| Fall 2022/Winter 2023 Muses' Gallery - Poet's Choice |
For the 2022 Fall/2023 Winter Muses’ Gallery, Highland Park Poetry asked poets to send us their best work. No theme or form required - it's Poet's (& Artist's) Choice.
Many thanks to all of the poets and artists who shared their work with us.
Enjoy!
Jennifer Dotson
Editor & Founder
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| Pamela Crady, Artist |
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Joan Leotta
Calabash, North Carolina
Why I Long for Winter
My lively garden,
whose small shores
kept me moving
quickly in spring,
assaults me with
demands in summer.
Green, green, upon green
punctuated by flowers
in rich red hibiscus
deep blue hydrangea,
irises violet, yellow, pink, and
golden lilies, these fruits
of my spring plantings-- all
call out to me
for water, for weeding, for
up close admiration. However,
when I step outside,
summer’s air pushes down,
enveloping me
like a weighted blanket I cannot
throw off, squeezing out all breath.
I long for air that moves briskly
across my face,
demanding I wear a scarf,
puts bite into apples,
ruffles my hair.
Autumn air reminds me
to grab a sweater when I go out.
I long for winter
to dance through
snowflake showers,
while my garden
dreams of the small chores
it will set for me in spring,
the large demands it
will shout at me in summer
clean up, harvest, in the fall.
But in winter I am free.
| Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
Signs
all around us are signs –
stop or yield,
one way, exit
merge left or right
that cardinal resting on
the windowsill
the scent of pipe tobacco
when no one else is around
a giggle when no
children are present
forgotten childhood toy
is suddenly found
where it shouldn’t be
the rare butterfly
that lands on you,
bringing inner peace
all around us are signs –
you just need to look
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Jan Chronister
Maple, Wisconsin
They Made a Lot of Hay Today...
started as soon as the dew dried,
worked by headlights until ten;
clover dust rising like smoke.
They left giant round biscuits
that will fill winter barns with sweetness
while cows breathe steam
out their slick, black nostrils.
When September ends I realize
the sun is too low to matter,
the garden almost dead.
Winter comes,
I dream of purple clover,
intoxicating scent
buried in bales of hay.
| Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, Missouri
A Break in the Line of Time
After I retired,
I forgot who I was,
the woods thick with vine,
leaf and weed.
Above me a canopy of insects,
snakes, squirrel, possum and raccoon.
I did not know of predators,
but I paid hard attention.
I fell asleep on soft brush,
shared my bed with a family of deer.
A day later,
the scope of earth began changing shape,
tremors rippled along the tree-line,
and a slim animal trail opened up.
I followed it to a stream,
then a river, then a town,
my hair gray and white,
my beard tangled and singed,
but my clothes freshly pressed,
my shoes un-scuffed,
my eyes bright and curious.
So I stayed to discover who I might be next.
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Lynn White
Northern Wales, UK
Dandelion Clocks
The field was yellow
with dandelion flowers
only a week ago.
A field of sunshine.
I caught it at that moment,
a moment in time.
And now the moment has passed,
clocked off,
has become a field of clocks
which can’t tell what time it is.
Only that the yellow sunshine
was fragile,
as fragile as a dandelion clock.
Only that time has passed
leaving only clocks
that will soon be wished away in the wind.
| Toti O'Brien
Los Angeles, California
Happy Hour
Only later, she realized the singular charm
of the backyard was due to the wall - perhaps
one foot high, a bit less on the inside, more
outside, where the slope impromptu began.
Fenceless wall that guests always chose
for seating, bluntly ignoring the chairs. As
soon as they walked out, glass in hand, they
aimed for that irrelevant margin, entranced.
The slope was precipitous, parsed with
greenery and rocks. The guests straddled
concrete or else they faced outwards, both
legs tasting the sweet thrill of other-land.
The view was so wide, it transpired infinity,
but a pale mountain range suggested closure,
sighed soft words of return. They came back,
their visits cheerfully punctuating the calendar.
Only later, she realized the sheer emptiness
of the yard, swept clean of charcoal dust and
dry leaves… Not a potted plant. Not a windchime.
Just the array of never used chairs. As if saying,
“Look out. This is just a window.
A mere pair of spectacles.” “The backyard is
beyond. Look out. Meet the wilderness.
Make yourself at home.”
All guests sat on the wall that even a toddler
could pass. A toy border, it made them feel
safe as if Eden weren’t lost, as if gods,
angels, snakes, were still dormant.
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| Pamela Larson, Photographer |
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Phil Flott
Omaha, Nebraska
Time of Dark Tepees
He rides
high in the sky on his pinto.
swaying prairie grass muffles hoof beat echoes
away from his cocked ear
up to gray swirls of coming clouds.
Just as the Hunkpapa Sioux scents buffalo,
the suspended sun
begins to drop for him,
like the pioneer's iron trap
quickly falls through the water,
seeks sandy bottom,
catches his fat beaver there.
Man-who-flees-the-sun now chases it
in the pulse of his heart.
he knows that when the sun is this flat
buffalo grass will soon be covered white,
nights will last forever, no more ending;
the time to be wrapped in buffalo hides
will come to stay.
Who announced the last hunt?
| Michael Minassian
Fort Lee, New Jersey
The Bees in My Bowl
Bending towards shafts of sunlight,
flowers in the vase open their arms.
I watch the bees’ drunken dance
above a bowl of water—a few petals fall
towards the surface
then bloom like a sail
filled with wind.
Lacking ears, the bees dance—
flight and vibration in place of speech.
Time measured in heartbeats,
the flutter of an eyelash,or beating of wing—
plants and flowers
increasing the sweetness
of their blossoms
as they sense
the bee’s approach.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Mark Hammerschick
Highland Park, Illinois
Walking in Sunset Park
Monty keeps pulling on the leash
smelling every tree
so many trees so little time
he pulls like the point Husky
in the Iditarod
straining against the inexorable
constraints of time
tick tick tick
sniff sniff sniff
when I die
I want to come back as a Havanese
short and stout
sniffing
at the edges
of our shared scent
smelling my friends
lost in tangled webs of memory
back in that basement
on Bernard street in Chicago
Pink Floyd blasting
the entire neighborhood
everyone comfortably numb
dude stop bogarting that joint man
totally not cool
hey where’s the bathroom
just turn left and up the stairs into the yard man
hey that record is skipping
like the years that skipped by
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roller skating at the Axle in Norridge
rolling rocks at Waveland Bowl
sliders at White Castle 3 am
waking up in the middle of the yard
as my father went to work at 5 am
to make sausage and hot dogs
at Hygrade Meats on Fulton street
telling us to go inside and sleep
how you smelled like
ground beef and pork
coming home to play catch in the yard
how I wish you were here
trying to relive these scattered remnants
just like Monty trying to find
a place to pee
in this park
that scents me back
to that special place
in the dusty vaults
of a dazed and confused
era of existential ennui
where our future
is yet to be written…
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| Image from creative commons |
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Olivia Maciel Edelman
Chicago, Illinois
Ámbito
Silencio inédito
Astillas en llamas
Roce de cuerpos
Deriva de sol
Sediento
Estallar de reflejos
Vientre
Acendrado
Ahínco
Piel en vilo
Dientes
Mordiendo
Hambrientos
Los labios
Suaves
Otorgando un beso
Redondo que insufla
Verdes cristalinos
Naturaleza
Desnuda
Perturbada
Algarabiada
| Olivia Maciel Edelman
Chicago, Illinois
Ambit
Unedited silence
Splinters on fire
Rubbing of bodies
Sun adrift
Thirsty
Burst of reflections
Wrinkled
Belly
Skin on edge
Hungry
Teeth
Biting
Soft lips
Gifting
A round kiss
That breathes
Crystal greens
Bare
Nature
Disturbed
Joyful
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| Miranda Dotson, Photographer |
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Linda Freudenberger
Lexington, Kentucky
Big Will & Red
Known to the public as Man-O-War, a Kentucky Derby winner
his name honored on a major Lexington Road, his statue at the
Horse Park. A unique bond developed between the champion
and his groom. Will named him Big Red with his chestnut coat
and height of over sixteen hands. He sheltered Big Red from
indifferent fans, sweltering heat, bitter winds as he calmed and
prodded the horse’s spirit gliding his gentle hands-on Red’s
muzzle, flanks, and withers. Big Red chortled, snorted on cue
during Will’s monologues of Red’s accolades to the fans,
buddies sharing inside jokes and anecdotes. For sixteen years
they walked shoulder to shoulder giving purpose and friendship
daily to one another.
But then Will suffered a stroke rendering him
blind and immobile. Family wheeled him daily to visit
Big Red. Will had never seen Big Red race but they spoke
the same language. Will rubbed Big Red’s muzzle.
Will fought for over a year, but his body gave out.
After one month of no visits from Will, Big Red passed
unable to live without his Will.
Loss is keen between
Pairs entangled no matter
How they meet or bond
| Greg Zeck
Fayetteville, Arkansas
The Glioblastoma Variations[1]
I. Aria / Theme
It forms in the star
shaped cells of the brain
called astrocytes and multiplies
like malevolent loaves and fishes,
eating and eating away at the nervous
system. I would be nervous too, wouldn’t you,
if so afflicted? Thank God, if there is
a God, or our lucky stars, if any, that it’s our
friends, say ten years younger, or siblings, maybe
ten years older, or someone we wouldn’t know from
Eve suffering a glioblastoma so that we ourselves, in some
part of the brain, I’m not a medical doctor and what do I know,
or philosopher, or mind, might be spared such suffering?
[1] A 30-part meditation based loosely on the structure of J.S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. This is the opening part of the poem, which announces the theme of the source and purpose of suffering. *
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Lori Wall-Holloway
Pasadena, California
Ponderings
Seasons of my life
recorded in old
journals sit in boxes
in the closet
while others line
bookshelves
I ponder if it is worth
my time to reread
the writings to see
how far I’ve come
or leave them for future
generations to study
My heart prompts
me to use the hours
in my days to write
words of wisdom
in creative ways
so as to inspire
others to grow
and rejoice
in being alive
First Published in Spectrum 32 Rejoice or Rue, July 30, 2022
| Donna Pucciani
Wheaton, Illinois
Turnings
The other day on the train
I heard a forgotten noise.
Two seats ahead, a man in an overcoat
held a newspaper, turned each page
with a crinkly whisper.
Something called paper
had been culled from evergreens
crowding a hill, cut into lumber
at a sawmill opposite clapboard houses
lining a river in upstate New York.
Trees to sawdust, new pines seeded.
The fleshy pads of fingers
fold back the page, smooth down the seam,
keep the place for tired eyes.
Fingerprints blacken on the daily news.
My childish hands once held books
that yielded the smell of ink, a happy narcotic
from a Modern Library deckle-edged
dollar edition from Papa’s shelf,
or the Nancy Drew mysteries I lived for.
Paper maps a lost galaxy
of touch, sight, and sound,
addictive stories in the midnight
hour, or found memories, silent
except for the turning of leaves.
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| William Marr, Artist |
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Herb Berman
Deerfield, Illinois
State Street
Help me find
the dream I lost
dancing down
State Street at 2 AM.
Or was that Dream Street?
Is there really a State Street?
Is there really a Chicago?
If I decline to wake
how will I know?
How will I ever know?
| William Marr
Pontiac, Illinois
in the virgin forest
beneath the feet
of Picasso’s strange animal
when suddenly a long yell
TIM --- BER ---
awakens me
I raise my head
and in the sunlight that leaks through
I see the skyscrapers
all slanting toward me
This poem appears in Autumn Window (Arbor Hill Press,1st Ed, 1995 and 2nd Ed. 1996) as well as A Dreamless Night, The Selected Chinese/English Poems of William Marr (Chicago Academic Press, 2021)
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Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
The Glance
His glance is brief.I try to catch it in my heart,
hold it in my hand–
that ray of light
from such a fleeting look–
a magnet drawing me in.
Does he know the weight of it
on my fragile self-control?
Imagine direct contact
from those deep, dark, shiny eyes.
I dare not return it,
fearing it might be lethal.
| Joan Luther
South Carolina
Marshmallow Divine
White winter circling round outside all week,
In need of warmth, my soul feels meek.
Like a graceful bird, I dreamily swallow,
Wishing for a powdery covered marshmallow.
Opening the cupboard door, I soon discover,
Only one remains, valued unburied treasure.
Like gold, diamonds, and rubies on display,
Eyes devour and desire tasting immediately.
Viewing dessert, never finding another to enjoy,
Imagining its sweetness, a tiny bite I employ.
Memory tasting, I lust,
Eat at last, I must.
What is divine, marshmallow of mine?
Puffed as a delicate swan of luxury fine.
Purity of white, powerful dreamy sight,
Light as a creamy cloud, oh so sublime!
Sweetness abounds, engaging each sense,
Leap of my heart, wondrous tastes so intense.
Wishing with lust,
Eat the last bite, I must.
Deliciously saccharine floats
Airily passing tongue onto my throat.
Mountainous fluffed topping
Melting sweetness non-stopping.
Tips of fingers, remnants of powdery coating.
Leap of my heart, so tastefully exploding.
Squishing empty bag with lust
Find even more, I must.
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| From the Dotson Family Archive |
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Carl "Papa" Palmer
University Place, Washington
Hurry Up and Wait
Sir, permission to speak, major sir. Go ahead, private.
Sir, what time is the 10 o'clock inspection, major sir?
You mean the ten hundred hours inspection, private?
Sir, yes sir, I mean ten hundred hours inspection, sir.
The inspection will be at ten hundred hours, private.
Sir, yes sir, however we've been standing here since
ten hundred hours for thirty minutes now, major sir.
It will be ten hundred hours when I say it is, private,
as he checks his watch, waits for the colonel to arrive.
Will I ever get the military out of my mind, must each
situation become another army wrinkle in time? While
I wait thirty minutes past my 10 o'clock appointment,
ponder if I should be the private, ask the receptionist
how much longer until my 10 o'clock job interview or
take the role of major and wait for the colonel to arrive.
| Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
Passage
after mama’s death
i think of my fascination
in childhood
with her hat boxes
unable to remember her hats
at the market
i linger as she did
fingering tomatoes
peaches and plums
in each palm
i clean her house for sale
where i played teacher
at the chalkboard
practicing arithmetic
with my red-headed doll
looking out the window
mama sits at my side
in the sandbox again . . .
my shiny red spade
now rusted in the attic
advancing in age
i stroll the streets
we walked
my nursery school
now razed for a nursing home
(This is a tanka sequence, published in “Red Lights” journal, January 2021. A tanka sequence is a lyrical poem with five lines and a maximum of 31 syllables in each stanza. Punctuation and capitalization are used sparingly, if at all. Tanka originated in Japan centuries ago.)
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| Susan Schubert, Photographer |
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Jill Charles
Crystal Lake, Illinois
Climbing Down the Cliff
I used to climb down the cliff
Among the jack pines
Past blue bachelor button flowers
Toward Qualchan Creek
Where the golf course is now.
One day in high school
I finally climbed all the way down
Through the woods
Past the railroad tracks
Where an engineer waved to me from her train.
I touched the water of the creek
My first great adventure
I would grow up
Travel to Italy and Ireland
See the castles and the Colosseum
Yet I never felt so proud
As climbing down that cliff.
| Susan Schubert
St. Charles, Illinois
Schoolhouse Beach
Each stone, tumbled smooth
The bay formed from the Ice Age
The quiet serenity draws me.
Cedars hold the rocky shore
In subtle darkness.
Where has time gone
Since I first came here?
I cannot conjure up words
To express the depth of
My time spent here, this island.
Let the stones keep the secrets
They remember it all.
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Marilyn Zelke Windau
Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin
Autumn Gingkos
Fans are falling to the ground.
They’re green, overwhelmed.
Still they show their youth in this season
of music on the wind.
Sun stage lights hit them
at a certain angle.
They wave their armstems,
dance the mosh pit,
sing along on breezes,
some out of tune.
Swept up by their rakish friends,
they glow-turn radiant yellow,
smiling to say halo-hello to autumn.
They scurry down sound stage aisles,
driveway lengths,
to meet and join their kin.
Piles of these concert reunions occur
each October.
They harvest their fallen,
celebrate solstice tunes:
colorful odes of parting.
| Marilou Knapik
????, Illinois
Honey Bees
Summer clover hosts these fliers;
Gathering pollen on their legs,
Balancing on stems like high wires.
Like pirates hoarding gold in kegs,
They fill octagon cells higher
And higher, in hives
They live their lives
So the queen can thrive.
Lavender flower stalks are ports
For these busy buzzing workers
They dance while giving out reports
On gardens, and on wasp lurkers
They gather all their drone cohorts
To leave the hive
Perhaps give their life
So the eggs can thrive.
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| Lyubov Kuptsova, Artist |
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| LaVern Spencer McCarthy
Blair, Oklahoma
The Garden Gnome
In my back yard there lives a garden gnome.
I bought him from a wizard long ago.
I put him there in his forever home
to guard the grass and watch the pansies grow.
But he does more to earn his keep. His trace
of magic keeps unfriendly winds at bay.
Pink roses sprinkle petals on his face.
Petunias love him in a tender way.
His kingdom thrives. I only wish I knew
how he can make a weeping willow sing
or form tiaras from the morning dew
to crown the heads of tulips in the spring.
If not for him those daisies by the wall
would scarcely have the will to bloom at all.
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Patricia Owens
Louisville, Kentucky & Sarasota, Florida
Sapiens
As I drive across town alone,
it’s not just me in the car
but also floating in my bloodstream
memories of the African savannah,
my peripheral vision keen to any movement
and riding along with me,
the long-honed instincts
of the mountain gorilla
and the narrowed eye of the hawk.
Some part of me is always
on alert for danger
and warns me with breezes
coming in through the gill slits--
a slight rise of hair on my arms,
saliva pooling in the back
of my throat. Primal
intuition gets me where
I’m going and then leads
me safely home.
| Richard V. Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
The Final Word
Mother Nature
will neither laugh nor cry
if Homo sapiens live or die.
Nature casts her sightless eye
on both who thrive or petrify.
Pterodactyls ceased to fill the sky.
She neither cares nor wonders why.
Trilobites and dodos
have long passed by
without her gladness
or her sigh.
Could archaeopteryx learn to fly?
Did Mother Nature bid, "Good-bye"?
Has vanity foreclosed our fate?
Are we learning sanity too late?
(Say, perhaps, that in our own time
our species learned the art of rhyme.)
Will what comes next be better or worse?
Evolution doesn't joke or curse.
Nature has the final word.
Life is crazy and absurd.
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Mark Hudson
Evanston, Illinois
Nanosilver
Silver kills germs in hospitals,
it makes combating viruses possible.
Silver particles are now being made,
to come to doctors’ and nurses’ aid.
Nanosilver is a tiny machine,
that keeps hospital products clean.
The silver is about the size of hair,
it can get into places, anywhere.
But some worry that these strands,
may alter the environment, taking command.
They can make mistakes during surgery,
which might mean they need a perjury.
They kill bacteria, which can help,
but if they get lost, you may yelp!
It could cause environmental hurt,
as the garbage is stored in landfill dirt.
Animals don’t have the same response,
they are contagious to what silver flaunts.
Biosolids could leave the silver in sludge,
leaving future generations to judge.
Can man make things that aren’t waste?
When things are gone, can they be replaced?
| Gary Beck
New York, New York
Learning Gap
The pace of life
changes incrementally.
the more we advance technically
the faster it moves.
In the middle ages
we knew how to make candles
and we had light,
dim perhaps,
but it banished darkness.
In the Information Age
we tell the A.I.to put on the light,
without the faintest idea
how light works.
In another generation
we will be so advanced
that we ask A.I. for everything,
make nothing,
so when collapse occurs
we will be helpless
to prevent the fall.
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| Charlotte Digregorio, Photographer |
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Kate Hutchinson
Palatine, Illinois
What Lies Hidden
Now we know the trees’ secret.
No solitary poles of wood – they are
complex beings, connected by roots
and fungus underground, nourishing
each other, sending out pheromones
to warn each other of coming danger.
As Earth warms, hidden surprises
reveal themselves in permafrost –
a great, frowning mask of the Yup’ik
in Alaska, a reindeer-hide shoe
from the Bronze Age in Norway,
a tea-colored corpse on an Italian Alp.
Among my relatives, sepia-toned
photos spark talk of hidden lore:
our great-grandmother became unhinged
by the loss of a child. Our grandfather
and his brothers’ philandering created
unknown branches of the family tree.
Far north where waters are ice-blue,
bergs have broken apart and tipped,
undergrowth of yellow algae rising up
to create other-worldly mountains
of sea-foam green. What wonders
to find lying long and dark and deep.
| Arlene Gay Levine
Forest Hills, New York
Transitions
When you think of the past
recall it like a friend you have
shared many adventures with;
preserve the lessons learned.
Handle the present the way you
wanted to be treated as a child:
love it unconditionally and
bless it with all your attention.
Imagine the future as a map disclosing
the location of hidden treasure.
Maybe you will find it or not, but
by then, you’ll know the gift
is in the exploring.
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Ed Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
Joyful Noise
Dusk’s hush has begun to visit here.
It seems only moments ago
the sounds that children make, filled the air.
The joyful noise practiced
equally by girls and boys.
Splashing shouting giggling laughing and of course,
the non-occasional shout,
punctuated with water spraying all about.
This cacophonic symphony of sound floats,
above the pool,
whose waters insist on shining like a jewel.
James Barrie said children forget that
they know how to fly two years after they are born,
but they all seem to sense
or know that their glee-filled voices keep them warm.
So shielded, they are bold,
and never feel when they are cold,
even when their lips or skin turn blue
or if their fingertips and toes are tinted azure.
Dressed in robes of rhapsodic noise, these girls and boys
do not feel their shakes and shivers or even if their body quivers.
Quickly toweled down and then,
Circe calls and into the pool they plunge again.
As if they are Neptune’s sons and daughters,
they splash, swim and play in the vitalizing waters.
Sunset marks the end of dayand of day
light’s ecstatic water play.
Silence is centerstage and truth be told,
it is strangely quiet - and we are getting cold.
| Idella Pearl Edwards
Marion, Illinois
Bored?
Are you bored with all life has to offer?
Come climb a tree with me.
Your boredom will disappear for sure.
You just wait and see.
You need some new, exciting adventures.
Life doesn’t have to be boring.
Put aside your mundane tasks
And take time to go exploring.
Do something different. Don’t be in a rut.
Open your heart and your mind
If you don’t do something very soon,
You’ll be stuck in the same old grind.
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| Pamela Crady, Artist |
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Marie Asner
Overland Park, Kansas
Courtly Manners
I quietly open the door into the back of the old house,
taking me into a rich past of multi-colored feathers
against crimson velvet. You could hear the ladies
coming down the hallway from the front parlor.
Laughter pirouettes into formality as they turn
to the hats, set against cream lace curtains,
diamond-cut glass windows and a rose garden
in the background. Small goblets of homemade
berry wine was discretely set on a sideboard,
covered with a white damask cloth.
Grandma walked softly, her large feet becoming as feathers
not touching the weave in the rugs. She did not write well,
but had her own language that looked official
and never made a mistake. No lady’s head was too small
or too large, a stitch here, a pleat there
and it was complete. Several ladies brought ornaments
for their new hats, trusting grandma to make it work.
The lady would stand out in a crowd.
When Grandma walked into church,
all heads turned. It was the hat and posture.
Grandma held court.
The mayor liked to say he ruled the town,
but his wife and daughters had a different opinion.
| Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
Liar
Psychotic force brings down many
Dishonesty a bête noire in life
Aggressive forays parley many untruths
Self-effacing steamrolling citizens
Secrecy adds salt to the wound
May they bring down the house
Lives affected for decades
Anomie, deceit, embarrassment, liar, liar pants on fire
Hidden realities, an everyday occurrence
People acquiesce and fib constantly
Don't say: they don't know any better
Being exposed to lying and never smiling
Emotionally disturbed, careers railroaded
Distraught i am, no plainspoken excuses
Irritable towards the shifty eyed monster
Lying, a perilous existence.
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| Pamela Crady, Artist |
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Joan McNerney
New York, New York
Poetry Planet
is where I belong
without disease, pandemics, none of that
no zoom of gloom, nothing about passwords,
cyber security, foreign interference, hacking
never wars only festivals food of the gods
luscious fruits. genuine harvests, sex sublime
beauty and intelligence beneath a razzle dazzle moon
prejudiced for peace gliding thru metaphors
sometimes a tinge of alliteration subtle images
whispering love endless celebration come with me,
no testing necessary
we will be a ticker tape parade of stardust
joyously orbiting in our very own planet
| Mardelle Fortier
Lisle, Illinois
Habitat for a Poet
I've got a split-level house.
Half is for regular routine.
Half is for dreams.
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| Marie-Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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Lakshmy Nair
Vernon Hills, Illinois
Into the Forest
At daybreak, I walk to the forest
damp morning, and silence wraps around me.
I breathe the sweet scent of earth.
Wet leaves tickle my feet.
A ball of fire rises
above the mountains.
Trees cradle a newborn breeze.
I stumble at lianas and fallen trees
my eyes stretch
across the wilderness.
Above me,
songbirds perch and sing.
From the depth of my soul,
a dancer awakes!
| Nila K. Bartley
Chillicothe, Ohio
My Furry Lump
My cat is different from others.
Love on me he continually smothers.
I got him when he was a year old.
I do not know how he became so bold.
He just walks right up to anyone expecting to be petted.
I do not think there is anyone who has done that, he has regretted.
Except my cousin Mel, and why shall remain a mystery.
He and my cat share no history.
My cat also loves cheesecake.
And anything I bake.
Which explains why he is also very plump.
On my lap he looks like a big furry lump.
The vet says lose weight my cat must.
Which I think explains why the vet he does not trust.
My cat insists on having his way.
So my furry lump, he will stay.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Bing Hua
Rockville, Maryland
Translation by Yingcai Xu
Chicago, Illinois
This is Not Roving
I will leave like this
And never return
For the biography of a hero
Never carries tears or crying
I will leave like this
And never return
No matter how loud the noise behind is
Or what weird croaks the river frogs make
I will walk on like this ----
Treading on the fallen leaves
I will walk into the distance
And with the usual persistence
To let go the past sorrows
I will walk into the setting-sun lights
I will walk on like this ----
I will walk into the village of others‘
And take it as my own hometown
I will walk into the forest
To rebuild my home
This is not roving
Previously published in February’s Rose (Finishing Line Press, 2022)
| R. M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
3M Wonders
Walking into to his kitchen
you can’t miss them
bright yellow notes
on the far side of
long kitchen counter
arranged so neatly
maybe five or ten
I couldn’t help but read some of them
one a grocery list:
(milk, bread, potatoes, soup on sale,
mayo, lunchmeat, eggs, orange juice)
Next are green notes
oil change Tuesday at 10 am
pick up meds at CVS
and so on, the minutia of his life
up in the bathroom
they are pink, go figure,
lined up at the bottom
of the medicine chest
only take Coricidin
for cold symptoms
prostate pill is blue
fill big pill box Monday
a huge desk in his den
is loaded with
carefully arranged books,
classics intermixed
with recent best sellers
taped to his printer
a cascade, this time in bright blue
create legacy account on computer
locate a good article on google that
explains bitcoin and coin base
list of all the grandkids birthdays
hide passwords file
Grampa’s not tied
to Alexa or Siri or i-phone
preferring his own visual,
tangible, touchable,
color coded reminders
to help keep track of his days.
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Court Williams
Northbrook, Illinois
The Standoff
The bull elk chuffed loudly, stamping one hoof,
which caused me to stop abruptly.
I had been staring down at the forest trail to avoid tripping
over rock or root and had not noticed the beautiful yet imposing animal.
He was a magnificent creature, regal of aspect and powerful of build.
His mane, covering massive shoulders, coursed in the freshening breeze.
We both stood stock still staring at one another in fear and uncertainty.
My heart thumped in my chest as my mouth went dry.
Something down deep inside of me told me not to run.
I was unsure of his intentions until he betrayed himself
with a look to his rear.
He was unsure as well, but also just as reluctant to flee.
And so, we stared at each other down that sun-speckled trail,
seemingly destined to die in place for a mutual unwillingness to blink.
We would be there to this day, two skeletons at odds destined to confound an archeologist,
save for the bolt of lightning sending us both running for cover.
My last glimpse of that magnificent animal was him
ascending a hill in short, powerful bounds, stopping at the crest to look back at me.
His silhouette against the darkening sky proved once again
the majesty of creation.
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
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Jenene Ravesloot
Chicago, Illinois
a song has fallen asleep
and the heart and the lamplight feel sorry for me.
I feel cold glass in the blankets; hear the
sound of an eagle diving upon some black bird.
A song has fallen asleep on an eagle diving
upon some blackbird. What I mean is
the self is no longer real, or this heart, or
lamplight, or diving eagle, or black bird, or a
song that has fallen asleep.
Various selected and altered lines of Jack Spicer from The Collected Books of Jack Spicer
| Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
Playful Penguins
One look,
was it instant love,
was it infatuation,
or simply a beguiling moment
spent with animal friends?
How could I possibly
stroll past their rocky confines,
overlook their silly antics,
their beautiful splashes,
their Charlie Chaplin gait,
their synchronized grace?
Adorable -- you agree?
A moment well spent
with the baby penguins.
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Janea D. Harris
Highland Park, Illinois
The E-Word
The E word encompasses me, you and all,
By definition its intent is to be inclusive, lack of bias so that no one is denied opportunity or made to feel small.
The E word, who’s meaning is being highjacked by some, much like the word equality,
Attempts to turn these into dirty words by wrapping them up in fabricated conspiracy theories.
The E word as empowering as inclusion, justice and impartiality,Rooted in rights for all, representation, and diversity.
No complex wording needed, my intent in messaging is to be abundantly clear,
We’re keeping the E word; despite folks attempt to use it to insight hate and even stoke fear.
They can’t have this word, we refuse to allow for its misuse, it’s not theirs to define,
Equity equates to positivity and growth, I’m re-claiming it’s intended meaning for your children and for mine.
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| William Marr, Artist |
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Jeffrey L. Lewis
New Philadelphia, Ohio
Like the Wind
You cannot see
the roiling eddies of the wind,
that bring a tear to your eye,
can’t touch its unseen fingers
as it playfully tousles your hair.
It whispers ancient maxims
laced between
the gnarled branches of the trees.
At times it seems
to hold a message,
an elusive cipher
abandoned to interpretation.
At your back
it may hasten your journey,
in your face, it slows your course.
And now it seems to me
that so many of the things in life
we value most
are so much like the wind.
| William Marr
Downers Grove, Illinois
You Are the Wind
you are the wind, leads
the palm trees to dance
among the clouds
making a man lonely
you are the wind, amplifies
the singing of Sirens
at the critical moment
making a man homesick
you are the wind you are the wind
from the flapping wings of a dying love
the last sigh of God
This poem appeared in Selected Chinese/English Poems of William Marr, (The Earth Culture Press, China, 2021)
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Karian Markos
Chicago, Illinois
Shades of Grass
a vow kept in faith
binds to one side, the
mind and spirit
free to wonder, wander the mythical
land on the other side
where what ifs and daydreams
roam in herds, grazing
upon greener grass
to a heart’s content
| Petrouchka Alexieva
Los Angeles, California
whiter dreams
The day is very short.
It is a frosty winter.
The river is quiet
Dreaming for the summer when
She will be very beautiful.
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Julie Isaacson
Highland Park, Illinois
Remote Learning
My young student sits zooming with me
Face to face, laptop to laptop
Suburb to suburb
We practice reading and writing, her creative ideas flowing
Mid-idea, my young charge must go to the bathroom
“Of course, I’ll be waiting right here.”
Away she hops, as I admire their wallpaper, awaiting her return
I see her snack, a juicy cut up orange, a shmeared bagel,
Carrot sticks and a glass of juice
BUT ALAS
In the screen I see two corgi ears, hovering above the keyboard,
Sniffing, ready to pounce for the bagel
I yell at the dog!
“SIMON, GET DOWN!”
Simon is miffed. A strange voice cautioning him?
No one in the room
He looks left,he looks right,
He looks up, and down. The caption is WTF in dog language.
“Who is screaming at me?”
Using another device, I text Mom.
GO SAVE YOUR LAPTOP!
I close my eyes. I hear Mom clomping down the stairs,
Simon running away,
And the girl skipping back,
“What did I miss?”
The joys, the surprises, of remote learning.
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| Pamela Crady, Artist |
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Bob McNeil
New York, New York
Beatnik Minds for Modern Times
To be a Beat poet, drive down roads
with the ferocity of Neal Cassady
and explore more than four corners
on a compass until you find
new terrains in yourself.
With the frequency of each sunrise,
improvise like Bob Kaufman
while realizing the first thought is
always alchemized.
See art everywhere
from the gutter or the ether
via a Proustian way
for a tire-sized novel
and any Blakean lay.
Go mad and use anaphoric
Whitmanesque lines about polemics.
Yawp about a generation
and its unsung creations.
Wail a jazz tone, so your flow
sounds close to a Coltrane
alto saxophone solo.
And let’s suppose
what your imagination’s heaven
composes gets accepted
by an earthly press.
Right then become Zen egoless.
| Anthony Ward
An Expression of Evening
Skeletal trees silhouette
Against thinning skies
Of white coral hues
As the church shrinks
Into the rising earth
Grave stones aslant
Like Orion’s stance
In the dominant darkness
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
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M. Harlene Henry Perozzi
Lake Barrington, Illinois
Leaflets
I walk the lake path in deep reverie
leaves tumble through autumn's lofty winds
whirligigs twirl round me flirting begging for a gooey
seed sac to be opened and stuck on my nose
I happily comply
airfoils—orange yellow red evergreen brown—blow
countless memories and images before my mind's eyes
Mama's rosy smiles dance on
maple red kites flying high overhead
no strings attached
my love's and Dad's hazel eyes wink among vari-
hued greens still clinging to sap suffused limbs
the tassel of my old school scarf folds
itself around an umber oak leaf
a sacred holey 1985 blue/orange Super Bowl
tee drapes across an aspen's golden wing
unladen leaves settle under my dusty boots
their flights over, their cargo dispersed
the musty musky scents of life's falloff rise up through the
crystal clear atmosphere of this windswept October day
these footnotes of remembrance keep my feet grounded
broken branches snap and pop as I plod on
releasing whorls of laughter from my fore-life
gurgling chortles, gut-deep guffaws, giggles
autumn's sights, sounds, smells
conjure up these sentient flashes
of past times dead and gone
yet as actual and alive as I am
on this lusty autumn day
| Regina M. Elliott
Fletcher, North Carolina
Seasoned
Seasoned homeless men in olive green
and black camouflage jackets,
whisker-stubbled faces,
fatigued eyes once young and bright
that raised their hands to swear the oath,
bustling volunteers in the shelter kitchen,
brewed creamy coffee that warms the
men's throats,
the Catholic church across the city
street tolls it's resounding bells,
paper turkey decorations on the
center of long tables,
a Thanksgiving for the exhausted
unthanked.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
Emotional Solution
I’m stapling anger by its ear
to the corkboard but it refuses
to stay put
I’m thumbtacking fear and
nailing jealousy but they
wriggle and writhe
on the wall
Duct tape works well
on shame and regret
but even extreme stickiness
won’t fix them in place
I’m running out of supplies
to keep my emotions in check
Hope and love better get here soon
This poem was first published in Griffel (Year III, Issue 8, July 2021)
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - October
Petrouchka Alexieva, Marie Asner, Herb Berman, Jill Charles, Daniel Cleary, Jennifer Dotson, Idella Pearl Edwards, Mardelle Fortier, Linda Freudenberger, Paula Garrett, Élisabeth Guichard, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Arlene Gay Levine, Lennart Lundh, Karian Markos, William Marr, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Donna Pucciani, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Susan Schubert, Michael Simon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Sean Waterbury, Lynn West, Court Williams, Kaylia Williams, and Marilyn Zelke Windau.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - September
Petrouchka Alexieva, Marie Asner, Herb Berman, Jill Charles, Daniel Cleary, Jennifer Dotson, Idella Pearl Edwards, Mardelle Fortier, Linda Freudenberger, Paula Garrett, Élisabeth Guichard, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Arlene Gay Levine, Lennart Lundh, Karian Markos, William Marr, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Donna Pucciani, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Susan Schubert, Michael Simon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Sean Waterbury, Lynn West, Court Williams, Kaylia Williams, and Marilyn Zelke Windau.
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2022 Summer Gallery Archive - Odes
Sutter Ahn * Waverly Ahn * Isra Alam * Barbara Boothe Loyd * Mary Beth Bretzlauf * Michael H. Brownstein * Paul Buchheit * William T. Carey * Jackie Chou * Morris Dean * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Laura Atanacio Edington * Regina M. Elliott * Michael Escoubas * Dan Fitzgerald * Mike Freveletti * Paula Garrett * Joe Glaser * Gay Guard-Chamberlin * Cynthia T. Hahn * Mark Andrew Heathcote * Steve Henn * Mark Hudson * Julie Isaacson * Jayne Jaudon Ferrer * Elizabeth Karn * Dr. Betsy Dolgin Katz * Richard V. Kaufman * Pauline Kochanski * Dan Lambert * Arlene Gay Levine * Terry Loncaric * Amber Lucas-Hively * Joan Luther * Karian Markos * Michael Maul * Bob McNeil * Joan McNerney * Adrian McRobb * Silvia Morgan * Lucy Pabst * Carl “Papa” Palmer * Phyllis Patterson * Ellen Pickus * Ann Privateer * Kim Reed * Donita Ries * Marjorie Rissman * Barbara Robinette * Heather Sager * Marie Samuel * Julie Sheldon * Jacqueline Stearns * Judith Stern Friedman * Nick Sweet * Louella Thornfield * Curt Vevang * Lynne Viti * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Lynn White * Patricia Williams * Michael P. Wright * RM Yager * Farrah Zabadneh * Kao Ra Zen
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - August
Waverly Ahn, Cheryl Caesar, Daniel Cleary, J.K. Durick, Idella Pearl Edwards, Linda Freudenberger, Gay Guard-Chamberlin, John Grey, Elisabeth Guichard, Steve Henn, Muriel Harlene Henry, Julie Isaacson, Paul M. Jamar, Caroline Johnson, Elizabeth Karn, Richard V. Kaufman, Lennart Lundh, Adrian McRobb, Margie Hord Mendez, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Jen "Pen" Richards, Donita Ries, Esther Rose, Christine Kierstead Sheeter, Julie Sheldon, Michael Simon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Douglas Thornton, Lynn West, Patricia Williams, and R. M. Yager.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - July
Sutter Ahn, Cheryl Caesar, Carmen A. Cisnadean, Idella Pearl Edwards, Michael Escoubas, Mardelle Fortier, Elisabeth Guichard, Rev. Lucas Hergert, Caroline Johnson, Richard V. Kaufman, Tricia Knoll, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Karian Markos, Silvia Morgan, Howard Nemeroff, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Jonathan Plotkin, Jenene Ravesloot, Donita Ries, Marjorie Rissman, Ellen Savage, Michael Simon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Lori Wall-Holloway, Marilyn Zelka Windau, R. M. Yager, Kao Ra Zen, and Jill Zimmerman.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - June
Cheryl Caesar, Gail Denham, JK Durick, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Linda Freudenberger, Janea D. Harris, Steve Henn, Richard V. Kaufman, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Barbara Boothe Loyd, Lennart Lundh, Michael Maul, Adrian McRobb, Margie Hord Mendez, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Drew Pisarra, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, Eli Rollman, Marie Samue, Michael Simon, Curt Vevang, and Lynn West.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - May
Emma Alexandra, Jennifer Brown Banks, Jan Chronister, Jackie Chou, Jennifer Dotson, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kathleen Gregg, Janea D. Harris, Geoffrey Heptonstall, Irene Hoffman, Maryann Hurtt, Betsy Dolgin Katz, Richard V. Kaufman, Pauline Kochanski, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Karian Markos, Adrian McRobb, Howard Nemeroff, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Marianne Peel, Jenene Ravesloot, Nick Romeo, Alice Marcus Solovy, Lori Wall-Holloway, MichaelP. Wright, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - April
Dan Boyd, Daniel Cleary, J. K. Durick, Michael Escoubas, Daniel Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kathleen Gregg, John Grey, Gay Guard-Chamberlin, Kate Hutchinson, Julie Isaacson, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Pamela Larson, Arlene Gay Levine, Jayshawn Lott, Lennart Lundh, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Silvia Morgan, Lakshmy Nair, Howard Nemeroff, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, Franky Saez, Christine Kierstead Sheeter, Gwen Van Velsor, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway and Lynn West
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - March
Jennifer Brown Banks, Daniel Cleary, Jane Cooper, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Janz Duncan, J. K. Durick, Regina M. Elliott, Maureen Flannery, Mardelle Fortier, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, George Markoutsas, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Wilda Morris, Susan T. Moss, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Phyllis Patterson, Marianne Peel, Marilyn Peretti, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie RIssman, Alice Marcus Solovy, Gwen Van Velsor, and Lynn West.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - February
Michael H. Brownstein, Paul Buchheit, Monica Cardestam, Jan Chronister, Daniel Cleary, Tina Cole, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Regina M. Elliott, Margie Emshoff, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Janice Freytag, Cynthia Gallaher, John Grey, Paul M. Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Sandy Rochelle, and Curt Vevang.
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2022 Daily Poem Archive - January
Michael H. Brownstein, Renee Butner, Jan Chronister, Daniel Cleary, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Michael Escboubas, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Kate Hutchinson, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Adrian McRobb, Michael Minassian, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Karen Petersen, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Marie Samuel, Julie Sheldon, Alice Marcus Solovy, Curt Vevang, Lynn West, Rev. Court Williams, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - December
Renee Butner, Vittorio Carli, Yuan Chang Ming, Jackie Chou, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Michael Escboubas, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, Kate Hutchinson, Paul Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Candace Kubinec, Ann Lamas, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Joan McNerney, Adrian McRobb, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Karen Petersen, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Terry Slaney, Alice Marcus Solovy, Lori Wall-Holloway, and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Fall / 2022 Winter Gallery Archive - Poet's & Artist's Choice
Marina Angione * Ellen Blum Barish * Dan Boyd * Michael H. Brownstein * Teresa K. Burleson * Renee Butner * Tim Callahan * Monica Cardestam * Yahn Changming * Hanh Chau * Jackie Chou * Daniel Cleary * Linda M. Crate * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Janz Duncan * J. K. Durick * Olivia Maciel Edelman * Idella Pearl Edwards * Regina M. Elliott * Dan Fitzgerald * Janea D. Harris * Cynthia T. Hahn * William D. Hicks * Mark Hudson * Caroline Johnson * Dr. Richard V. Kaufman * Candace Kubinec * Arlene Gay Levine * Terry Loncaric * Lennart Lundh * Joan Luther * William Marr * Bruce Matteson * Susan McClellan * Joan McNerney * Michael Minassian * Wilda Morris * Lakshmy M. Nair * Howard Nemeroff * Toti O’Brien * Carl “Papa” Palmer * René Parks * Marianne Peel * Ann Privateer * Jenene Ravesloot * Marjorie Rissman * Tom Roby IV * Sue Roupp * Christine Kierstead Sheeter * Alice Marcus Solovy * Pat St. Pierre * Jacqueline Stearns * Suzanne Elia Stephan * Kay Thomas * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Bruce Whitaker * Court Williams * Michael P. Wright * R. M. Yager
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - November
Lois Barr, Nila Bartley, Michael H. Brownstein, Joseph Kuhn Carey, Charlotte Digregorio, Oliva Maciel Edelman, Michael Escboubas, Kate Hutchinson, Richard V. Kaufman, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Joan McNerney, Michael Minassian, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Ann Privateer, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Ellen Savage, Alice Marcus Solovy, Pat St. Pierre, Lori Wall-Holloway, Lynn West, R.M. Yager and Kao Ra Zen.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - October
Emma Alexandra, Michael H. Bornwstein, Renee Butner, Danie CLeary, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, J.K. Durick, Dan Fitzgerald, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Janea D.Harris, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Joan Luther, Bonnie J. Manion, William Marr, Susan McClellan, Michal Mendelson, Wilda Morris, Khalid Mukhtar, Lakshmy Nair, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Sue Roupp, Alice Marcus Solovy, Judith Tullis, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway and R.M. Yager.
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2021 Summer Gallery Archive - Shoes
Nila Bartley * Jessica Weyer Bentley * Mary Beth Bretzlauf * Fiona M. Campbell * Monica Cardestam * Joseph Kuhn Carey * William Carey * Chris Chandler * Jackie Chou * Jan Chronister * Hinda Cole * Tina Cole * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Janz Duncan * Idella Pearl Edwards * Michael Escoubas * Indira Esson * Isadora Esson * Daniel J. Fitzgerald * Karen Fried * Judith Stern Friedman * Dominique Galiano * Cynthia Gallaher * Nancy Hepner Goodman * Alwyn Gornall * Janea D. Harris * Teresa Harris * Janis Butler Holm * Mark Hudson * Kate Hutchinson * Linda Imbler * Julie Isaacson * Paul M. Jamar * Caroline Johnson * Judith MK Kaufman * Richard V. Kaufman * Betsy Dolgin Katz * Tricia Knoll * Michael Ethan Landau * Joan Leotta * Terry Loncaric * Cindy Madara * William Marr * Michael Maul * Susan McClellan * Cassandra McGovern * Bob McNeil * Adrian McRobb * Silvia Morgan * Wilda Morris * Lakshmy Nair * Carl “Papa” Palmer * Phyllis Patterson * Ann Privateer * Marjorie Rissman * W. R. Rodriguez * Rie Sheridan Rose * Marie Samuel * Julie Sheldon * Alice Marcus Solovy * Miranda Stewart * Christine Swanberg * Nick Sweet * Kay Thomas * Connie Vitale * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Lynn White * Diane Wlezien * Michael P. Wright * RM Yager * Yvonne Zipter
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - September
Lois Baer Barr, Michael H. Brownstein, Jackie Chou, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Mardelle Fortier, Marne Glaser, Carol L. Gloor, John Grey, Jaqueline Harris, Ariella Kharasch, Candace Kubinec, Ann Lammas, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Nitya Menon, Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Tom Roby, Alice Marcus Solovy, and Court Williams
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - August
Chris Chandler, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, J.K. Durick, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Janea D. Harris, Caroline Johnson, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Jean McDonough,Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, René Parks, Jenene Ravesloot, Donita Ries, Alice Marcus Solovy, Nick Sweet, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway, Lynn West, Court Williams, and Yvonne Zipter.
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2021 Daily Poem Archive - July
Gary Beck, Daniel Cleary, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Maureen Flannery, Phil Flott, Mardelle Fortier, Dominique Galiano, John Grey, Paul Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie Manion, William Marr, Jean McDonough, Silvia Morgan, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Marilyn Peretti, Jenene Ravesloot, Alice Marcus Solovy, Kay Thomas, Curt Vevang, and Lori Wall-Holloway.
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2020 Daily Poem Archive - September
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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