tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15455182455763845382012-03-01T06:10:01.458-08:00est. 2011Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.comBlogger1531100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-54162625264956230812012-02-28T15:03:00.000-08:002012-02-28T15:03:31.922-08:00

Dear Friends & Poets, I've decided to re-open Red Poppy Review but will publish the journal on a quarterly basis instead of monthly.  Please see the guidelines page for more info.  I hope to see the red poppy blooming again beginning in April.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-10595633029250927832011-12-14T12:05:00.000-08:002011-12-17T19:07:18.775-08:00

Vintage Angel from GraphicsFairy.blogspot.com Dear Poets & Readers, Red Poppy Review will be on a temporary hiatus through the holiday season.  Please check back next year (no definite time set) for its re-opening.  Thanks for your continued support and patronage, it's very much appreciated. Happy Holidays, Sandy Benitez Editor, Red Poppy Review

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-88785497885952732892011-12-11T09:31:00.000-08:002011-12-11T09:31:26.079-08:00

Years ago, your hair, skin, even your clothesemitted an energy, an invisible fieldof heat and magnetism. Brushing by you--enough to spin the compass. We’ve since grown accustomedto proximity, but desire runs deepneeding only the friction of two decadesand a minute to ignite.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-32336098631213429882011-12-07T09:31:00.000-08:002011-12-07T09:31:51.314-08:00

Mother told me souls are prayers with feet thatspark the walk through dark. Her reflection appears in the buswindow, where bodies gather in rows, telling stories of past lives.   She said I'd turn silver-haired,shelter a bird caged inside my chest;said talking only shortens breath.  That the fingers closing my eyes would stitch my cells across the sky. But nothing of the sirens, the engines 

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-70977501133588450862011-12-05T08:52:00.000-08:002011-12-05T08:52:55.688-08:00

“this is the Hour of Lead” Emily Dickinson, #341 This is when heaviness plunges heart into ice water,fractures a person into flakes, breakable as weatherunder leaden air. If not fall,then into uselessness. If not overcome, bruised --- then mashed, flat, to earth.Redemption is the least word we speak.What is mutable is changed; or leftfragmented, into the alchemy of utterances,   bending things

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-49202258876525799122011-12-03T14:34:00.000-08:002011-12-03T14:34:59.484-08:00

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-1037312419183569802011-12-02T09:19:00.000-08:002011-12-02T09:19:26.025-08:00

I watched her hanginglaundry out in the backyard.Sweat fell from her faceand my eyes sank to witnessher dress clinging to her breasts. When I wade in the Chattooga, belly deep in the cold flowing water, I only feel the weight of his historybearing down on my trembling legs. William Garland is presently enrolled in the MFA program at the University of South Carolina, where he works as the

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-55038640170601734792011-11-30T09:50:00.001-08:002011-11-30T10:00:31.675-08:00

After twenty bedded years,there is, and is not, much to say. Mosses dry and shriveled leavesstarve the low-flying chickadee,which battens on green conifer trees, cracking hardened shells of seeds,its winter body acting froggily:settling in for the deep freeze. Lurking in the depths are thingsbetter wrapped in mucky leaves. Cold frogs in a fallow ponddrifting with their murky gracereveal the

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-9877943244956433662011-11-28T08:10:00.000-08:002011-11-28T08:10:47.307-08:00

White blossom of pear.Snowy limb in cool March breeze.Melting horizon. Open door bangs shut.Wind allows a dream to fly.Milkweed haunted now. Purple iris bulb.Green shoots fly through spring’s wide  gate.Spider sleeps on air. Water drains low sky.Earth and fire circle clear.Bullfrog croaking near.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-1433121337189731182011-11-22T10:52:00.000-08:002011-11-22T10:53:59.358-08:00

Check out Michael Keshigian's new chapbook, Wildflowers, from Flutter Press.  Wildflowers describes the various manifestations of love, attraction, and relationships. "Wildflowers grabbed me close on the very first reading.  Most intriguing poems!"Michele M. Graf, Poetry Editor, Apollo's Lyre "As usual, fine and rewarding work.  It is through reviewing writers such as Michael Keshigian that I

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-8030011870575185682011-11-21T09:18:00.001-08:002011-11-21T09:18:55.865-08:00

Clouds of dark branchesscuttle in the trees overhead,flowing on a vagrant breeze,folds of sacramental robes,uniting in a singular direction,yet maintaining individuality. Patterns within randomnessreflected as each turn of leafmirrors first pale sky abovethen dun of earth below. Floating branches,swimming trees,maelstroms caughtbetween sky and earth:cues of the Middle Way;path between extremes.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-69367942723393244722011-11-18T10:47:00.000-08:002011-11-18T10:47:41.235-08:00

Familiar,the crackle of gravel,a bend, a simple house.Sweet peace.Trees.Big, old trees.Secure in their restless shadowsa few hens earnestly peck in the yard. Fragile,I grieve when the swallows disappear.Goodbye for now.A pausebefore winter’s icy clawtakes me by the throatand I curse its wasp-like stingthe day I marvel at cougar prints in snow. Benevolent,an old tree falls silent, giving

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-24743227004155756592011-11-16T09:36:00.001-08:002011-11-16T09:38:18.091-08:00

There beyond the chilly glassyou wait−your body broken on the garden’s floor, your wings;unfolded emblems upon the ground. What happenedtiny thing? What became of your past flight? Wasno one there to hail your glory, to open the sky or let you in?Did you hear a secret from within that dimmed your lightor was another passing through clouds;  the one who stole your breath? I can almoststand the

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-36497131750044737202011-11-14T12:47:00.000-08:002011-11-14T12:48:20.358-08:00

Autumn Dreamscape  The last leaf falling-I dreamt of rich green olives,half-shelled baby birds   Looking Back  your wet sand footprintsfill with water and salt, thesea follows you home  First Fire  fireflies dance betweenmy ribs, your moon mouth kisseslighting me inside.  Horizon Tree  Ancient limbs snake widegrasping a setting sun, blackbranches- mustard sky Deana Prock lives and writes in

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-76066235618191081112011-11-13T21:01:00.000-08:002011-11-14T12:48:34.328-08:00

Check out Kristin Roedell's second poetry chapbook, Girls with Gardenias, from Flutter Press.  26 pgs. 15 poems.  “Kristin Roedell's poetry draws order out of the inchoate and in that order is a comfort. She puts her finger on the deepest cut, the most painful sadness, the rawest scar and soothes it. Her universe is WomanLandia. No subject is barred, her lines illuminating the darker corners of

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-69365158635152661272011-11-11T08:34:00.000-08:002011-11-11T08:35:27.511-08:00

A Poem for Veterans Day

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-65633199710358341802011-11-09T10:17:00.000-08:002011-11-10T09:34:17.424-08:00

I want to wear your voice in my heart, string yourwords into jasmine garlands,your perfume, lingeringin my hair, immortal. I want to swallowyour secrets, a daringsword swallower, hold in thepinpoint sharpness in the pit ofmy belly, their twists and turns keepingmy inner masochist alive. I want to surrendermy soul in shreds, while youplay king and choosewhich of me to keep, and whichto annihilate

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-75058789759895447172011-11-07T10:26:00.001-08:002011-11-07T12:03:53.856-08:00

Woman with a Head of Roses(after the painting by Salvador Dalí) She of magical thoughtShe on her mark on a wooden stageShe imaginesShe is the stem of a roseShe sought to beShe knowsShe has become the scent                                She where lights convergeShe the perfect bloomShe pretendsShe the image who resolvesShe is the cynosureShe who reveres the roseShe assumes to

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-91163249097120923092011-11-04T09:46:00.000-07:002011-11-04T09:47:02.119-07:00

I remember a daily circus,a belt enchained monkey and pacified snakes.There was no high wire, but heights came via a whisper of hashish. The sun was ungoverned. Canopied fruit carts were like oases.No one direction could transfix eyes. Senses were jostled. A cauldron wafted its lure, and I couldn’t resist one too many local-priced bowls of soup.The next morning I exploded after this digestive

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-28772734960833650442011-11-02T10:30:00.001-07:002011-11-02T10:31:20.214-07:00

On the porch with a block of wood, the shavings at his feet, he whittles with an old, small, brown pocket knife. He could have chosen a softer more malleable wood, like butternut, sugar pine,or a cedar, but the hard mahogany will transform, chip by chip, into a trout in perfect proportions. Maybe a rainbow or maybe a brown. I resemble a man, but I’m just mahogany with shavings at my feet.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-77726319995789309072011-10-31T10:36:00.001-07:002011-10-31T10:36:41.561-07:00

Sierra Winter coyote winter coatair crisp, days short and hungrymoonlit snow sparkles Day’s End neighbor walking dogmoth fluttering about, lost,hesitant sunlight New Moon brief gleam, dark intrudeshope effervescent, love gone,lonesome stars beckon Autumn Thunderstorm unexpected raintrees glimpsed in lightning flashghostly wails, cool, clean Vietnam they lost millionswe lost fifty-eight

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-91581275523963495842011-10-28T10:01:00.000-07:002011-10-28T10:01:38.653-07:00

After the soporific of red wine and potato chips,I drifted off over the Great Plains at midnight,the cabin darkened, my heart and the heartland lit. Now the sky is reddening in the east, andin the west lights are clumped like islandsglimmering through velum. On that solo adventure four decades ago,I wandered from the foot of the Acroplolis to Delphiand Santorini, knapsack on my back, channeling

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-4738542024038992542011-10-27T10:05:00.000-07:002011-10-27T10:05:28.848-07:00

COME AND GO You comeinto my lifelike waterboarding. Like a masochistI can't get enough. You fadelike prayers toa god, words spokento silence. DREAM On the trainconcrete and treespass likedead memories. I'm goingsomewhereI've never beenbefore: home. Craig Scott is an unimaginative pseudonym. Tales From a French Envelope, a collaborative collection written with Catfish McDaris, is now available

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-84683681275375491982011-10-24T10:33:00.001-07:002011-10-24T10:34:22.480-07:00

Evening fog moves in to shroud the orchard blackbirds fly in low repossessing the whitethornas I step across bleached grass  bend towards a drooping applewhere bees are sculpting out a silent structure carving out a white cave whittling away the sweetness storedeep inside apple's skin. Dusk settles on my bare arm as I reach intouch darkening apple skinand whisper Margaret.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-2116588559811864822011-10-21T09:04:00.000-07:002011-10-21T09:04:52.029-07:00

I couldn’t waitto post it,being technically, I felt,one of the best poemsI had ever published-- concise, vibrant imageryemanating from stone fistedverbs seamlessly orchestratingmovements of rhythm & soundwith polished gunmetal clarity; carefully crafted passagesneatly alignedas pieces on a chessboard,strategically marching towardthe final stanza’s ultimate ironic twist-- only to watch itlanguish,

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-59545709759162888162011-10-19T09:24:00.001-07:002011-10-19T09:25:14.569-07:00

Red dragonflies sparkledwhen she poured waterfrom the cruse onto a ragfor the back of my neck.I dreamed of the strengthto recoverand live simply and cleanfor the sake of her favor.I cooled under the sheetsin the airas she counted out beads.The window kept the dayalive for usuntil a sleep finally cameand I turned from her face.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-53284526984362090372011-10-17T10:13:00.000-07:002011-10-17T10:14:05.824-07:00

Love is lost somewherein a breeze of apple scentas she holds forth fruitwith trembling hands to her matewho can name all things but death. William Cullen, Jr., has had his poems published in a number of journals over the years including Asahi/International Herald Tribune, Boston Literary Magazine, Christian Science Monitor, Farming Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, Home Planet News, Mainichi

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-38528539002809184152011-10-16T10:07:00.000-07:002011-10-16T10:07:49.245-07:00

Check out the new poetry chapbook, Mothering, by Dayna Patterson from Flutter Press.  39 pgs. 31 poems.  "Dayna Patterson's second chapbook, Mothering, is powerfully-rendered poetry at its finest, illustrating the ageless cross-culture occupation that is being a mother. The exasperation and humor of motherhood is beautifully balanced with the intensity of undying, unyielding love; beneath all

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-56139685073130743222011-10-14T08:36:00.001-07:002011-10-14T08:36:44.961-07:00

The instinct to fly is so strongEven after it had been shotThe goose kept flappingUntil several seconds laterIt drifted gentlyLike a leaf in the windDown to the surface of the lake

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-14058479390717527462011-10-12T10:23:00.000-07:002011-10-12T10:24:11.065-07:00

3 a.m. and sleep is a nimbusthat just won’t rain. It is helllet out of its handbasket and wandering the earth, its sole purposeto torture you. It is a senseless cupfull of warm milk, autumn leaves bleached of color and no alcohol to console youbecause the knowledgeable jackals of lifeinsist it is bad for you. It is a stupid fact of life and it is yours and is written, definedthat nothing is your

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-20445392809910318592011-10-10T10:43:00.000-07:002011-10-10T10:43:46.467-07:00

sparkling crystalswhite blanket on dirtEarth sleeps  man lives, laughs, lovesprocreates, works, succeedsin time for death Betty Houle is a 63-year-old working wife, mother, grandmother and breast cancer survivor. She's been writing for more than thirty years, and has had two of her poems published in Blood and Thunder: Musings on the Art of Medicine published by the University of Oklahoma

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-76339648806584321882011-10-07T09:30:00.001-07:002011-10-07T09:31:28.147-07:00

scent of jonquilslaughable mockingbirdand breeze like a sighfor a moment I forgetyour ear is out of reach mansards, gilded equestriennea grey light over the Seinewe couldn’t foregothe glee of unsophisticatedtravelers too far from home languid in a sailboatunder Pacific sunwith evening still aheadI could savor your wristand the wind in your hair I feel still a touchof breast belly thighand lie

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-57659602954257674632011-10-05T09:38:00.000-07:002011-10-05T09:39:18.724-07:00

     I could make you fall in love with me.Make you trip over your brown leather shoes and into my path.     I am often like a freight train barreling forward:              no destination in sight, only, the ever-moving rails beneath me.     My fortune today:                                       Good things are coming.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-34326434961597144342011-10-03T10:19:00.000-07:002011-10-03T10:20:11.024-07:00

Lead tourists to a museum near the Spanish Stepsmaintained by those who revere the wordsof the respected poet, John Keats. Travellers fly to breathe where Keats wrote,to view the room where he died ofconsumption at twenty-five. They walk the uneven floor,see his masks of life and death,labor to unveil more of him between the two events. They witness the once-burned bed, the shelves of books,the

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-43411123203320645612011-10-02T09:04:00.000-07:002011-10-02T09:04:29.736-07:00

Rhythm and blues on her radioa drunk in Caddy rammed into herand her neck flung on bothends of her shoulder and to the strainsof an electric guitar solo She recovered, but the interiorof that prized wagon was engulfedin injuries never to run withoutputting three mortgages intoit again And so it sat there, come rain come shineimmaculate in appearance butjust a motorized mummy inthe driveway

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-75865668260995181962011-09-28T19:23:00.000-07:002011-09-28T19:24:18.748-07:00

I'm pleased to announce the arrival of a new chapbook by Harry Calhoun, The Insomnia Poems, from Flutter Press.  22 pgs, 16 poems, $6.00.  All the poems in this short collection by Harry Calhoun deal in one way or another with the insomnia that has hounded him most of his life.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-52204790808031994712011-09-26T09:40:00.001-07:002011-09-26T09:41:07.962-07:00

Seeing Like Never Before“What have you done with your eyes?” --- Antonio Machado  One day a thin veil lifted from my eyes.Cherry blossom petals covered the worldin a blanket of pink whispers.My skin felt a Presence like never before.A swarm of crawling bees were laying honeyas bricks of dreams.This is when poems rise out of well water, in mists.My eyes were seeing things meant to be seen.Now I

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-77178754353050859242011-09-25T08:15:00.001-07:002011-09-25T08:16:15.523-07:00

The third night rain stops;Fragments of November moonGlitter in the ditch.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-11695508445761923962011-09-21T09:09:00.000-07:002011-09-21T09:10:17.405-07:00

As a tear rolled down my left cheek on our last winter night together in Delhi, you caught a crystal on your fingertip and told me I looked beautiful. You will be in Madras tomorrow. They call it Chennai now. But I still like the name Madras.You roll your thumb all over my palm, taking in my touch. I don't object. I give it to you selflessly. Store it in the intangible cashmere pouch of our love

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-57798121292050680312011-09-20T09:09:00.000-07:002011-09-20T09:10:00.813-07:00

I have been through all she left behind.The plays of Sophocles, her silver rings& fishbone combs. I have glistened her clamshellradio, caked on her 48 hour apricot deodorant. It doesn't seem like she's dating anyone,but there is a postcard written in a darkangry scrawl. An unemployed or unemployableCzechoslovakian trombone player.And what about this bed I'll be sleeping on?I wonder how many

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-89777784065553384062011-09-16T09:50:00.000-07:002011-09-20T09:11:15.284-07:00

I live my life inside my patio window.It’s here, at my business desk I slipinto my own warm pajamas and slippers-seek Jesus, come to termswith my own cross and brittle conditions.Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and dovesgo into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,behind willow tree bare limb branches-they lose their faces in somber hue.Their

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-14873152119329295002011-09-14T10:46:00.000-07:002011-09-14T10:46:49.949-07:00

Rainstormfor Eli'sha  There is a rainstorm in his brain.  I can see the waters build  and on the cusp-- music bright and earnest.  His 3 year old eyes peer out from behind the veil  and I see it all turn  to blizzard.  His breath appears in front of his small mouth as he forms songs  on the cloud. 

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-84273338980542968422011-09-12T14:10:00.000-07:002011-09-12T14:10:53.524-07:00

Caught between the bluegreen sea and her eyesfor Trina  Lucky man, to never have wonderfar from your side. Long after you leave this beachand its tireless sunblue tides the perfect snapshot lingersin every turn of her head,every blink of her eyes. Countless ships have sailedfor the like of her, many menno doubt have died. Our legends speak of this. But you have but to turnto her and hypnotized

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-26820720497963970862011-09-11T10:46:00.000-07:002011-09-12T20:29:53.972-07:00

many people cametwin towers in all their mindssilence reflect thoughts  the air is quite stillwe remember loved ones gonewe are all loved ones   the days and years passremembrance is all we havesome thoughts give us peace

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-4074827124495934182011-09-09T09:35:00.000-07:002011-09-09T09:36:20.148-07:00

If I were riding my bicyclein the Tour de France, a littleahead of the Pelotonwith a chance of winning a stage,this stage, Stage 7 or 9 or 12,and rounding a turn I came upon youstanding at the side of the road,clapping and cheering the riders on,so distracting in your peach-colored dressor your pure white slacks and tight tank top,would I be able to finish the race,or even continue one more mile?

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SERENADE          For Jones I’m to you as shadowto shadowy blue, and love islike the plump girl who took balletafter school.

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In an empty sleeper compartment you sit and you see the soft afternoon light falling silently over buffaloes grazing in the lemon green fields of Jharkhand. The sky and the white clouds move with you. A huge blue umbrella. A tent. A canopy. The caravan moves on. You see orange light houses, desolate abandoned old signal posts, the solitary pensive farmer, a woman in a deep blue sari bent over a

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Portrait of Jacqueline Bamboo along the ChattahoocheeSurvived the first winter.Now the stands are ten feet tallAnd seeding everywhere. Suddenly it’s a hundred years from nowAnd our ghosts are laughing hereDrinking plum wineAnd speaking Mandarin.

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A Prussian blue sky, willow weeps golden threads, silver snow drifts on brown earth.             Shy autumnal bird.             Did you brush against the moon             and find that pale down? In our frail world, even meteors, the eyes of heaven fall like dust from God's hands.             What discus player             threw a tangerine moon on             top of Main Street? 

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nature bounces in a row of moundscovered by mown lawnthe sun is corneredsomewhere in the westbehind the green stripa leaf  falls upfrom a red rose floweryellow and dry petalsfly up from the mango treepins of drizzlingexplode bubblesamong undulationsa dog walks upside downso also the people around medrizzling stopsa little frog jumps from oneto another lotus leafan inverted catfish swimsto browse

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We are all Waiting for That next Great moment In time where The sparrows Stop momentarily, Leaving their mark On your life. You exhale Knowing that The moment is Embedded forever On your soul Like an embossed Stamp that you Place On the back Of an envelope For decoration.

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Janet Lee Butler’s Searching For Eden is a lyrical and sensual collection of short poems that condense moments, seasons, movements and perceptions in and out of light and shadow, all the while creating an expansive quality of contemplation. . . .     -John Rowe, President, Berkeley Bay Area Poetry Coalition   All lines in this book Searching for Eden by Janet Lee Butler are lovely language, open

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Three Glasses of Wine    At the first cup, man drinks wine   at the second, wine drinks wine   at the third, wine drinks man.                            Japanese Proverb The first glass,I think of all I must do,the poem I intend to write,the meter I cannot memorize. The second glass,how red the red! Sparkswhen held to the sun,santé de Christo.A slight spill resemblesthe west coast of Africa.

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a simple light upon gray shadowsand the resolution fades beyond the rising hills  we realizethey are within our waking souls  and while they roam among the sallow wood smoke treesand filter in through doors  they take delight in tapping wooden floorsat night where shaken covers fall to floor  and dry cool air becomes pooled beneath the rimof sun born days 

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in class, in college,Survey of English Literature, Part 2,(third floor, high noon—bright sun),when upon hearingKeats’ Romantic poem, “Bright Star”for the first time and hearing itin Larry Dunham’s resounding bass,spontaneous tears randown my youthful red cheeks. It could have been yesterday,but  it wasn’t.  Helen Losse is a Winston-Salem poet, the author of two full length books, Seriously

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-75288362208804947212011-08-22T10:04:00.000-07:002011-08-22T10:05:18.816-07:00

The leaves change. Pigments cascade,colors of harvestand savage nobility,and we gawk inraptureat their little spiraling deaths. “Gather them all, kids,in piles and bags;do not let themcover our land.” Do not give themthe simple rightto rest in peace. Michael G. Cornelius has published poetry and short fiction in over 20 journals and magazines, and is the author or co-author of 4 books of

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-88050495417304494802011-08-19T10:15:00.001-07:002011-08-19T10:16:44.723-07:00

new leaves light the aircarry spring's perfumecry of young hawk nights bring dreams of flight –mornings I brushfeathers from my eyes water striderscross the stream -- shadowson the backs of trout Scott Owens' haiku have been published in Heron's Nest, Notes from the Gean, Shamrock, Magnapoets, and others.

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Sunlight peeps through closed curtainslike a sleepy child, nodding in and outthrough a wave of pre-dawn passion,renaming lost childhood dreams like a black, velvet bee so heavyit carries its body against the windas if it were falling into the sunny hoursfilled with perfume from forgotten flowers. I imagine the purple peonies in the sunlightthrough the lace of the lilac tree,thick and ringed with

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-22348401538666926362011-08-16T10:40:00.000-07:002011-08-16T10:44:35.151-07:00

1.  sparks flying beyond the fire pit dirty dancing 2.  deep ridgeson the painter's browimpasto 3.  flickering ghost lightbefore the debuta chilled star Noel Sloboda is the author of the poetry collection _Shell Games_ (sunnyoutside, 2008) as well as three chapbooks. His haiku have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, bottle rockets, Modern Haiku, Paper Wasp, Roadrunner,

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-76286164166766753872011-08-15T16:05:00.001-07:002011-08-15T16:06:58.290-07:00

After our last encounter I passed awoman telling fortunes on the pavement,her face glowing with turmeric andcoquetry. For the first time in my lifeI wanted to know nothing, not truth,not consequence, not even any versionof what came before or would comebetween. I had left you haggling atthe market for flowers you wouldhave bought if I had let you, atthe intersection between your badinstincts and

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-26488650735528376132011-08-14T11:57:00.000-07:002011-08-14T11:57:26.496-07:00

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-54083013878989071422011-08-12T12:02:00.000-07:002011-08-12T12:04:17.693-07:00

arctic chill invadescrystal river freezes thick—waterfall entombed  a single wave breaksthousands of miles of winds’ workto rise tall, collapse  we hike barren trailsblackened rock, struggling scruffthe burn line – new life  the days pass alonglike tumbleweeds capturedin barbed wire fence Randy Boone recently had work appear in publications such as Down in the Dirt, The Penwood Review, 

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Cherry Blossom Sonnet II I love your fragrance of wet branches and nutmegyour face of alabaster and saltyour thighs, fresh timberbetween mine, like the wintering cherry along the Potomac, naked,heavy limbs resting in the tree’s V’ed crotchwilling the river, closer in this season,estranged from showy pomp— not the lush, bright buds or starlit glorynot the bold majestic turnbut the coin and tender

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cardinal at restupstagesred STOP sign cardinal flourishesamid red hazeof maple buds "Standing at the Window When the Doctor Calls" diagnosis –deer retreats from field,white flag raised  Corey Cook's second chapbook, What to Do with a Dying Parakeet, was released in 2009 by Pudding House Publications. His work has recently appeared in blackdahlia, Brevities, Cherry Blossom Review, and Mat

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-39705855951108094802011-08-08T11:15:00.000-07:002011-08-08T11:37:06.320-07:00

Sage Requiem                        For M.S. At that very spot, horizon    pulled taut and touchedwith grey-green sage,    I held a bison’s skullin both hands, thought, so     this is freedom. Its edges roughand layered, brown with time    and marrow to the hidden center.An animal’s skull feels light    in the arms, empty containerfalling toward dust, wings    spread back behindsockets once deep,

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-54048359412530990742011-08-07T17:17:00.000-07:002011-08-07T17:17:55.483-07:00

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-60397595347668850942011-08-05T10:05:00.001-07:002011-08-05T10:06:00.362-07:00

Love is not a still pondbut rather  a sow feeding piglets. Why such a rough image, you ask. Love is not beauty, but plain-spoken.Not perfect, not spoken,like the way I stare at my wifeas  she unbraids her hairand the stars are not any brighter, but the looseningis just for me, So how can I not stare? Transfixed,soundless as stilled waterwith a stirring underneath,plain as the barrette,spoken in

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-34838011796622248842011-08-04T10:39:00.000-07:002011-08-04T10:39:31.780-07:00

Not a soul in sight,forty-eight lonesome hoursdon’t bode well for ten-day solo hike.Chill wind blowing, incessant, mournful,howling like an incoming mortar roundor gut-shot boy,nature’s response to approaching cold front.Time to start campfire,smoky wafts of Lodgepole pine,warmth and lightcoveted companions,loneliness disappearing like smokeover Templeton Meadow,mountain of same name bathedin

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-48473222149376086472011-08-02T10:45:00.000-07:002011-08-02T10:48:04.576-07:00

Dawn’s pink blue risingis a window shade pulled up,clouds descending down. Fog crowds the foothills—August and this alien rain.Log trucks hiss then dance. Ice in a puddle,crumbs a slice of lunchtime ona chipped yellow plate. Green metal lawn chairsfor studying the gardenbreathe sap, exhale rust. Nancy Flynn hails from the coal country of northeastern Pennsylvania. Her writing’s received the

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September Fields II A sweet golden calm sets at summer’s end kick fallen leaves in tyre tracks those gone somehow still remain as gouges in fallow earth Bird House I Cleared garden reveals a damaged bird house first thoughts ideal for fire I don’t need the fuel so after repair a new home Sparrow Stunned sparrow eyes wide panting on its back we watch for hiding cats it recovers takes

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Check out Gordon Mason's new limited edition chapbook, Uncle Salvador's Cigar, from Red Ceilings Press.

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-68030715463248323892011-07-29T10:46:00.000-07:002011-07-29T10:58:15.266-07:00

Bridge at Dusk water darkens,spans light up with shadowone lone car crosses,half-moon trailing Moth at Sunset gossamer flightsilken wingsgold in blueeye-mined Saturday Night rollicking seasof music and passion,yet I anchor alonewith a poem John Grey has been published recently in the Talking River, South Carolina Review, and Karamu with work upcoming in Prism International, Poem, and the

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-26317857627087692242011-07-27T10:38:00.000-07:002011-07-27T10:39:04.271-07:00

Things are easier to see in the snow. The clean white palateshows red berries, yellow urine, and the tracks of everyone who has been out that day. Most days in Boston hundreds of people trekup and down streets on and off subway carswithout noticing the tiny berriesstill hanging on despite winter's persistence.Today, I notice. The cold nips my faceI concentrate hard on my feetto keep from slipping

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-51336308186517303262011-07-26T11:46:00.001-07:002011-07-26T11:47:07.358-07:00

Does smoke talk with the clouds? ~Neruda  Sometime, while sitting too close to the campfire’s embers, follow  the slow draw of smoke lifting beyond its jittery sparks– watch  how it drifts like assuring voices passing a story ‘round– as if it  were gospel– the truth whispered to generations of clouds passing  overhead– watch how quickly this carbon dissolves in water.  M.J. Iuppa lives on a

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woman cleans an open chamber where shoes are left on the doorstep she leans at the waist sweeping cobwebs, thoughts drift to money, destination she wraps her head, bathing me from afar in pale, faded yellows once she backs a step away from the fountain, wind carries scent of fruit blossoms, white, delicate, momentarily communed with ammonia

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-5862576508972951672011-07-24T10:20:00.000-07:002011-07-24T10:20:58.360-07:00

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From the Overlook, I can see it all:the scythelike bow of the Santa Monica Bay, the far-off crawl of Catalina Island, rain-green hills,a red-tailed hawk, sun-bright, wings outstretched like a jet. In thrall, I decide, again,that this is where my asheswill be scattered, here,where sky, sea, mountains, city collide. A leaf moves oddly,against the wind.A grasshopper ora green butterfly, perhaps.But

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Distilled silver swallows a sea of glinting rhinestonesI hear steel beating against my chestUntil the hole in my heart sealsWelded beneath the petal of a roseA red flame, fixed against darknessA familiar geography where legends are taboo Serena Wilcox writes from the edge of Atlanta, GA. She is the poetry editor for Leaf Garden Press. She has literary work published and/or forthcoming in, Ann

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At dawn's edge, heronsteps into pond of black silk.Water heals itself. Willow-fall gilds stone.Beneath the leaf, bare rock.Which one to treasure? Brigit Truex has poems in 3Lights Gallery as well as free-verse in such places as Atlanta Review, Tule Review, Innisfree, Tiger's Eye and others as well as various anthologies.  She currently lives and writes in the Sierra foothills of California.

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Words MatterHer tongue so sharp that each kiss draws bloodMy tongue so forked that every kiss poisons She is in the other room writing her own brand of poetry,stringing together words like a lovely pearl necklacethat chokes. I’m standing by the window,awaiting the executioner’s bullet,smoking my last cigarette,searching for my last words. Did we meet in May or June?Was she wearing blue or violet?

Sandy Benitezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508753851343193732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1545518245576384538.post-73117662530488140042011-07-17T10:50:00.000-07:002011-07-17T10:50:50.175-07:00

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A swell of apples dangle from strong arms.Worked into fitness during the spring winds,blossoms in the sweet sweat of summer. Sexy curves of solid summer growthsing red in the autumn breeze.They release the arms of trees, hang out in bushel boxes,run spicy and loose in gallon jugs,socialize on the ground turning brown. Fall campout is opento greedy people eaters rushingorchards to seize the

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We collided—reading while walking, kept ourfingers keeping places inside our books and,wishing past coincidence, scanned each other’stitles and thought not. Raised in Illinois and now based in New York City, I’m a teacher and critic as well as a poet. Some of my recent poems and reviews appear in The Q Review, 88, The Believer, The Ledge, Spoon River Poetry Review, Vallum, andVirginia Quarterly

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There’s a drama to her postured pose,a seriousness to her eclectic assortmentof cultural keepsakes and exotic recipes,a wry weariness to the labored prosethat explains her qualifications to a worldfar from anyplace she once called home.He reads, passes judgment without trying,and can’t understand the pain that comesfrom living an existence without choices.Distance – subsistence – wherefore

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Somewhere in the depths of the Atlantic a flat-bodied flounder lies like a patient sage till the light breaks through the krill, illuminates crustaceous sunspots as grains of sand asleep on the ocean floor stir into consonants and vowels, a cacophony of sound erupting through oil blue dark so suddenlythere is no time to think a glimpse of dorsal fin, eyes eyeing sideways ever occurred, there is

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the broken roof of skylets in limits of light,curtains of wind,remote soundsfrom still countrieswhispering living memoriesremembering things forgottenand things not yet begun things are weathered,frail with having absorbed so much lightit could not hold it anymore

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I.      In a summer field     beneath white mountains     yarrow and aster     discover the ground. II.      We walk on through forests     and feel between our teeth     the delicate leaves     of tiny white flowers. III.      Thunder all day     but not a drop meets the meadow.     Almost at dusk     the distant rain finally finds us.  Ryan Bayless lives in Austin, Texas and teaches

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copyright 2011 Marie Lecrivain blood red rosesa scattering of raindropsnature's haute couture

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A Rene Lalique opalescent glass plates moulded with Volutes pattern, signed, 26.5cm diameter  far from poetic accordionsthat caress the heartwith musette waltzes  far from back street guttersand waifs like Piafwho exist on fallen coins  a glassblower createsfrom the cinnamonof an indrawn breath  he lives in a slow worldwrapped in a drop of rainthat asks his echo for a dance Gordon Mason, a

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"A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us"  ---Garcia Lorca, Ode to Salvador Dali The man with the Yellow Ruler measures my form from a sheet of cold pressed paper, cuts me out  shapes me with Cubist longing, pastes me into his landscape painting of a winding back road stretching beyond serrated mountains, a river reflecting goose-feather wings like scars. There, against the shapes of his

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A door has formed in my chest.It’s made of skin,dried like jerky,with a knob of bones,chilled porcelain.The door is locked, for now.Loud thumps, a banging that echoeslike a roar throughmy underwater caves.The path is sealed,sewn tight,kept back from the open air,left to fester and mold,to grow a lining of sharp edgeslike a sprinkle of jagged glass.But, when it opensand the sun peeks in,the

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Hollyhocks blushing at the kiss of dragonflies,Obsequious to vagrant breezes,Dropping rolled blossoms like Chinese paper flowersCast into the garden pond,Bursting forth into water petals afloat on a mirrored sea,Orange, crème, yellow:Iridescent flashes beneath diamond chips spewed by the fountain. Clouds emerged in early hours like gray sarcophagi,Each containing elements renewing the dormant

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L’ oiseau mouche is missing now,yet we think her arrival imminent, sooner. The feeder often attracts herwhile pale sun against the sculpted rose in the window should also welcome,nudge her gently in our direction. Perhaps as we keep a watch for her,she will fly backpedaling to a standstill, complete paradox of motion and balanceposed in whatever we would call her will, allowing long enough to

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I. Tree Breeze.  the sleeper wakes.Every now dead leaf falls—The oak shakes its crown. II. Gardener Leaves under the oak.Rake arcing the lazy air—Arms thick, slick, and wet. III. Flower Pedicel pushing,Bract releasing blistered bud—Soft white scented breeze. IV. Spring Green replacing brown.Beautiful disappearing—Ferrule of dead leaves. Winnona Elson Pasquini is a poet living in Tampa,

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I’ve found no new woman,as you’d like to surmise.But the next onewho braidsmy mind with my heartwon’t get away,not even if she’s a nun.The next one like youI’ll lock in a roomnear the sky and therewill I kiss her untilshe is certaina thousand butterfliesone by oneare lightingall over her body. Donal Mahoney has had poems published in Cherry Blossom Review and other publications in the

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Waiting on Spring desolate worldfireplace ashes cold and greyicicles dangle Poetry birthed in heart’s painwing-beating, soaring release,alpenglow morning Paul Hellweg has had over one hundred poems published since his debut in 2009.  He won the 2009 Coatlism Press full-length poetry book contest, and he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. For more, please see:  www.paulhellweg.com

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In bed, prolonging the momentsbefore pushing back the covers.The voice on NPR, a reporter in Afghanistan,refers to the spring fighting seasonas if he’s announcing the openingof ski season at Mt. Hood Meadows.I brush my teeth, minty fresh, extra whitener.Death tolls from suicide bombings.Toweling off after showering, it’s total US casualties,a number that could be the population figureof a small

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Where are we? Which way is tomorrow from here? Someone said it’s like a sun in the belly with a thousand rays. Oh, how long it’s taking the light to reach us. Howie Good's latest chapbook is Threatening Weather from Whale Sounds, available as a free download at http://wschap5.wordpress.com/

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Check out the new poetry collection, Red Museum, by Steven Fowler.  The paperback is available at Amazon.com and is 142 pages published by Knives Forks and Spoons Press.  Here is a brief description by Iain Sinclair: 'A tremendous and persuasive surge of the red and the black: conflicted doctrines, scorched paper. Gothic scripts and plague-year screenplays for an apocalyptic cinema. Death chess.

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The electric rain, gently tapping on our skin, caught us with the paws of his melodies. The music of the 50’s caressed us in a tiny club.There was something in your eyes. There is something in this music which can be explained easily, and still there is so much mystery. Wild energetic melodies evolving into the academic shining of the famous guitar masters were the prototype of our relationship.

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