My review of Lantern Lit Vol. 4

My Red Gez review of Lantern Lit Vol. 4

“In the fourth volume of its Lantern Lit series, Dog On A Chain Press presents three chapbooks, poetry collections by William Graham, Mat Gould, and Sheldon Lee Compton. Publisher Beasley Barrenton describes the poets’ combined work as ‘the gospel of real life shit. . . .’   All three poets, according to Barrenton, ‘live and breathe the same incandescent air,’ as he does himself, ‘whether at the edge or deep within The Blue Ridge Mountains in the heart of Appalachia.'”


Read more at Red Fez.


Three of my poems published in isacoustic….

via person Donna Snyder, three poems

My review of Carolyn Srygley-Moore’s newest book

Carolyn Srygley’s newest poetry collection at Red Fez


A poem of mine published in new issue of VEXT Magazine



Rm 403-A

One of my favorite poets….


Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight—the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal,Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second book, Kleenex Theory, was published in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.

Rm 403-A

This is the way white will never be the same
To me—the way white walls, white steel bed,
Lilliums, heliotropes in ash-blue vases connive

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A brilliant poem by Rupert M. Loydell

via Apologies by Rupert M Loydell


On I Am Not a Silent Poet


Poetry by Gillian Prew-“Sequence after Celan”

via ‘Sequence after Celan’ by Gillian Prew


My publication–History sits on a chair–five poets on the same theme

My poem History Sits in a Chair published a few years ago….

poetry from the frontera

History sits on a chair–Five poets on the same theme, curated by klassnik on newhive.

history sits on a chair
picks her teeth with a rabbit bone and drops a cup
ouilipolice wear riot gear to ensure random chance
every third erasure cubed then triangulated
but still the uncertainty principle warps the record
the delusions of mathematicians and platonists
so sure equations are reality behind the flickers and shadows
a harmony of glass globes static as stars painted on a ceiling
an arrow shot from a train at once hood ornament and memory
time asymmetrical and memory just another construct
but there is no imaginary time when stirring a pot of rabbit stew

she mentions the heat death of the universe
all the stars burn out one by one ashes ashes
we all fall down but then the big bounce
the broken teacup reassembles
on the table from which it…

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When her twin died

Sharing this again because I’m crying.

poetry from the frontera

for Tina upon the death of her sister, Frida

When her twin died Tina lost her bearing. The sisters had never been apart.  They slept together like friendly lovers.  Cleaned each other’s face and ears, behind the neck.  Frida never even had to speak, for Tina heard her thoughts.  They played together in their dreams each night, running under the desert sun.  Their hair the color of a fawn.  Their bellies and feet, precious and pink.  Their little hands in little white gloves.

Frida made up games for just the two of them.  Tina was the athlete.  The warrior.  The beauty of the family.  The sweetness.  Indomitable.  Frida, the artist.  The invalid.  The intrepid one. The creative.  She worshipped fire.  She feared no one.  Together they were the Amazon princessas.  Inseparable.  Invisibly conjoined.  So when Frida died, she became Tina’s phantom appendage.  The agony of amputation without the blood.  And…

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song of a cane flute by Donna Snyder published at I Am Not a Silent Poet

Source: song of a cane flute by Donna Snyder

song of a cane flute

…we are the children of bridges, bridges made from our backs, our tears, our sacrifices, and from all the ones who never made it across with us…. Junot Díaz

low tones solid as her father’s sweet bread
high notes sing the vibrato of son jarocho
of a woman near tears but speaking still
words deep within the memory of cells

the cells are theirs
the lengua is theirs not mine
I can’t presume to speak their truth
yet their indomitable vigor lifts me up
fills with me with a sense of solidarity
a feeling of common purpose
and feelings need not be truth
but are still facts

the strength of la gente bears me up
out of the inundation of hate
their strength through persecution
through the suppression of truth
their unbroken backs carry me
across the chasm seen between us
a bridge between fear and resolution
inspiring me to be a revolution
this bridge called their backs

when I slip and fall I see shoulders and arms
rise up from where knocked to the ground
and those hands reach out to steady me
stand me on my own feet and take my hand
the gift of strength from one heart to another
a kind word from one tongue to another
the gift of memories not mine but shared

like the voice of a cane flute
calling out to the stars