first star beside it
in the pale blue sea
of night awakening

drawn by currents
of impending dark
to the wide-open mouth
of hungry moon tides


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

if a tree fell in the forest

a worse thing
than having no thought
is to have a thought
that falls soundless
in a void of indifference

a fallen pebble
sinking in a pond of discourse
without a ripple

to cut a long tale short

mice three


Next from my library, the amazing and wonderful Pablo Neruda, Chilean winner of the Noble  Prize for Literature. The poem is from the book Neruda, Selected Poems. Published by Houghton Mifflin in 1990. It  is a bilingual poem, Spanish and English on facing page.

I've been reading of a new movie  about Neruda, coming from the same director who also did the current movie about Jackie Kennedy. I hope to see both.

Reading Neruda makes me wonder how I could ever imagine I might become a poet.

Pact (Sonata)

Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass
in a wasteland of thorns
nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners
of certain  houses,waters like eyelids and  eyes
can capture your waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oaks
toward your unbreakable thread of snow.

Nocturnal sugar, spirit
of the crowns,
human blood,your kisses
send me into  exile
and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
beats on the silences wait for you
surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.

Nights with bright sprinkles,
divided, material,nothing
but voice, nothing  but
naked every day.

Over your beasts of motionless current
over your legs of firmness and water,
over the permanence and the pride
of your naked hair
I want to be, my love, now that the tears are thrown
into the raucous basket where they accumulate,
I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable
of mangled silver, along with a tip
of your breasts of snow.

By now sometimes it is not possible
to win except by falling.,
by now it is not possible to tremble between
two beings, to touch the flower of the river:
fibers of man come like needles,
procedures,,  fragments,
families of repulsive coral torments
and hard steps for winter

Between lips and lips there are cities
of great ash and moist summit,
drops of when and how, vague
comings and goings:
between lips and lips as along a shore
of sand and glass the wind passes.

Therefore you are endless; gather me as though you were
all solemnity, all made off night
like a zone, until your  are indistinguishable
from the lines of time.
                                     Advance into sweetness,
come to my side until the fingery
leaves of the violins
have gone silent, until the mosses
take root in the thunder, until from the pulse
of hand and hand the roots descend.

          Translated by W. S. Merwin

Disconcerted by events.

I am a person

I am a  person
of regular  habits,
going to my regular
my regular ways

except yesterday
when I zigged when I should have 
zagged , taking, in a moment of internal
a wrong turn, finding myself
on a street where I had never been,
a  "Twilight Zone"  moment,
discovering in this strange place,
people not strange at all, shops, like
the very place I sit now,  not strange
at all, and cars,, cars not strange at all
going this-a-way and that, cars driven by regular-
looking people who are not, like me,
on this street by accident, cars driven  by people
who actually mean to be here, came here on purpose
maybe even on a regular  basis,  regular people,
people like me, going their regular places
by their regular ways...


face to face with the outer limits

The next piece is by my poet/photographer friend Alex Stolis, from his chapbook, On the run with Dick and Jane, published by Pudding House Press.

We  Look & See

I am erratic, a man without skin. I have given up believing in night
and my soul pinches

at the thought of harvesting ideas. Ideas like the mesmeric effect
of insinuation on  the

flat surface of a river. Ideas that an song that is sung out of tune
by a nicotine-stained

man who stands outside the window, can  be heard across an open
square. Once, in a

hospital room faraway from suitcases and friendships of the
middle class, there was a

chance and maybe a choice. Now everything is faded past in the
mirror of books and dust

that lies thin and plastic on my coverlet. Two  more drinks ought to
do it. Ought to be

enough to wash the stink of morning into the street and down the
alley. The phone rings

One. I wonder if the voice on the other end has any meaning. Two.
I remember a cream

colored napkin with  phone number. Three. She said her name
was Lucy, but the scent of

her hair said Rita. I forget for a moment there is no way to stop a
bus from leaving the

station and once the smell of cigarette smoke gets blown into the
wooden slats on a

forlorn bench it is time to go home. Halfway through four stops.
The silence is raw like

innocence when it is left to dry on the sidewalk after  a hard rain. I
should know better but

I pick up the phone and listen to the dial tone as it buzzes and then
beeps its way into the

soft core of midnight.

More nearly lost  shorts.

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

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 its creation

fast times in Birdland

I hit a bird this morning

ran right over  him
when he flew too low
and too slow

dumbass bird

I drove on...

stuck in my Cadillac's
checkerboard grill,
beak forward,
around his black BB eyes
ruffling in the wind

he dies

goddamn, look at me go

I'm the fastest bird
in this whole freaking town

A little weary.

I'm getting kind of tired

I’m getting kind of
of writing poetry

it’s  like being
a dog catcher in the
cat  division

likes cats
nobody likes
cat-chasing dog-

I should find another  line  of

lots of options

for example
I have the exact surly attitude
of WalMart  greeters

open for me

A morning ramble.

Friday morning at the diner

new server
at my diner,
chatty, bright as
a new penny
and at the table
across from me
three beautiful Latinas,
in their thirties, I'd say,
professional women
from the way they're
dressed, or stay-at-homes
dressed up for breakfast
from the suburban
of married women,
in charge, but keeping
it quiet, keeping their
husbands dancing to Pavlov's bell
by pretending it's not them
ringing it...

I like them, the kind of woman
who dominate my cadre
of best friends


by the door,
a man in a wheelchair,
his prosthetic leg across
his lap, his breakfast
like mine, oatmeal and

I don't know if  we
could be friends but
at least we think alike
on breakfast issues...


the bright, chatty server
takes my money
sends me on my way
with a bright smile and a
chatty wave

Born of a Palestinian father and an American mother, living many of her young years in Lebanon, Naomi Shihab Nye chose San Antonio as her  permanent home many years ago. She is one of my favorite poets. In addition to her own books, she is also an excellent editor, publishing over the years a number of very good anthologies.

This next poem is from her book, 19 Varieties of Gazelle, Poems of the Middle East, published by Green  Willow Books in 2002.

from What He Said To His Enemies


People pass you in the street
and do not see you.

Apparition, hidden river,
inhabitant  of cracks...

After battering talk
a room clears
and you're on the ceiling
extending your silent hand
water of light
poured freely...

a hand, not a flag.
You don't believe in flags anymore.
You're not even sure
you believe in men.

Birds, children, silver trays -
no problem there.
Each day they trade their aIr
and song. They feed you.


 Rounding the last old city corner  to school,
for years and years
 boy touched his finger to
the same chipped stone in a wall.

Befriending one another
was no trouble.

The boy knew what came next:
tight desk, stretching hours.

Sixty years later in another country
he tells one person about the stone.

Then goes outside
to stare into trees.

Is it still there?
He will find it.
What if it is not there?
He will find it.

You want shorties, I got them.

come out, come out, whatever your are

soft shadows

a window
half open
to curtains
in steamy
summer breeze

inside, secrets,
hidden things
waiting for the dark
when clouds cover

and pale shadows
turn thick
and haunting

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

early storm

marbled clouds
pile high
in the eastern sky

tumble and stir
in the rumble
of ions crashing

while pasture grass
in the first breath
early storm

Next from  my library,  a couple of short pieces by Robert Bly. The poems  are from his book This Tree Will Be Here For a Hundred  Years published in 1979 by Harper & Row.

November Fog

This private misty day
with the lake  so utterly cast down, like
a child
The long anxious wheels
churning in sand,
the pale  willow lees shedding light
around the "pale bride and groom."

Ant Heaps by the Path

I love to stare at old wooden doors after working,
the cough the ant family makes in ground,
The blackish stain around screw heads.

How much labor is needed to live our four lives!
Something turns its shoulders. When we  do work
holes appear in the mountain side, no labor at all.

After a Day of Work

How lightly the legs walk over the snow-whitened fields!
I wander far off,  like a daddy-longlegs blown over the
All day I   worked alone, hour after hour.
It is January, easy walking, the big snows to come.

 How deal with the new world after the Huns have breached the gates?

they are ours, take them back

it is time
for those of us true
to the values of our country's
heart and soul
to take back its symbols
from those who would abuse them,
those who seek to attach to them
their own mean and hateful natures

it is the only resistance
available to us
in these new times...

sing loud the national anthem,
stand tall with hand over heart
as the flag passes, recite
the pledge even as all the phony patriots
try to hide their perfidy
behind words they drain of meaning

for it is our flag, our anthem,
our pledge and we should reclaim them
in these dark days when the undeserving
seek to usurp them, as they try
to use them to betray

The next two pieces are by Edna St. Vincent Millay, taken from the anthology A Mind Apart Poems of Melancholy, Madness, and Addiction that I didn't get to last week. The book was published by Oxford University Press in 2009.

Born in 1892, Millay died in 1950 after a fall down stairs in her  home. A poet and a playwright, she won a Pulitzer Prize for her poetry. She was America's best known, favorite poet for many years, despite scandal related to her  open bisexuality.


Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
    Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain -
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
    Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
    I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
    Or what shoes I wear.

I know a hundred ways to die

I know a hundred ways to die,
I've often thought I' try one:
Lie down beneath a motor truck
Some day when standing by one.

Or throw myself from off a bridge -
Except such things must be
So hard upon the scavengers
And men who clean the sea.

I know some poison I could drink.
I've often thought I'd taste it.
But mother bought it for the sink,
And drinking it would waste it.

Here's four more.

marriage and the art of accommodation

being of patient
I do not respond
when she tells me
to cover my mouth
every time I sneeze

even though being
72 years old
and long a master
of proper sneezery

I do know how to do it


goes to the supermarket
for early shopping

her little girl
sits in her little shopping cart seat,
her dark hair fluttering
in the fresh morning breeze,
her dark eyes
gleaming in the sharp, new-day
and sings,
as loud as she can
in her squeaky little girl voice

WOK U!!!

and the mom looks at me
and shrugs
and I smile

we will

we will

that's the way to start a day

enjoy, enjoy

hand in hand they stroll
the cobbled walk
between Starbucks
and The Gap

younger it seems
than ever I was,
never so untroubled
by the looming
of uncertain life

I envy them
their present
and wish
I could walk behind
unseen but heard,
enjoy, enjoy
I would whisper,
enjoy, enjoy
for this bright
and wonderful day
will never come again

wolves at the door

wolves, howling,
afire with lusting for our flesh

that's what  we're told

but it's sheep spread slaughter
on this dry, dusty field,
and truth there with them,
and justice, bought,
then sold
for the blood of lambs

Piotr Sommer was born in Poland in 1948. He is a poet and translator of contemporary English language poetry. His poems are from his book, Continued, published by Wesleyan University Press in 2005. Originally in Polish, translators for individual  poems are not noted.


The afternoon sun
round the corner of the town,
and every inch of skin
and every thought
is clearly exposed,
and nothing can be hidden
as everything comes to the surface:
unanswered letters,
short memory.


When we first met,  we were really so young.
I saw nothing  wrong in writing poems about myself.
Didn't I know that I  too would be ashamed of something?
Didn't I know  who you were?

Shame and laughter lock my mouth in turn.
I'm ashamed to think of it; I'm amused to be ashamed.

Believe me

You're not going to find a better place
for these cosmetics, even if eventually
we wind up with some sort of bathroom closet and
you stop knocking them over with your towel -
there'll still be a thousand reasons to complain
and a thousand pieces of glass  on the floor
and a thousand new worries,
and we'll still have to get up  early.

Time passes. The older you are, the rougher the passage.

an elderly woman died...

an elderly woman died,
an old woman I knew as a girl

several days now
since I heard the news
and I didn't think about it until now
and I'm sad...

her death at my age
not unexpected, it's what happens
when you run up against the end of the road...

the truth is, I never knew the old woman
who died and it's not her I mourn,
it's the girl she was 50 plus years ago,
a teenager, a young adult woman,
tall, smart, vivacious, with a wide
welcoming smile, dancing through life
in South Texas sunshine at an age
when death seemed an unlikely interruption
for her and for me...

I think of her now, not the woman who died,
but the grace of the child who was young
with me years 

I really liked her... 

I wish today
I had told her then

These two poems  are by Chinese poet Gu Cheng, taken  from Nameless Flowers Selected Poems of  Gu Cheng, published by George Braziller,Inc. in 2005. The book was translated by Aaron Crippen.

Gu was a very famous modernist Chinese poet, essayist and novelist. Born in 1956, he died in exile in New Zealand in 1993, taking his own life after murdering his wife.

Legal Case

the nights
are like crowds
of blurry-eyes people
stealing up to me
then leaving

I've  lost my dreams
there are only some coins in my pockets
"I've been robbed"
I say to the sun
the sun goes chasing the nights
and by another crowd of nights
is chased


One of My Springs

Outside the wood window
lie my furrows
my yak
my plow

a squadron of suns
comes shining through the fence slats
sky-blue flower petals
begin to curl

the frightened dew
wets a field of memories
startled sparrows
look to the heavenly pole

I  will to work
choose seeds from in dreams
let them glint in my hand
and cast them on water


More from the past.

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

the pull of the moon

half moon
cut precisely by earth's shadow,
one part shining
in the clear October night
like a great yellow lantern in the sky
and the other, dark and mysterious,
though barely seen by the eye,
still a mover of tides
and midnight meditations

as the bright in you pulls me,
even more the the secrets
of your darker moods

warning label

cigarette smoke
makes you smell like a bar in the morning

the stale stink of a butt-littered floor
     and spilled beer
and piss from the overflowed urinal in the john

all overlaid by a stink of desperation

the desperation of imp  cocks lost in lust-dreaming
     losers lost in their own lies
redemption-dreams fading as the sun rises

to the squalor of crud crusted eyes
and lingering vomit-bile breath

winter winds

winter winds
the north hills
the city
with cedar pollen
that leaves me gasping
like a blowfish
on a stroll down  Grand Avenue

Spanish poet Vicente Aleixandre was born in Seville in 1898 and died in Madrid in 1984. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1977.

I have three of his poems, excerpts from a larger work. The poems are from A Bird of Paper, Poems of Vicente Aleixandre, published by Ohio University Press in 1982. The poems are translated by Willis Barnstone and David Garrison.

From The Immortals


The waist is not a rose.
Not a bird. Not feathers.
The waist is the rain,
fragility, a moan
giving itself to you. Use
your mortal arm to hug
fresh water, a love
complaint. Embrace, embrace it!
The entire rain looks like
a single reed. How it wavers
if there is wind, if your mortal arm
is there, yes, today, you who  love it


Even more than the sea, the air -
huger than the sea - is calm.
High unpeopled vigil of lucidity.
Perhaps one day the crust f the earth
could feel you, human. But the unconquered
air doesn't know it lived in your chest.
No memory, deathless, the air glitters.


Who said perhaps that the sea moans
sadly, lip of love toward the beaches?    
Let it spread out enveloped in light.  
Glory, glory on high, and on the sea, gold!
Ah, sovereign light that envelops, sings
the imperishable age of the sensual sea
There, reverberating
timeless, the sea exists.
Hear of a deathless god, throbbing!  

Memories of mornings on the coast.

there is peace in morning  fog, and memories

there is a kind of peace
when driving in heavy fog,
sharpened by a small edge 
of danger, unknowing what lies
beyond the blind ahead

the contradiction
of desires, peace and the challenge
of  danger...

thoughts brought on by fog
in San Antonio this early morning,
remembering the dense fog on coastal 
mornings, fog along the shoreline, driving
to work, stopping at one of the T-heads
to listen to unseen waves lapping, the gulls
crying so close I could almost touch them
if I could  see them, or a  particular pre-dawn
drive to Galveston along the coast highway,
my car a tiny island of light in a shrouded world,
ever mile an adventure...

or closer to now, walking downtown, crossing
the river on bridges rising up like stone guardians
above the river fog, again, senses alert,
the river not seeing it, but hearing its flow
below the gray curtain...

(this was years ago, when I was young
and easily detached from reality, walking
the streets of a city new and strange
to me - peace, adventure, danger,  the
milk and honey of a young man on his own)


all these memories from a light fog
on a cold December morning...

how the past grows in my mind
as the present recedes...

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 10:58 AM Blogger davideberhardt said...

photos giv ing pleasure this issue- going down- 1 stately, eds in black and white- european, 4 composition- light and shade, 5, as 1, 8 &12 as 4
let me see if any of the poetry gives as much pleasure - i wish
best for some clever resistance in n y- where's the nearest cruz office?
if we goi to van cliburn competiion- what else is there in the area? museums? parks?

at 11:02 AM Blogger davideberhardt said...

bly, neruda, lawrence- they go deeper

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