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Saturday, December 31, 2005


by Pete Mackey

Come here pretty boy she says to our dog
The latest pictures done on the screen
With lingerie and “Love Sick” sung (mumbling
Along to it I stand to let the other dog in)

By Bob Dylan himself. And there’s a war,
A pretty war, with the Best Pictures of 2005
Making it clear in today’s paper, on. The dog
(The other one) rushes in with the cold and I

Close the door. The song is done. Turn it off.
Turn it all off. The cold that came in is gone
Even if I still hear the melody. Let’s go to bed.
Yes, there’s a war on. Look in the morning.

Pete Mackey has published essays, stories, speeches, and a book on James Joyce's Ulysses and chaos physics.

Friday, December 30, 2005


by Ed Webb

Dispatches from the picket lines,
Latest outrage from the boardroom suits,
Echoes of the monastery--
Master-apprentice, chains of authority
Feudal, unfruitful
And bells tolling.

Ed Webb is a Brit who lives in Philadelphia. His checkered career includes diplomacy on behalf of a faded imperial power, a soon-to-be-finished (no, really) doctorate in politics, and the odd bit of union activism.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005


by Karl Williams

In the rain just after a snow-white Christmas
Caught in mid-limp, Frosty and the Mrs.
Lean to one side, stick-arms doomed to droop.
Just days ago these happy-go-lucky dupes
Waved to a faceless friend above parked cars,
A flag stuck in his noggin for the war
That's nearer now the holidays are through:
If an enemy's evasive, kill another one in view.

During the 1970s Karl Williams worked with children with cognitive disabilities. His prose and poems have been published in magazines and books; songs from his five CDs have been aired on television and radio around the world. Williams' first play is now being made into a film.

Monday, December 26, 2005


by Holly Day

It had been so long since I’d had a dream about Christ
That it kind of took me by surprise when He
Appeared at the foot of my bed, floating
A couple of feet above the shag carpet in that way
He used to when He used to be a regular
Guest in my college dorm apartment.

He used to talk to me a lot, back then. This time, though
He just stared at me from across the length of my Amish-made quilt
His eyes so sad and sorrowful that I honestly felt
That I had done something wrong. “Can I get you something?” I asked
Because even if I am some sort of sinner, whatever, I don’t really know what kind
I am always polite to houseguests.

Jesus, He used to talk to me, and maybe
He would still, if I didn’t have a man asleep in bed next to me
But Jesus is just so damned polite I think
He was afraid of waking my husband up.

Holly Day’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News, and Ruah. She currently works as a reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children and husband.

Sunday, December 25, 2005


by Louie Crew

Well, you remember how at Christmas
last year the two fairies down our street
wrote "Bah, Humbug!" on their front door,
using rhinestones in Olde English script
(You know how they are!)?
Well, I just learned that last week
the one who teaches art at the college
told a group of students at a Christmas party
that Jesus was born
without benefit of heterosexuality
and less than nine months
after Mary and Joseph were married!
There really ought to be a law
against such scandal!
If we don't stop them soon,
they'll probably claim
Jesus loves them!

Louie Crew has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry volumes Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987) Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks, 2004). The University of Michigan collects all his papers. Editors have published 1,692 of his works.

Saturday, December 24, 2005


by Bill Costley


Cheney isssss The Dick.
Cheney re-equals Dick NiXXXon.
Cheney runs Bush; Bush runs scared; Scared runs rampant.
How many Cheneys does it take 2eXch@nge our life-bulb? (None.)


Mince the rich.
B@tter the middle.
Gre@se the poor.
The rich fe@st;
the middle f@sts;
the poor st@rf on rood.*


L’Envoy of Chaucer

O moral Gower! this book I direct
To thee, and to the philosophical Strode,
To vouchesafe, where need is, to correct,
Of your benignities and zeales good.
And to that soothfast Christ that *starf on rood
With all my heart, of mercy ever I pray,
And to the Lord right thus I speak and say:

“Thou One, and Two, and Three, etern on live,
That reignest ay in Three, and Two, and One,
Uncircumscrib’d, and all may’st circumscrive,
From visible and invisible fone
Defend us in thy mercy ev’ry one;
So make us, Jesus, for thy mercy dign,
For love of Maid and Mother thine benign!”

Explicit Liber Troili et Cresseidis. [1385 CE]

Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.

Friday, December 23, 2005


by Ed Webb

Thursday December 22, 02:13 PM
NICE, France (Reuters) - An extreme-right French group has found a way to distribute Christmas cheer only to a chosen few by offering homeless people free hot soup containing pork, which observant Jews and Muslims do not eat.

Oh, land of my fathers!
Whence this brown tide?
Did Charles Martel turn back their ancestors in vain?
See them flowing up from the ports
Spreading like rats, like plague.

We will meet them,
We too will be a brown tide
Bring out grandfather's shirt from the attic,
Recall the days before this debased Republic which begs for its own rape,
Drink only Vichy water.
We must be our own leaders now:
Even the Holy Church does not dare to defend our sacred patrie –
Offers vegetable soup.
Ours will be a patriotic soup,
And even this Arab-loving Republic cannot make our soup illegal.
'Tis the Season of Good Will to our own;
Let the others eat cake.

Ed Webb is angry.

Thursday, December 22, 2005


by Rochelle Ratner

And here she thought she was through with the drunken
bastards. One husband, buried with a full bottle at his side,
and two estranged sons. Why else would she move to a
retirement home when she's only in her early 70s, and
healthy? She'd mostly wanted a place she could turn her
lights out at midnight and not be awakened by frantic calls
or neighbors shouting. Those apple trees right outside her
window were an added attraction. Most years the apples
lasted well into December, some baked into pies, residents
picking others up from the ground and savoring them. But
the weather's been so bad this year – very hot to very cold,
almost overnight. And all that rain and wind. The apples
fell and just lay there, fermenting. It wasn't so bad, she
thought, that the moose came to enjoy those rotten apples,
not once but twice, sticking her head in an open window,
eyes glazed with that drunken stupor she knows only too
well. No, she wouldn't have even bothered reporting the
cow moose, it's just that the second time she brought her
calf along.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage:

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

NO. 102

by Thomas D. Reynolds

A flood faces from memory
once high water disappears,
slinking out the front door
and down the muddy road.

This last was no worse
than the others I've endured,
for my foundation is strong,
could last another eighty years.

How easily they dismiss you,
avoid you like a cancer.
Toss hedge-apples at windows,
drive slowly just to stare.

Even the man with red paint
whistled as he approached,
soaked his brush in the can,
and slashed numbers on the door.

When the old lady returned
to retrieve her last belongings,
she scurried back to the car
and didn't even close my door.

I apologize for the odor,
bitter mold that burns the nose.
Thick carpet of river sludge,
rotting carpet circling the tub.

But I never turned anyone out
for any bad habit or bent.
The old lady barely kept house,
so she should be used to dirt.

I thought she might understand
what rejection feels like.
No visitors came for months.
Her best friend was daylight.

But no, I'm a grim reminder
of a great human catastrophe,
and so must be expunged,
the sooner the better.

There are still a few items
she needs to retrieve,
a photograph of a child
in stark black and white.

A thin silver necklace
buried in the closet.
She could still find it
with a little luck.

Thomas D. Reynolds received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Flint Hills Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, The Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica, Strange Horizons, Combat, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and Ash Canyon Review.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005



by Jennifer Rose

In 1968--before Martin Luther King was murdered,
the same year he Marched for an economic bill of rights,
I knew I was beautiful. We All said Black is Beautiful.
We All said Black is Powerful. Quietly, our hearts told us
that Black Beauty and Black Power could save us All,
because it would be the last truth told.

Now, I am ready to say what I know. I know
Black People are the conscience and soul of our nation. We all know
how we treat our own soul.

Shackled in chains, we’d Drag it half way around the world
to see if we could get any money for it. Make it stand naked
in the public square to show it who is in charge. Run it ragged
to feed bosses who are already fat. Hang it by its neck
if it gets too full of itself. Let it starve,
then ask it to tell of its value, and Pretend we can’t hear its voice.

And when it is standing on the roof waving its arms, water rising all
around; when there simply is no more ignoring it; Call it the source of
our fear.
Don’t let it vote. Don’t let it weigh down the economy. Keep it silent.

But See

How We Can Not Put Out That Light

Jennifer Rose is a writer, editor and teacher. Her poetry has been published in the Cooper Point Journal, Rhetoric, and Bloody Wommyn.

Friday, December 16, 2005


by Fran Davis

That would be past the broccoli fields
where sprinklers throw blue mist
a blue repeated in the eucalyptus
planted to stall the valley wind

In the Salinas
the wind blows always
funneling from the cool wide mouth
of Monterey
to scour the warm flanks
of the Santa Lucias

There’s no reason for these houses
after Chualar
Amigo’s market – carnitas –
after the correctional facility
with its cyclone fence and razor wire
flying banners of thin plastic
like skin pulled from a sunburn

Front Street the exit calls
the homes named after wine
form a sullen cluster
roofs like sharp gray scabs
patch unbending hills
that couldn’t love a vine or grape
what long-distance people
wished these houses here
to squat at the talon feet
of the Gabilans?

Fran Davis’s stories, essays and poems have appeared in Calyx, The Chattahoochee Review, The Vincent Brothers Review, Reed Magazine, Passager, Quercus Review and several anthologies. She is a winner of the Lamar York prize for non-fiction and a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Thursday, December 15, 2005


by Robert M. Chute

The possibility, perhaps inevitability

               of life came with a big bang;
the actuality of living things
               after a billion years or so.
Eventually the possibility of you came
               but with a somewhat smaller bang.
The probability of you as an actuality
               remained quite low.
Despite the odds some self, some you came
               and could be, or was, conceived.
When that was precisely
               is still in contention,
depending on which conception
               of conception we conceive
since life clearly is continuous.

Born near the Chute River, Naples, Maine in 1926, Robert M. Chute taught and conducted research at Middlebury College, San Fernando State (CA), and Lincoln University (PA) before returning to Maine as Chair of Biology at Bates College. Now Professor Emeritus of Biology, Bates College, Chute has a record of scientific publication in Parasitology, Hibernation Physiology, General Biology, and Environmental Studies. His poetry and collage poems appear in many journals including Ascent, Beloit Poetry Journal, BOMB, The Cape Rock, Cafe Review, The Literary Review, Texas Review. His poetry books include a three language reissue of Thirteen Moons in English, French, and Passamaquoddy (2002), and most recently, a three chapbook boxed set, Bent Offerings, from Sheltering Pines Press (2003). He is currently working on a series of poems based on reading scientific journals such as Nature and Science.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005


by Carolyn Howard-Johnson

After that morning of terror
I silenced the radio, shopped

for heritage tomatoes and romaine.
Civilized decades, distant wars,

strip centers scaped with potted
palms. We forget too easily. Nothing

has changed. Really. I reteach

myself (my young), to be alert
as a badger snouting out moles, to still

affect the serenity of a resolute monk. Peril
is not new. My ancestors beat down a scourge

of crickets with brooms and bonnets, farther back
they carried torches to fend off carnivores

that watched, waited, attacked. Frightened
as they were they sowed, milked, hunted ,

laughed around homefires. They knew
that beasts are everywhere.

Carolyn Howard-Johnson's first novel, This is the Place, and Harkening: A Collection of Stories Remembered are both award-winners. Her fiction, nonfiction and poems have appeared in national magazines, anthologies and review journals. She speaks on culture, tolerance, writing and promotion and has appeared on TV and hundreds of radio stations nationwide. Her how-to book, The Frugal Book Promoter won USA Book News' Best Professional Book 2004 and her chapbook of poetry, Tracings, is now available from Finishing Line Press. Carolyn is the founder of Authors' Coalition and editor of the newsletter for that organization as well as a blog that helps authors turn a dull book fair booth into a sizzling success. Her website is:

Sunday, December 11, 2005


by Deborah P. Kolodji

Butterflies in her stomach,
she kisses him after snack,
inhaling his peanut butter breath.

Unaware she was allergic
to his tongue seeking hers,
fresh euphoric teenage love
fading to anaphylactic shock.

Not yet sweet sixteen,
but kissed one time too many.

Deborah P. Kolodji's first chapbook, Seaside Moon by Saki Press, is a winner of the Virgil Hutton Haiku Memorial Chapbook Award. She is one of 16 haiku poets selected by Red Moon Press to appear in The New Resonance 4: Emerging Voices in English Language Haiku.

Friday, December 09, 2005


by Mary Lou Taylor

A cartoon in the newspaper
shows a man holding a sign,
“Fundamentally Opposed to War,”
and his aside to a compatriot —
Hope Saddam gets his at his trial.

We take pride in the men —often boys—
even girls —who serve our country.
They’re together through vicious sandstorms,
through fierce enemy fire, capturing a city
whose name they can’t pronounce.

Still I stand shoulder to shoulder
with a group of sodden poets
huddled under dark umbrellas
who protest the war with words.
A call to arms brings them
before a microphone at Cesar Chavez Plaza.
Rain falls from a sullen sky.

One by one the poets paint with quiet voice
the horror and the tragedy of war.
Friends ask when I will read my poem,
and I shrink beneath my black hood,
hesitate. I have no poem, I say.
Today I came to listen.

Mary Lou Taylor’s poetry book The Fringes of Hollywood was published in December, 2002, by Jacaranda Press, San Jose, CA. Her poems have appeared in The Montserrat Review, Bellowing Ark, Tundra, Chiyo’s Corner, caesura, Reed Magazine and other small presses. She serves on the board of the Center for Literary Arts at San Jose State University and is a colleague of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Library Leadership Council. Her new manuscript entitled High Music has just been completed. She's sending it out.

Thursday, December 08, 2005


To see and/or read Harold Pinter's Nobel lecture, click on the link to the site:

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


by Alex Galper
translated from Russian by the poet
with Igor Satanovsky and Mike Magazinnik

I found a job at Citibank
Near the Museum of Modern Art
But got fired on the second day
Because I thought that Citibank
Is the Museum of Modern Art
Since Modern Art is all about
Stock shares & percentage rates
And I with my fake resume
Tried to sneak in the very heart
Of this corporate monstrosity

Alex Galper was born in Kiev, Ukraine and emigrated to America at the age of twenty. In 1996, he graduated from Brooklyn College majoring in Creative Writing. (His professor was Allan Ginsberg.) Alex Galper's poems have been published in many Russian magazines.

Monday, December 05, 2005


by Rochelle Ratner

Hermann Goering stops and looks around him. It's 1934.
He realizes, as if for the first time, how easy it might be to
manipulate animals. Crops can be tricked to spawn perfect
seeds. On impulse, he imports raccoons from North
America. Little masked bandits, their eye sockets almost
like swastikas. He expects them to enrich the local wildlife.
He doesn't understand how quickly they'll multiply, how
they'll eat the very crops he hoped they'd nourish. Sixty
years from now they'll wipe out an entire grape harvest in
less than a week. Some blonde-haired farmers will curse
when they hear his name, others will spit, and some just
shake their heads. Raccoons in their attics and basements,
one was found beneath the toddler's bed. There must be
over a million running wild. Bounty hunters will kill 3,471
in a single year. Each locality will keep exacting records.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage:

Sunday, December 04, 2005


by Ed Webb


Up and out! Shake off the daze…
We leave our heroes in the trash compactor and head out


The daily hurtle
Seconds away from machine death
by the hand of some schedule-crazed tank-pilot mother (and how else
should she be, could she be, in such days? These are sanity's End
We live on the edge, without the taste of it -
We will die insulated deaths,
The tankmothers and I


Crowded desert, stretched-thin city
The ghost of the younger Eliot stalks these streets
(his later self, wound too tight, finally leapt
into the embrace of seductive mystery).
Camus is here also, being of the desert,
(contemplating his fiery wreck – sudden impact, blaze of glory,
twisted glamour of twisted metal):
To answer meaninglessness only with
The Struggle itself –
Who can be that strong? And for how long?
If machine death had not ended him, would he too have succumbed?

Instead of the aching hours of poets, we have progress:
We will make the desert green
Because we can –
Shoulds belong to other times, whys compel no answer


Too much,
Too much piling up.
Choose! Choose now, choose often!
No choice to not choose:
Who can refuse this vastness, the always-on machine?
We leave our hero on the couch,
And head out

Ed Webb is a Brit who lives in Philadelphia. His checkered career includes diplomacy on behalf of a faded imperial power, a soon to be finished (no, really) doctorate in politics, and the happy memory of a poetry prize won at the age of 13 back in rural England.

Saturday, December 03, 2005


by Michael Shaler

Take my civil liberties, take them all:
What have we then more than we had before?
No war critique, no corruption to call?
All mine was yours before you wanted much more.
Then, the need of blind loyalty receivest,
I blame us all for our rights thou usest;
And blame if Alito us deceivest
And wanton waste of soldiers we refusest.
I won't forgive this robb'ry, evil thief
Left the Delta in flooded poverty
Attack Murtha, who spoke in honest grief
To bear witness to hate's known injury.
          Godly godless warriors your ill will shows,
          You kill us with your spite, you make us foes.

A former bilingual teacher in California public schools, Michael Shaler earned an MFA at San Francisco State. Currently at work on a novel, his fiction is forthcoming in The MacGuffin, and his nonfiction is forthcoming or has appeared in Elysian Fields Quarterly and The Dusty Shelf.

Friday, December 02, 2005



We are planting
of freedom in the sands.

They will not lie

Nor will

We will not lie.
We did not lie.
We do not need
to lie.

We empower
our army
to inform

with facts,
not fiction . . .
but a soupcon

of poetic license from time
to time

The Pentagon Poetry Unit enforces the free expression of ideas with poems editors just can't resist.

Thursday, December 01, 2005


by Patricia Ranzoni

For young Jen Tibbetts whose poem for the grief she knows old hippies are feeling (from how sorrowfully things in the world are going) caused us to cry with her at Scoops along the Poetry Walk in Belfast.

It didn’t exactly make the
Bangor Daily headlines that day (November first, 2005) tucked under Spotlight on page 3 below Wildlife officials kill 9 wolves in Montana, Lesbian minister defrocked by council, Central Americans in shelters after [hurricane] Beta, and Haitian police free 3 [kidnapped] American children; and after Bird flu discovered in Canadian ducks, 2 more moons spotted at Pluto by Hubble, right above ads for Weber Mortgages and Van Syckle cars.

I’d’ve given it top billing instead of
Bush nominates Alito to Supreme Court post. At least below that, where it shouts (in even bolder letters because local, no doubt, Bangor ready for debut of slots for the tacky Hollywood theme scene they’d rather have up there than our own honest-to-God Indians’ games.

If you ask me, news the mice sing is about the only possible news able to counter the lower left account,
Seven U.S. troops killed in Iraq, raising the toll for October to more than 90, the deadliest month for our country (not to mention the Iraqis) since January with its map. Anchor the page against this year’s tragedies. Sure, 8.9 M environmental bond on ballot dealing with Maine’s immediate needs requires reading and Judge frees woman suspected of human trafficking attempt about girls smuggled through Canada forced into prostitution here....(tears.......).

But did you see it?
Mating songs detected in squeaks of mice? Yes! How that neurobiologist (bless his heart) showed the ultrasonic chirps of male mice to be songs, admitting them with whales, bats, insects and birds to the select category of animals that sing. This helps, doesn’t it, Jen?

Female pheromones trigger it, leading the study’s author, Timothy Holy...(
Holy...) to suspect the songs evolved to help mice find mates. And what aging homesteader wouldn’t marvel that the results were published on something they never could have conceived called online in Public Library of Science Biology? Or that with the strict definitions for the rhythms and melodic motifs required for animal song, mice could qualify? Listening, Jeff Podos, behavioral ecologist, noted in an e-mail (what back-to-the-lander could have shunned), “I agree they are complex enough to be called songs. Very cool!” Hear that, Jen? Very cool.

Inducing the crooning with female urine, males sniffed, then tasted, and in close to 30 seconds began chirping. What matter the chirps are eight octaves above a piano’s Middle C--about two too high for us to discern? Doesn’t it nevertheless transform
everything, knowing mice sing, and what we might also be missing that your generation, Jen, weeping old tears again, will, some far day, be astonished to learn? Holy (holy, holy, Lord God Almighty) makes the songs audible by shifting the pitch with software or slowing down the playback like spinning a 45 rpm at 33. In an interview, in denim and flannel (catch that, Jen?), Holy jumped to his computer to play disc jockey. One song revealed a mournful warbling like a whale. Another, more birdlike, with glissandos, grace notes, and fluted trills. Okay, I won’t say that day’s editorial should have been devoted to this, rather than outlawing torture, or that this revelation should have even taken the place of Danby’s cartoon showing Bush bubble-speaking, “It’s less about the court losing a swing vote than Cheney gaining a duck hunting partner.”

But I’d’ve put it before the opinion for
A New Tourism Model courting well-heeled vs. backpacking visitors (got that, you hippies and yuppies?), a high-value, low-volume strategy at the same time confirming most Mainer’s can’t afford luxury vacations but that’s no reason to hold back the state’s biggest revenue-bringing industry. Seems we lag behind the national average in enticing visitors with annual incomes over 75 thou'and this paper’s view is we ought to consider a change, saying (coincidentally) this would return Maine to the turn-of-the-century model of well-off visitors spending long periods in the state at all-inclusive resorts. “All inclusive....”, you hear? Think the mice know that tune? Have Been There, Done That in their repertoire too?

Nor would I (nor, I know, would you, Jen) begrudge Rosa her due-in-full column inches, being another unbelievable voice higher than most could perceive in the old (just-yesterday) days.

amen! for space given Leubsdorf’s center piece, Rove still master of strategy. No Mr. Holy in flannel and jeans, that one, hey, Jen? But a jockey nevertheless with his spin spin spin, backwards, forward, every speed his trackable holier-than-thou droppings need need need to win win win with ways learned from that young mouse in training to be a rat not to slander rats, likening them to what’s infesting our beloved land, and the quite cute wharf ones we saw at low tide reaching on hind legs to suck and chew the living sweet meat of barnacles encrusting the pilings of Stonington’s piers. I tell you, Jen, I’d sooner sleep in a room over them, innocent, than walls near what’s gnawing away the very foundations of our Nation’s Home, causing disgust throughout the world.

But now, dear, we’ve this news to which we can cling, needing only to concentrate our dreams.
Shhhhhhh......... Right here, this very grain of time, nestled amongst us in chinks of fibers and shredded papers (who knows--poems? The Ellsworth American?), maybe, after spreading word (so to speak) of the new sack of barley in the pantry, tiny mouths are showing us how to carol above it all for life over death. So that whenever grief overpowers, and no protest or poem changes one single thing, we need only conjure The Jackson Laboratory Tabernacle Choir and news the mice sing!

Patricia Smith Ranzoni was born upriver in 1940 in Lincoln, Maine to a Canadian-American woodcutter and farm girl from offneck Castine, both descended from European settlers to Indian territory in what became Massachusetts then Maine, their roots mixing in relation with Native Americans and First Canadians. For work at the papermill when her father returned from WWII, her family relocated to Bucksport where she writes from one of the outback subsistence farms of her youth which her husband and children helped keep in the family. She worked her way through graduate degrees at UM, Orono, in education and counseling, in which she practiced as long as she could, but has had no formal instruction in poetry, being deeply folk schooled in the traditions of her people. Her poems have been published across the United States and abroad and collected by Puckerbrush Press (Claiming, 1995 and Settling, 2000) and Sheltering Pines Press (ONLY HUMAN, Poems From the Atlantic Flyway, 2005).