(Sept. 2001) Page 3

Donna Hill lives in British Columbia, Canada with her three sons. She has been seriously writing poetry for a few years now, drawing much of her writing style for realism from life around her, her family, and her work as a child educator. She currently is poetry editor of Erosha, an online literary journal of the erotic. Donna's poems have appeared in print issues of One Dog Press, Poems Niederngrasse, Poetry Motel and Peshekee River and have also been published by numerous literary webzines.

Her poem, "my hands write when I need them to," took first prize in Comrades first annual poetry contest, while "the moon is a sliver tonight" placed seventh. Both poems are slated to appear in Comrades' upcoming anthology, 2001. Donna's first book, Dimensional Dreams, is available through emailing her at [email protected] or Mt. Aukum Press in CA. at
[email protected]t

meeting of the mind
© donna hill

was there ever enough time to
celebrate her hair?
long beach sand strands now left behind
strewn with tears of dry ice on the beauty shop floor
for lack of any other reason than eighteen weeks
of chemo therapy, to begin on Tuesday
a challenge to predestination
this gradual approach to female baldness
versus waking to a pillow overlaid with hair

home again, a meeting of the minds
like rounding a corner, stubbing your toe
on the wooden leg of confrontation
in the mirror
she, the wise mature woman
bows to a schoolgirl duckling
gaping, unforgiving
two invasive surgeries,
and it's all about the hair
she confides to me

while I can only
cradle her with the angle of my words
as if to make a difference

tear in your eye
© donna hill

as our skins dissolve
layer by layer
feathering between love and sorrow
bidding one more goodbye

not far from here
© donna hill

a lady in a pink jogging suit
stands at the curb.
under one arm, the blonde
wooden crutch she leans on
as if leaving something
behind. the boss she's tired of
training to be a leader, the ex
husband, deported to England
on charges of fraud, the pensive
fears of her children being

in her other hand, a hose
and nozzle she sprays
into the street. her brightly
clad fleece legs speckled in
mud, frigid as the tears from her
fingertips that bounce the pavement
in disarray. dark clouds
crowd over her home like testy
rush hour passengers,
while inside family members
huddle, await the news.

she clutches the running hose
and as we drive by, my son
can only ask, why -
it's raining out.

a receptionist called Hope
© donna hill

spring melts one silver droplet at a time,
rolls down the single lime green daffodil
stem rooted aside the urban cement door
step, looking as tenaciously out of place

as she feels. her hand on the shining
glass door of the sperm bank, her meek
entrance guised in a kind of wary
confidence, like kneaded clay under

the potter's hands. no man has yet to
stroll her red carpet visions of the perfect
father, maybe this finally, is the timely
place for all her innately driven dreams.

though still she wonders. just how much
obscurity amid sterile tubes, is bound to
fall landmark to danger.

Fernando would rather be home
© donna hill

the phone calls seemed to go well
all three and a half hours
it's not as if he
hadn't done this before
dated women
but in his younger days
before life and death of a marriage
and best friend
resorting to newspaper ads
had not been a working option
now that carnal urge had all but perched
itself on his shoulders
mischievously whispering back and forth between ears
he thought why not
after all, her voice had a certain
Lauren Hutton quality to it
that ripe simplicity
he was partial to

hopes for love at first sight
another hollywood fantasy
crumbled like a roasted marshmallow
caught on fire

shortly after she walked through the door
and their conversation began
he knew
knew he'd rather be home
eating his favorite; grape popsicle
with a knife and fork

I still cannot write about it
© donna hill

find that warm tavern in my mind
familiar place, lit by memories of your faded
fluorescent pink hair
smiles and red stained fingers
when last I saw you
in our kitchen helping to slice strawberries
store our summer's yield

still can't find the right words
to fold like tissue paper
around images of your dad's upturned car
below on the tracks

be opened like tattered goodbyes
to a thirteen year old boy

instead, what jars my mind tonight
when thinking of you again,

my friend, is how long those wheels
might have spun
like in the movies

[email protected]


Charlotte Gai Mair is one of David Jackson's editors at Artvilla, and has designed and maintained Web pages for Elisha Porat, Charlotte's Web, Shoptillyadrop Virtual Mall, BarNone Coffeehouse.

She is a former singer-musician ; born of Irish decent family named Coughlan , February 14/49, presently residing on the lower mainland of British Columbia, Canada.

Always a fighter and very passionate by nature, she has never allowed her life's circumstances to pull her down. It is in fact lifes journeys and episodes that have inspired this writer not to give up and to make known her love of life through her writing and poetic endeavors.

In a period of three years she has written over 200 poems with almost 100 of them being published in various Antholigies, Newsletters, Newpapers and many websites in Canada, United Kingdom, Ireland and across the United States.

Poetic Voices of America - Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum
W. Virginia, USA - 1999 *ISBN 0-923242-64-3
Crossroads - Iliad Press
Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999
Feelings - Cader Publishing
Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999 *ISBN 1-885206-69-0
President's Recognition for Literary
Excellence, MI, USA - 2000
No Love Lost - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999
No Love Lost II - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario CD - 2000
The Open Window - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999 *ISBN 0-9699598-4-2
The Open Window II - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 2000
Illuminations lll - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999
Cherished Poems of the Western World
- Famous Poets
Hollywood, Ca, USA - /99 * ISBN 0-96414989

Wildlife Rescue Association of British
Burnaby, BC, CD - 1999 * ISSN 1188-5106
Poemata - The Canadian Poetry Association
Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * ISSN 1203-6595

Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * 107-3295-11

- Published on multilpe Websites including Canada & United States, Britain & Ireland - 1999 & 2000:
Dublin Writer's Workshop, - Ireland
Deep Underground - Alternative Poetry Site, U.K
Miss Nubean Queen - United States
Lady In The Lake - Los Angelos, U.S.A.
Above Ground Testing - Trenton, Ontario, Canada
Survivor's Poetry Site

The First Fifty Years. Authored and illustrated by Charlotte Gai Mair, Published by Charlotte Mair @ Hidden Brook Press, 412 - 701 King Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada - 1999

The Reflection - The Spring 1998 Iliad Literary Awards Program
Peace - The 1998 Nature Awards Program
Message in the Sand - The 1998 Browning Awards Program
Forget Me Not - The 1998 Longfellow Awards Program
The First Fifty Years - Chapbook Competition 1998

David Ingram - Channel 4 Talk Show Host, Book Reviewer
Ward Kelley - Writer - Indianapolis , USA *2000
People's Poetry Newsletter - Toronto, Canada *2000
Recently-written Book review for Elisha Porat:

Mike McCardell - Newsreporter, BCTV News, Channel 8, Burnaby, BC *1999

© Charlotte Gai Mair

Even if I see no road
I will walk
and if
I cannot feel the road
I will talk
and when
the tongue has ceased
I will think
again I say

when thought is gone
I will ever drink
from the cup of life

My Daughter, My Life
© Charlotte Gai Mair

Thorns dig deeply at your side
Vinegar seeps into open wounds
Waves smash rocks . in persistence

For now, my daughter
Become the sand,
Allow cool water to shape you . in the artistry of life
Know life

On the wake, I'll ride for you
Take the blow and
Cradle your child within,
Who has fallen and scraped her knee

Flow and grow
Let calm of mournful skies
Comfort . crystal pearled eyes
And know there is peace to be found

Blow, blow feel the wind
Breathe the air . know you still have life

And that
You are as always
My own little girl

Closing Flight
© Charlotte Gai Mair

As sand is to ocean washing on its shores Love is to this heart an idle threat Rushing, pulsing, waves reveal Gibraltar across vast waters the might of rock is set to ease a solo gull from flight - no more Here within this wreck of ship in torrent foam and brine of night No treasures hide themselves in crested shoals Sands are picked pristine unmoved clear down to the bone alighted gull concedes restitution calming heart in song

Riviera Paradise Drive
© Charlotte Gai Mair

*This is the poem that got me into the Stevie Ray compilation book to begin with .. his awe inspiring music piece .. Riviera Paradise .. Yes!

There's something magical
about Stevie Ray
while flyin' down River Road
summer afternoon -- top down
to the tune of Riviera Paradise

brings out a wanderlust
enhances scent of sea
visions of cranes in flight
-- lifts
-- softens harshness of day
scanning marshlands of green
cottonwood fairies in thousands
drifting in slow mo
over lines of colour purple
rows of golden wildflowers
-- bulrushes
surrounding boat skeletons
lingering on the shore
to house families of swallows
Then --
one quick pluck - - guitar strings
lift -- then bend and cry
to even higher grounds
of sedation
as fingers ease in play
sparking hope in the rush
of smooth music

*The Real Deal - - Stevie Ray Vaughan

[email protected]

Mary Angela Nangini is the author of "Woman in Exile" (1991) and "My Ontario Beautiful" (1995), published by Mellen Poetry Press. She is also co-author of the play/musical ~With a Bang or a Whimper, which she directed and choreographed for the Tenth World Congress on Gifted and Talented Education. It was performed during the conference "Gifted Globe" at the Royal York Hotel, Toronto, in 1993. She has written a theory on The Four Phases of Being called "Being Metaphor" - A Transformative Learning Theory on Human Poetential and Its Shadow: The Phenomenon of Abundance and Its Antithesis - Entropy (unpublished 1992). The development of the metacognitive strategy called "Being Metaphor" (1989) evolved through her poetry, and which is, at its best, the language of the metaphysical: "My poetry has helped me develop this strategy through the transformation of negative energy into positive forces of learning for the celebration and renewal of personal energy. Its usefulness is to develop human potential and harness the human shadow. I have since discovered that the technique utilizes The Cosmogenetic Principle (Swimme & Barry, 1992) consisting of the three powers in the universe: auotopoeisis, differentiation and communion."

Mary Angela has recently completed an MTS(Masters in Theological Studies) at St. Augustine's Seminary of Toronto (2000); Doctoral Studies, completed at OISE (Ontario Institute for Studies in Education) 1995; M.A. (1989) University of Connecticut - Storrs; B.Ed. (1985) and B.A. (1971) York University; B.Ed. (1978) University of Toronto. She is the past co-president of EdGO and TAGO, the organizations for educators of the gifted in Ontario and is a member of COG (Consortium of Ontario Gifted organizations). She is an artist and her artwork "Oscar and Jake" was chosen for the Brampton Arts Calendar 1997, and has won a "Juror's choice award for her pastel drawing "Memories", 1995. Included in the "International Who's Who in Poetry and Poets Encyclopedia" (1997), Brampton, ON.

Additional Information
Mary Angela has participated in these recent events: *Poetry reading at Gage Park in Brampton during the Summer Concerts in the Park, August 14, 2001. *Feautred in the Great Lakes Logia anthology as a member of A Collective Exhibition of Art, Poetry and Writing on the Great Lakes. *Poetry reading on July 12, 2001 at Harbourfront, Toronto. Associate member and Open Mic reader with the League of Canadian Poets.

His Shadow
© Mary Angela Nangini

The shadow
Of his body
Thrills my senses
I slip silently
Into its depths
I expand
My breath
Draws in
His countenance
His essence
I dance
The immensity
Of his presence
His person
Without bodies
Our minds
Are one
Through the eyes
Of our souls
Erasing borders
Of skin and bones
Into the centre
Of his being
Being mine.

On abuse...
© Mary Angela Nangini
from Voices of Victims

Abuse lingers
and lingers
the memory is slim deep
rises quickly to the surface
and sucks up energy
used up to fend off
buried hurt
carved in letters
called my name
and i flail
my sharpened nails
at nothing
a cavernous air-hole
because its not out there
but in here
with me

© Mary Angela Nangini

If only we knew
what we know
when we would
We wouldn't.

we don't
So we do.

Then ....
we know
And wish we didn't.

© Mary Angela Nangini

Being cast the blind line
makes the eye
see the lie.

We turn a blind eye
to the lie.

© Mary Angela Nangini

I let myself drop
Into the heart of trust

I lay still
and wait
to be replenished

even as I let go

even as I am free

[email protected]

Aloha, My name is Connie Marcum Wong. I have always had a love for poetry, especially after age 35. I have been a flight attendand for 31 years. I live in Hawaii with my husband Michael and our 15 year old daughter Michelle. I am inspired to write by my family and the beauty of just looking out my bedroom window in the morning. One of my favorite poets is Lord Byron.

The Aura Photo (small version shown above) was taken three years ago when I started my Aura Photography business. The green color denotes teaching, healing, and a lifestyle change, all of which I am involved in. Each color has a different meaning and tells about the physical, emotional, and spiritual well being of an individual. I find the Aura camera to be very accurate and I enjoy my second career very much, for it affords me time to write and read poetry. I have been sharing my poetry with others' since I started my own poetry club in November 1999: Poetry for Thought.

Poetry For Thought can be found at my website, A Poet's Haven.

Myrrha's Tears
© Connie Marcum Wong

Oh Adonis,
How brightly shines your pride.
Whence your shame you keep from view,
Hidden deep inside.

Though you were born not of the womb
But through your mothers blessed bloom.
Myrrha, once a goddess, now a lovely tree.
She stands so tall in sunlight and cries so silently.

Your mothers golden tears
From all her tortured pain,
Fall slowly from her limbs,
Like heavy laden drops of rain.

For her arms, now limbs,
Unable to hold her child,
Because of Cinyras' vengeance
Upon his child he had defiled..

All is not lost for Myrrha,
Although in her sorrow she must remain.
For her tears provide us with health and happiness,
And laughter once again.

*Folklore: Well over 2,000 years before the baby Jesus received Myrrh as a gift, it was one of the most desired and most expensive items in the world. According to Roberta Wilson:
"In Greek mythology, Aphrodite forced the goddess Myrrha into an incestuous relationship with her father, Cinyras. Cinyras avenged the act by turning his daughter into a myrrh tree. When the tree sprouted its blooms, their child Adonis was born. The resinous drops that exude from cuts in the trees bark were said to be Myrrha's tears."

Pele, Goddess of Fire
© Connie Marcum Wong

Pele's volcanic lava glows
In the evenings twilight hour.
A passion filled desire,
Surging with her power.

She triumphs over man
As she adds unto the land.
Apathetic, she reaches out to claim,
Those who dare to touch her hand.

Gracefully she moves as quietly she creeps,
On her burning path toward the sea.
Wanting, all she covers she keeps....
Her steamy kisses she saves for the sea.

Sorrow has followed Pele
All throughout her years.
She leaves behind her sadness
In her tiny ebony tears.

Her majesty and wonder
Leave me breathless in her sight.
I am drawn toward her beauty,
And consumed by her delight!

Moon Maiden
© Connie Marcum Wong

Oh lovely Maiden of the Moon
What strange powers do you posses?
For in your different phases, you surrender,
Or may steal away my happiness.

Dearest Lunar Lady...
When you are dark and new,
I feel your grief has it's grip on me,
And I am filled with darkness too.

Then gradually
You wax into the light.
And I again,
Enjoy your beauty bright.

When you fill the evening sky
With your loving light,
You may draw shy lovers into a kiss,
Or cause two foes to fight!

[email protected]

Click here for page four of Featured Poets

Click here to return to rest of September 2001 issue

Click here to return to main index