Ken Smith
John-Paul Catusco
Mary C Gatti
Bernard Otterman
Molly O'Connor
Robert Plath  - featured poem
Kay Kidde
Charlene Babb Knadle
Jackie Moss
Keil Stuart  - featured poem
Jennifer Townsend - featured poem
Tom McFadden
Florence M Hughes
George Held  - featured poem
Janice Bishop
Christine Zabrouski
Richard Ely
Louise Freund
Michael Finelli
Mark Donnelly

Editorial Board
George Wallace / Patti Tana / R B Weber

Robert Plath

It was the dog's chase
and his relentless barking
at one of the small blue spruces
his mad leaping at its limbs
for more than an hour
that had sent them up
two of them up
into the thick branches
and snug against the trunk
their expression, whatever kind of eyes they had
facing the dark core of the tree
and the bald tails
hanging, the grey-brown rumps
frozen, at eye-height
you held the flashlight on them
they had come from the farm
from rows of cabbage heads
had come under the yard fence
slyly avoiding the traps
and now were caught in a tree
in the flashlight's beam
we went back inside leaving
the rats alone to the night
and you pressed your temple
to my cheek



Jennifer Townsend

Love seeps in, both languid and elaborate,
making my anxiety shine,
my simple language stop.
It is bright like rain,
is beauty and life.
It tells me a story, and
makes whispers sing.
When our time comes,
(love laying down)
leave me, please, with reason.
Reason doesn't seep.
It takes me quickly,
and forgets to be sublime
It leaves me in wintertime,
craving truth, needing honest quiet.
Should romance take you soon, make me still.
Remind me that I need water.
I always dream the sea



Keil Stuart

Your first party where they let you stay up.
A plate of radishes your assignment.
You are missing Magic Indian and Chinese Horse
on television, a small sacrifice in light of
tall voices and onion dip
and how grown-up you feel.
Only later does it start to hurt.
An old man lying on top of you
like he was a coat
telling someone about eyes.
He's gone.
The cedar closet smells like hamster shavings.
There's money in the purses,
in the pockets of coats.
Take some. All shiny.
Magic Indian will come, will steal
in while they're not looking,
will close all their eyes.



George Held


Married, I could not commit myself to you,
Would still be on the scent of someone new.
Married, I'd have to smoke a joint or two
Before another bout of sex with you,
Like a Chinese lord with more concubines
than libido, though you might be the one
Who most desired me. Married, I'd feel chains
Clamping my ankles, curbing motion.
Married, I'd want more space, and solitude.
Like an anchorite, devoted to prayer;
I'd resent your presence, treat you rudely,
As if you had created every care.
Unmarried, we are yet wedded in spirit,
Like beach and sea, bell peal and ear: Heart it!





send comments to info@poetrybay.com

first electronic copyright 2000 poetrybay. 
all rights revert to authors