September 2001 - Third Birthday IssueCafé Society's Poetry News Update
Welcome to the Third Birthday Issue... Do you have any poetry news or comments? Mail me on the email link at the bottom of this page. Competitions and calls for submissions can be announced here free.

An interview with   DAVID DAVIS

David grew up in San Antonio, Texas, where he spent many hours in the hall for drawing during arithmetic lessons. He copied Herblock political cartoons out of the Sunday paper, to learn cartooning. He was influenced most of all by his beloved Texas grandfather, Raymond Lacy (1905-1997). David loved movies and reading books like "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" and "Cross Creek" with a flashlight at night. Will Eisner is his favorite cartoonist. David loves reading the masters of southern humor, Mark Twain, Lewis Grizzard, Molly Ivins and Larry L. King. His favorite quote is by Ed Hoagland: "There are two kinds of writers: hustlers and sanctimonious hustlers."

David has published satire,poems, short stories,pen/ink drawings, comic stories, political cartoons, and movie reviews in many publications over the years. He won an award from the Mississippi Press Association for his political cartoons in 1996. Pelican has sold over 75,000 of his humorous childrens' books.


Trucker's Night Before Christmas
ISBN 1-56554-656-3
Pelican Publishing Company

Redneck Night Before Christmas
ISBN 1-56554-176-6
Pelican Publishing Company

Jazz Cats
ISBN 1-56554-859-0
Pelican Publishing Company
See below for more details.

Additional Information
Jazz Cats will be out on September 1, 2001. Please schedule author appearances with Pelican Publishing Company now, before the schedule is full. David is also available for school and library visits. Email him for details...

All titles available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble, also bookshops everywhere.

David's own website:

David's Page at AuthorsDen:

Poetry L & T:When and where did you first start writing poetry, David?

David: It was at Highland Hills Elementary School in San Antonio, Texas. I was in the fourth grade. I created a satirical drawing and poem about the powers that be. That was when I first tasted the pleasures and pains of being a humorist. The pleasure was hearing my classmates laugh at the satire, and the pain was standing in front of the class with my nose in a chalk circle on the blackboard.

Poetry L & T:Who are your favorite classic or modern poets?

David:My favorite poets…well, I guess you could say that I cut my teeth on the work of Poe and Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass is far and away my favorite work.

As far as modern poets go, I really got most from Songwriters. Dylan, Lennon and McCartney knocked me out with their lyrics/poetry. I read some of the "beats" etc. but they didn't get to me like Lennon. I studied some of the different poets in college, but always went back to these folks. I don't know if others consider the songwriters poets, but I do.

Poetry L & T: How much of your poetry is dedicated to (or inspired by) Texas?

David:Almost all of it. I grew up in a vast and wonderful place. The Texas/ Mexican southwestern culture had a big effect on me. Growing up in San Antonio and spending time hunting and fishing Texas marked me forever. I hunted for Comanche arrowheads and visited the missions around San Antonio. Summers in East Texas with my farming clan gave me memories of tall green corn and rolling pastures. I loved the thickets and bayous. The mesquite trees, cactus country, and the hill country, is part of me. I just hope that we can keep some of it unspoiled for the folks that come after us.

I write simple poems about the people and country I know best. I don't guess they will ever win awards or be featured at a rubber chicken literary dinner, but that is O.K. I am not trying to be important or "cutting-edge." I am not trying to knock some critics socks off with "evocative" lines. These poems are my love letter to those that came before. I want to make somebody get a feeling for the country.

An old East Texas Store done in pen and ink By David Davis.

Wisteria Lane
© David Davis

There's a little bit of heaven
Amidst all the earthly pain,
When walking in the springtime
Along Wisteria Lane.

Just a shady footpath roadway
For some old time Model-T
To reach the fallen farmhouse,
Where the living used to be.

It is quiet by this home place
While the blue jays sing their song.
Blossoms of wisteria
Creep and crawl and twine along.

And somewhere in their fragrance
Are the souls that went before;
Folks that knew this country place
And used this old kitchen door.

They planted the wisteria
'Long this shady rural dale,
And watered it with bucket
From the old hand-masoned well.

We are only for a moment,
Our life's work should leave behind,
The sense of something lovely
Like the wisteria vine.

Rustic Steps
© David Davis

To an antique love
I called out low,
And dreamed of rustic steps.
Down winding creeks
And corn field rows,
My dreaming footsteps crept.

The blue country sky
Domed new mowed fields
In visions that I've kept.
Up red dirt roads
And thicket glades
My childhood spirit crept.

In tin roofed house,
With trimmed wick lamp,
I spent my summer days.
I never knew
I'd miss them now
And dream of rural ways.

Poetry L & T: You have a page on Authorsden, as well as your own website. If you had a site like Authorsden, allowing authors to showcase their work, what features might you add?

David:I would like to see a chat room, for one. Also, I would like to see more free-form pages where writers could create pages with music, art, and writing to create an atmosphere. Having said that, Authorsden is a great place for writers to get a little exposure and encouragement.

Poetry L & T: Do you feel that the Internet is useful to poets in general?

David:Of course. It is a venue where poets can share their work without having to grovel to some publisher. I like small press and this seems the new way to do that. You can share your work without a filter. Now… if we could just figure out a way to make some money at it! That is always the rub.

Poetry L & T:As a poet and cartoonist, do you often illustrate your poetry?

David: Actually, it is usually the other way around. I draw something and it calls to mind a memory. Perhaps a phrase comes into my head. I write a verse or two and let them sit for a few weeks. I come back later and edit. I put the two together to try to create a "feeling" or an atmosphere. I illustrate the "serious" verses with pen and ink drawings, and I illustrate the funny ones with cartoons. I first started thinking about doing this after seeing some of the work of Will Eisner. He has used comic art to great effect. He did one illustrating Hamlet that is a gem. I recommend him. He will stretch your ideas about what can be done with comic art.

Something else needs to be said. I am just as proud of my humor and childrens' books as the poetry etc. I enjoy doing a cartoon just as much as doing my "fine arts" pen and ink work. Creation is the thing. I want to get better in each area.

Poetry L & T:Many of your cartoons are political. Do you ever bring political satire into your poems?

David: I do some light satirical Ogden Nash type stuff once in a while. The problem is finding a venue for it. Sometimes it is hard to find newspapers to the left of Rush Limbaugh. Right wing ranting is the order of the day it seems. Here is one I did that appeared in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

All Texans alive can bear witness
That state government favors big business.
Our kids can't read well,
And our roads go to hell,
But big money has bottom line fitness.

I think humor is the best way to "stick the knife in." I want people to laugh, and then think about it afterward.

(One of my love letters to the candidates for office)
Hinesville, Georgia Coastal-Currier-2000

Poetry L & T:Do you think that poets can sometimes dream up revolutionary or philosophical ideas, which politicians might learn from?

David: A five year old can think up ideas that would improve politicians. The problem is that none of them will listen unless you have a barrel full of soft money. There is an old saying here in Texas that is not far from the truth:
"We have honest politicians in Texas. When you buy them, they stay bought."
I am an old style populist….I don't trust ANY of them. Maybe I did political cartoons for too long. You have to keep up with the issues to do that sort of work, and it makes you cynical quickly. There is something wrong with a logic that tells you to cut funds for poor kids books, and then build an expensive missile defense system that won't work. Both parties here in America are up to their elbows in the scams. Right now we have government of the corporations, by the corporations, for the corporations.

I take refuge in the writings of Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower. They are geniuses at lampooning pomp and circumstance in Texas politics and in Washington.

Poetry L & T:Is there anything in modern amateur poetry that you really dislike to see?
David:I don't like the "dark" writing too much. I am about to O.D. on that stuff. That is just my opinion though. I am not talking about the quality of the writing, just the subject matter. I make no claim to be a William Shakespeare, myself.

Poetry L & T:Is there any particular friend or family member who has influenced your poetry?

David:Yes. My beloved grandfather Raymond Lacy (1904-1997) He was a farmer, outdoorsman, philosopher, and un-bribed soul. Nobody had more influence on my life. I am in the process of writing a book about him. You can see some of it through links at my website. I also did several comic art stories illustrating my childhood with him.The poem, Fiddle Man, was done in his honor. My web address:

Raymond Lacy at age 86.The best man I ever knew.
I drew this from a photo I took at his house-David Davis

Fiddle Man
© David Davis

The old man took the fiddle;
his glasses perched just right.
Trembling hands caressed the bow,
and made the notes take flight.
His heart a-flutter
As the music swept
Around the border
Of memories held close.

The country crowd
waltzed around the hall,
as generations had before.
They wheeled in step
and turned in time,
as they whirled around
the floor.

The fiddle man
played winter blasts
and springs enduring rains.
He fiddled sharp the happiness;
the bitterness and pain.
He fiddled love
and all he'd seen,
in all his ninety years.
He fiddled broken lovers' hearts
Till he brought them all to tears.

When the dance was over,
he took his hat and hickory cane.
He smiled at his audience
and never played again.
His kind old heart gave up that night
and found eternal rest.
The mountains lost their biggest soul,
now, he plays for heaven's guests.

But sometimes in the springtime,
after a cooling evening rain,
they say he walks the mountain trails
and fiddles there again.
You can hear the wistful music
up on Fiddler's Ridge,
as it echoes down the hollows
past the old upper pasture bridge.

Poetry L & T:How did you feel when you first got published? Did you find (as some poets and fiction writers do) that promoting your first book was almost harder than getting a publisher?

David:Well, it was nice to stop getting a stream of rejections that said things like, "Have you ever considered becoming a plumber?"

I was published late. I was 49 years old when my first book came out. I was just happy to see something of mine in tangible form. Yes, it is grueling to do all the promotion. I do enjoy it, however. I love people and like to meet them on the road. I have had the chance to travel all over the south and southwest. It does you good to see the country. I travel back roads when I can. I like to see the old areas off the beaten track.

Another good thing about being published was that I could call my old high school journalism teacher and tell her that I didn't wind up in jail after all.

Poetry L & T:Finally, David, do you have any advice for young poets who wish to improve enough to find a reputable publisher?

David:Reputable publisher? Are there any? Come to think of it, are there any reputable writers? Seriously, I would tell young writers to join a critique group. You can drop a bundle of money on writing courses that are not worth a damn. You can learn just as much from other writers, online and off. Read - read - read, and write every day.

One more thing. Be who you are, and never compare yourself to others. You will always be able to find someone less talented than you are. That leads to ego problems. You will always find someone better than you are. That leads to discouragement. Either is bad. Just be who you are, and become all you can be.

Poetry L & T:Thank you for the interview, David.

CLICK HERE to read poetry by
David Davis


Dear Poets,

This issue features an interview with David Davis, poet, illustrator and cartoonist.

Featured poets this month are Liam Guilar, Ward Kelley, The Quill, Val Magnuson, Fred Wolven, Jim Dunlap, Donna Hill, Charlotte Mair, Mary Angela Nangini, Connie Marcum Wong, Dale M. Houstman, Andrew Belsey, Ian Thorpe and Jan Sand. Some of Dale Houstman's Surrealist artwork is featured with his poems on Page 4 of Featured Poets.

The September issue is the Poetry Life & Times Third Birthday issue. There are therefore more Featured Poets than usual, over several pages, plus a new feature by Richard Vallance. Most of the Featured Poets will be by invitation only and will have appeared in Poetry Life & Times over the last three years. New poets will still be considered for further issues.

I would like to thank all contributors who have had work featured over the last three years.

Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Please indicate whether you would like the comments to go into the Letters section. Announcements are always welcome, you can also promote poetry books here.

Poetry submissions should be in plain text in the body of an email, with a small jpeg author picture attached, also a bio, with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links. This increases the chance of inclusion, especially for late submissions. Pictures are best at a maximum of 520 pixels across, otherwise they take ages to arrive by email, especially in bitmap or TIFF format. Further submission guidelines are available on request.

Best Regards,


NEW - Click title below for this month's Vallance Review feature

Richard Vallance reviews sonnets, both classic and modern.

Featured poets this month are Liam Guilar, Ward Kelley, The Quill, Val Magnuson, Fred Wolven, Jim Dunlap, Donna Hill, Charlotte Mair, Mary Angela Nangini, Connie Marcum Wong, Dale M. Houstman, Andrew Belsey, Ian Thorpe and Jan Sand.

Liam Guilar

Liam started writing poetry with a blunt pencil when he discovered that cat and mat rhymed. Somehow this is far more memorable than much else that happened at primary school. Thirty years later his first book of poetry, "The Poet's Confession" was published in Canberra by Ginninderrra press. He never bothered trying to get the poems published before that. He just assumed no one wanted to read them. Since then his poems have appeared in various places, though he is proudest of its selection for a book of world music, edited by Allan Allexander. (Apart from his excessive love of books my other main interest is acoustic music.)

Inspired by a childhood reading of Rider Haggard's She, he's traveled to places too obscure to make the Lonely Planet Travel Guides. (Coventry, Halesowen…) He is the only lute playing, kayaking medievalist known to have been "smuggled" across the Kazak border in an apple truck and "arrested and deported" from Samarkand. The story is on the Idaho State University Website:

Born in Coventry, England, Liam studied Medieval Literature and History at Birmingham University, and moved to Australia in 1986. He has a Masters Degree in Medieval Literature from the University of Queensland, and currently lives on the Gold Coast, where a version of himself is Head of English at a private girls school, a fact he often finds incomprehensible.

Background notes for an autobiography
© Liam Guilar

1) Setting. (Walking home from Bagginton:1970s)

Rain on the wind and the smell of wet grass.
Thick soil smeared by the tractor's tyres.
Old oak and pub near the motorway to London.
Turn left, you'd take a greener, bending road
to the castle ruins at Kenilworth, where once
we stumbled over models
changing for their fashion shoot.

A Roman fort, fields full of shining cars,
Three brown spires against sky blue, a dull wind
blowing through their ruined windows;
time fluting through the bones of history.

Beneath the ring road's noise, daubed MUFC rulz,
the scarred remains of city walls
once encircled plague infested streets
and squares where heretics were burned.
Gutted ruins of the old cathedral
where choirboys learnt their songs
now louder music drowns the words
Langland flirted with
though mating rituals persist and
Godiva, stark naked in the rain,
provides a lesson in anatomy for boys
before full frontal nudity was common on TV.

Down narrow dirty streets,
the double decker buses
shoulder one another past
dim crowded stores, where
migrants squeezed the clock and calendar to make more time for work.
This in the days when there was work,
the factories producing cars.
The line of cherry blossoms by the road
will bloom again near plastic swings and raucous kids,
besides a stone that says: here Bolingbroke
did not fight a duel. And summer will icumen in
and riot in the street, in bare arms, and clothes
that show the body has a shape.

Past the primary school and muddy fields, where
dirty past belief, we'd stagger home to warmth and light and welcome
then past the pub, where on a Friday night, the tired drunks
freed from assembly lines sang goodnight
to Irene, who probably was glad to see them go
and down the road, to home, beside the park.
Or further still, to Coombe,
where Malory broke laws and heads.

There's a dull wind blowing
through the abbey's ruined windows.
If you stood beside this oak,
in the cold damp wind of a Midland's spring,
you can feel the force of centuries
pushing through the words you use,
echoing in the song the wind sings
in the crumbling bones of history.

2) fragments

I was born in the shadows of the Second World War.
My father flew in bombers over Germany.
Hunched in the frigid, droning cold,
below him burning cities mimicked
childhood dreams of hell.
In his ears, the sound of shell burst,
the morse's rapid stutter,
distant voices calling out to God.
He left his bombers,
with twenty thousand cigarettes as cash,
to wander across Europe in the aftermath of war
to serve, on HSLs, a sailor in the airforce.

My mother served in Egypt in the WRAAF.
The little pictures in the shoe box show
A "fresh young English face", behind large glasses
staring knowingly towards the brownie's lens.
She too left London and the blitz,
school yards smashed by doodlebugs
bomb-sheltered evenings,
nights in the underground,
ration books and egg-less recipes
for the warmth of an African sun
and an unofficial Irish voice
that could talk the world still
And there'd be laughter once again.

I was born in a city growing from the rubble.
A new cathedral full of light and air
beside the gutted, blackened nightmare of the old.
We staggered out of bed on winter's mornings,
pinched by the bitter cold, and stumbled down the stairs to dress
before the glowing coals,
aching fingers fumbling with buttons
ears stinging on the walk to school.

The headmaster flew spitfires in the war,
A gentle man, folded behind his desk
using words instead of canes.
Before PCs, or videos, before T.V
infiltrated the classroom (or our house)
we listened to the radio, learnt songs, before
pocket calculators, learning nine times nine,
dreaming of the day we'd get a slide rule.
When the snow fell so thickly the water heaters broke,
everyone went home but me,
so the teacher read me Russian fairy tales.
While Russia lurked behind the iron curtain,
a muddled metaphor from a collective nightmare
And death was just a button's push away.

When sex was free, and everyone (but me) was getting laid
on Sundays when everything was shut
when even buses hardly ran
we queued for films so Errol Flyn would save us all again.

The echo of the bombers' drone was fading,
veterans, sipping cups of tea
hid horror in tall stories only vaguely understood.
"Dave Smith ran up the beach at Anzio,"
"A twenty-five in either hand?"
"Firing as he ran!" "And get this,
Louie fell without a parachute, hit the phone wires,
bounced and landed in a hay-rick breaking every bone"
"But living in a fashion."

Before the supermarkets came,
we loitered at the corner stores,
where the owner knew his customers
by preference and name.
Clenching sixpence in the sweet shop,
perusing jars and jars of things we couldn't name.
We didn't even have a phone,
before Neil Armstrong walked upon the moon
and left a trail of footsteps leading back to where he started.
Men in cloth caps, meeting in the street, touched their brims.
Playing in the park,
before vandals killed the flowerbeds
or graffiti expanded my vocabulary,
before England won the world cup
before high rise buildings, before unemployment,
before the four day week and power strikes.

Huddled in the winter dark around a candle, playing cards.
When kids could dream that by the year two thousand
We'd all be living on the moon, and drifting off to touch the stars.
No more disease or poverty or want,
Didn't Hamburg, Auschwitz, Hiroshima
the death of children
in the playgrounds of each blitzed and battered city
mean we didn't need to do it all again?

Of course they lied.
The memories of death and loss
will fade before the rhetoric.
Righteous indignation
will dry tears, heal wounds
and sons can march off to another
"International incident".

Before Churchill died, before the Beatles sang,
Before aids or ethnic cleansing
I was born in the shadow of the Second World War.

Going Down
© Liam Guilar

Your roses flower
between the words.

I’d like to leave the fool I am behind,
a winter suit now summer’s here,
dive into colour, as the petals bloom.
Their languid welcome clasps me
tightly as I plunge,
down, through the spectrum to the point
where light and silence meet and scream
one blinding moment of unthinking awe.

Before finding I’ve been exiled once again
and forced to stand outside the gates of Eden.

So press your face against the bars.
Inside you see a landscaped garden.
Silly fountains play and roses rustle
in the cliché of the breeze. Beneath
the trees the shadows call: Come
sit and drink your wine: Come
read your verses. Rest.

Ignoring guards with guns and keep out signs
the horror stories heard at second hand,
ignoring barbed wire, minefields and
surveillance cams,
you enter through an open gate
that clashes shut.

Light quickly fades, the wind begins to tear
the fabric of the painting you admired.
The thunder hammers on the frame.
Wind shreds the roses, tumbles fountains
uproots trees. You chase the petals,
strewn like bloodstains on the breeze,
stepping through the canvas
to an older landscape. Things
half seen, half heard, unnamed,
snuffle at the corners of your sight.
You follow petals down the forest path,
and find a narrow fissure in the rock:
gaping, fringed with dripping weeds.
You slide inside the narrow cave
where red walls glow below red
pulsing roof and you go
down the falling tunnel floor
still chasing petals
down, until you find, appalled
depth only leads to depth and
nothing but the ever deepening red
of roses blooming
in the space between the words.

*Hylo is a set of images of Roses digitally manipulated by Alana Hampton. CLICK HERE to view

[email protected]


A Pushcart Prize nominee, Ward Kelley has seen more than 1000 of his poems appear in journals world wide since he began publishing in 1996. Kelley's publication credits include such journals as: ACM Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Spillway, Porcupine Literary Magazine, Pif, 2River View, Melic Review, Thunder Sandwich, The Animist, Poetry Life & Times, Offcourse, Potpourri and Skylark. He has been honored as featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Physik Garden, Poetry Life & Times, and Pyrowords. Recently he was the recipient of the Nassau Review Poetry Award for 2001.

Quote from Ward:
"As for me, I'm a 50 year old business executive with 3,600 people in the division reporting to me. I only mention this because in a sense the daimon that propels my occupation also propels my poetry. For instance, Gertrude Stein once said, "If Mr. Robert Frost is at all good as a poet, it is because he is a farmer -- really in his mind a farmer, I mean." So in my mind am I a businessman who writes poetry, or a very minor poet successful at business? Who knows? Yet I tread carefully with this balance for fear my daimon will leave me, or my greed will taunt me for decades.

Formerly I managed distribution centers in Pennsylvania, Ohio, California, Arizona and Illinois. My wife and I now live outside of Indianapolis and are currently toiling with much determination on our second crop of children, having adopted four wonderful girls and fostered several others."

Of the 1008 published pieces, some have found their way into:


"comedy incarnate" on CD ROM
by Kedco Studios (Las Vegas, NV)

"histories of souls" an ebook & POD
by Word Wrangler Publishing, Inc. (Montana)

"comedy incarnate" on AUDIO CD
by Artvilla (Tennessee)

"the naming of parts" an ebbok
by Shyflower Press (Minnesota)

NEW: "Divine Murder" a novel, paperback
by Word Wrangler Publishing, Inc. (Montana)*
*Editor's Note: I have read "Divine Murder" and thoroughly recommend this compelling story concerning the divine, the diabolical and the struggles of two mortals to discover their momentous destiny.

Of the 1008 published pieces, some have found their way into:

ACM, Another Chicago Magazine
Ginger Hill
The GSU Review
The Listening Eye
The Lucid Stone
Mad Poets Review
Nassau Review
The Old Red Kimono
Porcupine Literary Magazine
River King
Sulphur River Review

Adirondack Review
The Animist
Big Bridge
Lynx: poetry from Bath
Melic Review
The Paumanok Review
Poetry Life & Times
Poetry Magazine.Com
The Rose & Thorn
San Francisco Salvo
Thunder Sandwich
2River View
Unlikely Stories

Peering Out At the Elements
© Ward Kelley

How silly we are all going to look
to our descendents five thousand

years from now, those happy folks
who will have discovered the exact,

physical evidence of the soul, found in
some future age whose scientists have

invented microscopes or telescopes
powerful enough to discern the soul's

location, and then mapped the circular
journeys of the soul as it frolics through

its repetitive lives. No doubt they will
look back at us -- the Neanderthals of

spirits -- and wonder what it must have
been like to live without the wheel, to

exist without concrete knowledge of the
soul's existence. They will think, 'How

difficult it must have been for them to steer
through life without such certain knowledge.'

True. I would like to shout forward to them,
"You're lucky sons of bitches!" But even if

they could hear me, it would only cause them
to smile and shake their heads a little the way

we do when we consider our poor ancestors
who lived in caves, peering out at the elements.

Artist's note:
Part of the text from the cardinal inquisitors who on June 23, 1633 convicted Galileo of 'heinous crimes' reads, "We say, pronounce, sentence, and declare that you, Galileo, by reason of the matters which have been detailed in the trial and which you have confessed already, have rendered yourself in judgment of this Holy Office vehemently suspected of heresy, namely of having held and believed the doctrine which is false and contrary to the Sacred and Divine Scriptures, that the Sun is the center of the world and does not move from east to west and that the Earth moves and is not the center of the world; and that one may hold and defend an opinion after it has been declared and defined contrary to Holy Scripture."

The Cemetery of Heaven
© Ward Kelley

True, true, we were all angels at one
time, all divine in our love, all inspired
in our empathy for our fellow beings . . .

how this state of grace came to change,
I confess I do not know, even though I
witnessed the deterioration of all such

saintly love, witnessed the decline of us
all into fallible beasts who did not care to
be known as angelic beings . . . for we all

had the choice, I later came to see and regret,
we all had the ability to reverse this slide,
yet none of us thought to do so. Later we

conjectured these bodies we were forced
to assume caused most of our misfortune but,
I must admit the bodies came later, much later.

This Yellow Skin
© Ward Kelley

My skin is yellow, a flawed garment
which marks me as a spiritual corpse.

People look at me and immediately
conclude I am not a proper recipient

for their discourse since my yellow
skin calls out to them: I want to talk

of sinning and what it means to endurance
of the sin itself. I had a lover once but

she died, and now bothers to prod me
from time to time, "Oh, man of clay,

why do you persist in your trials when
it is so much easier to simply change

the color of your skin?" Clever of her,
for she knows no one can argue with

a corpse; besides this yellow skin is
necessary for the chore of poetry:

I will keep them both, this skin and
this woman, for both appear ordained.

Artist's note:
Joseph Campbell (1904-1987) during a lecture on the Buddha once said, "The corpses in India, when they're about to be burned, are clothed in yellow garments. Monks wear the yellow garment, meaning, 'I am a corpse; I am cut off from the world'."


(ROGER C. WORLEY) Published - Stand A Alone, Scroll Artist Magazine .. E_Zine - Twice winner at PoetryDownUnder - Two winner at Point of life - Two winner at Poetic Links - Published around the world on the net. From Alaska to Belgium.

The Quill runs these websites for poets:
The Poets' Porch
Poets Yellow Pages
Alpha Poets
Inclusion on these sites is mostly by invitation, but published poets can ask for an email submission form by emailing The Quill using the email link at the end of his featured poems.

Poet's note - "I am a poet who writes whatever happens to come into the gray matter... I believe in making the reader smile. There is to much pain and suffering in the world. I have been given a Nick name 'The Master Quill guru of the twisted tales.' Once you read my writings you shall know why..."

Due to a large amount of Virus HOAXES, The Poet's Porch now list in Poet Resource center three locations to check the facts. SO, in doubt..check Poet Resource center.

List your site
Poets Yellow

© The Quill 2001

High noon, March 2,1882,
Tucson, Arizona:

The weather worn, wooded,
fan windmill was working
overtime in the brisk wind.

A dust devil oscillated
from one side of main
street to the other,

collecting sand and rubbish
while two gun-slingers
stood poised, twenty feet apart,

finger tips almost touching
the handles of their 45's,
awaiting the last ticking

of the town's clock, signaling noon.

Twitching fingers, brows dripping sweat,
hands shaking and
eyes focused, they waited.

Onlookers nervously watched
from behind closed windows
as the clock's second hand sang:

"Tong-tong, Tong- tong..."

Hands moved, pistols fired.
Six distinctive clinks on target:
Morrison turned to Jennings,

saying: "You missed
the fans of the windmill

Jennings replied: " Of course,
I was aiming at the spaces."

© The Quill 2001

Somewhere back

when I was young,

when trips to


were undertaken,

I had this thing

about knowing

just how close

to Grandma's

we were.

I could tell by the trees that

bordered the freeway

on either side

A few miles

from Grandma's house.

As I recall,

there was always

someone who

wished to hear

me howl

grandma's is near,

for they would always

see the trees

And ask whose house is near?

I could not

pronounce Eucalyptus

at the age of five, so

I would look out

the window of the

car and see the trees,

then howl...

five minutes to Grandma's.

" Eipolictic trees"

San Joaquin Hill.
© The Quill 2001

To Tampa they were sent
to await orders to fight.
Locals treated them like dirt.
Discrimination ran high ...
living conditions were worse.

Sent on a boat to Cuba to fight,
they were forced to sleep
and live like cattle, in the bottom of the boat ...
a deep insult to say the lest.
But they kept the faith.

Upon arrival in Santiago, it was rainy and hot,
a difficult environment for a military force;
but, true to their legend, they started to fight.
Like demons from hell, they attacked from
the bottom of Kettle Hill.
Bodies lay dead every few feet,
but those remaining soon raised
their arms in total conquest.

Then another order came rumbling in:
"Go take San Joaquin Hill."

Bullets flew like fireflies.
Bodies dropped one by one.
Yet, these brave men continued
until they stood atop San Joaquin Hill.

As they raised the red, white, and blue,
a huffing and puffing young officer named
Theodore Roosevelt arrived with fresh troops
and ordered the fighting 24th back to the boat.

Now history speaks of Teddy's Rough Riders
and how they charged up San Joaquin Hill.

Operative word please ... charged ...
as they arrived after the fact,
while the all black 24th sailed away home

© The Quill 2001

For thirty years
I wandered in
the desert sands,

sweat pouring from
my brow,
working with my hands,

Doing everything just so ...
in every way possible.
to reach the biblical promised land.

Then one day
in the burning sun
I realized and understood.

what the Wise men of old
knew long ago.
the operative


is not


[email protected]

Click here for September 2001 Featured Poets page 2 --> link for second half of featured poets....

Over the next month
The Poet's Porch will take on a new look.
This is to celebrate its birthday.

Born August 22.1999 -

link banner for Poets Porch

The 14th St. Y of the Educational Alliance
The Center for Cultural and Performing Arts
Wendy Sabin-Lasker, Director WhY Women Poetry Series,
Veronica Golos, Artistic Coordinator for Literary Programs


From Fact to Fiction - Carol Dixon
All In One Poetry Workshop - Kate Light
Free the Artist Within - Jelayne Miles
Writing a Life: Discovery of Soul and Surface - Patricia Smith
News From Poems - Angelo Verga
(Classes start mid October.
For information please call 212-780-0800x255 and
leave your name and address {s l o w l y} for further information).

Some of the WhY Women Poetry Events in the Fall:
Oct. 4 - OPENING DOORS with DH Melhem, Rashida Isameli, Veronica Golos and music.
Nov. 8 - THE FEELING OF FLESH with Cortney Davis and Sondra Zeidenstein +music
Dec. 6 - CEREMONIES OF LIGHT with Enid Dam & TBA
Dec. 20 - SOMETHING UNDERSTOOD with Phillis Levin and others TBA, introducing her new anthology, The Penguin Book of the Sonnet, with music by Sarafina Martino.

For more information about events in the fall, or to join the mailing list, write to:
Victoria Golos [email protected]

344 East 14th St.
New York, NY 10003, USA

212-780-0800 x255


Poet Of The Week

Click the Comrades logo and browse the site for details and submission guidelines. A recent winner was Dale Houstman, whose work features in this month's issue of Poetry Life & Times.



Poetry submissions welcome in both English and French.



See this link for more details:

now available as a POD - print book.

Also available - Scar Of Pride, new and selected short stories, at
Word Wrangler Publishing Inc.

For Kedco Artist Profile Press

We pay in free copies of anthology + prizes for the best.
Short story trophies + solid silver medallions to be won!

Submissions of short stories and/or up to 10 poems wanted for new MILLENNIUM DAWN anthology, to be published both as a CD rom and a bound book.

Email submissions to Elaine Davis at [email protected] before September 2001.

THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #6 of new story. David Jackson of Artvilla won the Spot Reginald The Rat contest last month (prize coming soon, David). Reggie is away on vacation to the Seychelles this month.

The Perils of Norris started in August 2000. To catch up on past episodes, click the links below and click your browser's Back button to return.

#1  #2  #3  #4  #5  #6  #7  #8  #9 #10 #11 #12 #13

Click here for BACK ISSUES page

Mail me on: [email protected] with any poems, letters or poetry news.
Please get Featured Poets submissions in as early as possible each month.

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