(June 2002) Page 2
(June 2002) Page 2
 CARA ALSON Born in San Antonio, Texas, I was raised in L.A.'s San Fernando Valley, where I took root. I got my love of wordplay from my mother. Other interests include needlework of all kinds, crocheting for family and charity, scrapbooking, reading, and geneaology. A former office clerk, I no longer work outside the home. I am married, have two married children and one grandchild. I started writing poetry during the 1970's wheile taking a writing class at L.A. Valley College. Phrases and images tortured me for several weeks, and my instructor suggested I write them down. That gave me a measure of peace - for a while. My writing has been an on-again-off-again affair since then, calling to me when my emotions are stirred. In 2001, after picking up the pen again in earnest, I joined a local Writer's Workshop and the California Writers' Club. The encouragement other writers and family members gave me the courage to continue writing and to share my work with others. My poems have been published in Glowing Embers, Rebirth of Artemis, Up Against the Wall Mother, the San Diego Jewish Times and newsletters. Ten of my poems are in Kedco's 2002 Millennium Dawn anthology, and the poem "Junction" appears in the February 2002 issue of Poetry Life & Times, an online publication. Two of my poems have been selected to appear in the California Writers Club, San Fernando Valley Chapter's 2002 anthology, Once Upon a Dream. "Fragile Heart", dedicated to my daughter, earned a 1st Honorable Mention in the 22nd Annual Fields of Earth Poetry Contest sponsored by The Writers' Ink Guild & The Arts Council of Fayetteville, N.C.
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ECHOES IN TIME © Cara Alson, Dec. 2001 Girls in ponytails huddled on the sand sipped icy sodas listened to the radio flirted with lifeguards dreamt of lives they'd never have
Boys with peach-fuzz chins
White-haired ladies
Balding men
Bright sunlight
Days pass
Sweet sweat plays on my skin Delicious river, rolling slowly Making my skin ache Whispering of gifts remembered
Home was a battleground, then quietly strained. Mine was a weekend father, not gone, not quite there.
Chance tampered with the life
My world splintered,
Sheltered behind a wall
Only now can I look back
I wrestle with words instead of a vacuum cleaner
I chase images
My house is less than perfect
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 RICHARD VALLANCE
Richard Vallance was born in Guelph, southern Ontario, Canada, on March 11th., 1945, and currently
resides in Ottawa, the nations capital. A graduate of Sir Wilfred Laurier University, Waterloon,
Ontario (H.B.A. 1968) and the University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario (M.L.S., 1975), Richard
is a professional University librarian, now on disability pension. Richards career as a librarian
reached its zenith in October, 1983, when he won the prestigious Data Courier Award for Excellence
in Online Papers ($1,000 U.S.), in Chicago, Illinois.
2. Kawasaki Zen Haiku 90 members. Yahoos 3rd. Largest Haiku-Hokku poetry group, featuring
links to historical Haiku Web Sites, examples of historical Haiku by such illustrious composers as
Basho, Buson and Issa, and Haiku/Hokku posted by members, in any language they like: INTERNET: Autumn Leaves [May/June, 2001] - and several of his poems will soon appear in Kedco's Millennium Dawn Anthology March 2002 - Nominee for The Poets Hall of Fame |
RUNNING FREE © Richard Vallance 2002 1965; Dec. 21 & 24, 1968, Revised, 1997 & 2002 My sailing schooner, jibs up where’s foresail’s light, flipped free of the water, up anchor, goes fleet at the night, flying on white caps, caps to the blue, blue so compulsive it's shipped every sailor over wherever the Nor' Westers blew so long ago, where’s blustery high every single night.
Alone and yes lost or not or who cares where no man’s weighty eye would ever scale those craggy walls incarnate in their defiance, rear abutted cliffs primordial to northern climes or Where? not that I could ever claim I know a plain repose pervades the panorama where as though it placid painted aspen and the alder strewn of leaves of yellow amber red and shed their wild green light below the same lone cliffs forlorn unfathomed Where? If only where’re a lake so silvereen and never’s been by any human’s glaring scrutiny once met and yet light purpureal hills are making streaks along what’s uncharted shores where as thoughtless reflections leaves in the birch go sounding the faces of waters scurrying along the brow of one sacrosanct ridge whose furrows in time over time’s escalades nor betray their own marks never of any hell, nor nor ever echoes of ground in ferrite rails (which through forests glaring go) nor for this betray the last receded presences of many propellers spinning, that throbbed and echoed too to the all too auburn sky.
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 Jan Sand in New York
Recently Jan was published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, on their latest CD ROM e-book, "A Way With Words (Poetry Real and Surreal), which also includes complete books by Dale Houstman, Sara L. Russell and Keith Gabriel Hendricks. Jan's illustrated book on the CD is called "Wild Figments And Odd Conjectures", which is also sold separately, in a limited-edition "single" CD. To see an illustrated article about Jan's poems, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.
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SMUG © Jan Sand The dead are a cunning lot. They have no current thoughts to deprave Their empty purity, their smooth vacuity. But, superior to us living wretches, Reside most comfortable in their grave. Confidently they hold their spot In time and historical nostalgia, Not aware what temporal catastrophe May lie in wait in each pregnant second Of our uncompleted history.
The world is a chain Which hangs in space and time As a necklace of events. A boulder rolls down a mountainside Because a sequence securely demanded That here must be a mountain And here must be a boulder And, at this time, a crystal structure Became inadequate to be still. So, the rock rolled down the hill. This morning, I awoke, had my tea, Chewed my bread and cheese, Picked up my pen and wrote: "The world is a chain".
The bond that marriage mends of loneliness When coming frayed released flames To burn the core to dead gray ash, Frees cosmic acid to corrode the sun, Transforming sunlight into spears of pain. Thus destroyed, coordination grinds For lubrication from the dust That clogs all windows to the world. So, one to one denies its interface To entomb the seek of empathies, And leaves but burrowing from old middens Left by careless unconcern from permanance presumed But now acknowledged as impediment.
The bird of night Devours sunsets, Regurgitates the Sun at dawn To feed the sky With bloody light. Then is gone.
The serpent sea
The stars and Moon, surreptitious,
Mountains lie with hips and shoulders |
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