Dave Barber is from Albuquerque, New
Mexico. He has traveled in Europe and Asia and has
written about the unique and wonderful cultures he has
experienced. He has been published in literary
magazines in Canada, The United Kingdom and The United
States and has published two books of poetry. He
writes about his family and his encounters
overseas. He certainly is a unique talent.
His choice of words and phrases serves to keep the
reader alert. We favor poems that make you think
and when they also paint a colorful picture the reader
feels doubly rewarded. Dave Barber has that
special ability to say all that needs to be said without
saying too much...a neat trick if you can do it...many
can't. Please join us in enjoying these
POEMS OF DAVE BARBER.
We're always honored to be the
conduit through which Janet Lynn Davis shares her
immense writing skills with the public. She
used to work as a communications specialist and a
writer/editor for industry. Nowadays, she putters around
and also writes poetry. Her free verse and tanka
have appeared in numerous Web based and print journals
during the past couple of years. She lives in Houston,
Texas, with her husband, a software consultant. In
this volume she uses the surrounding natural world as a
canvas upon which she paints some beautiful
poems. Join us in appreciating how she shows
us there is fresh meaning and beauty everywhere...if we
but look. JANET LYNN DAVIS
I first met Ron VanKalker in the late
60's or early 70's. He climbed from one of his
beloved Harleys with something written by Camus or
Sartre in his back pocket. A largely self taught
Renaissance Man, he later condescended to take a degree
in psychology from a noted university. Kerouac
said it best in On The Road: "...because the only
people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to
live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of
everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or
say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like
fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders
across the stars and in the middle you see the blue
center light pop and everyone goes "Awww!" In this
issue we are treated to some of the PHOTOGRAPHY OF
R.D. McManes makes you feel, think
and sit in wonder with his words. There is a power
in his meaningful words. We hope for the privilege
of publishing more of his work. His writing is
crisp and clear and very compelling. He hails from
rural Kansas and has had 7 books of poetry
published. In addition, he has had individual
poems published in numerous magazines and e-zines such
as Cafe Espresso, Scriverner's Pen, MIPO, Haikuhut, and
Write On. We are pleased to present
THE POETRY OF R.D. MCMANES
Bruce H. Reeve is a skilled
photographer to say the least. We're always at a
loss to say something appropriate about his work.
He composes a photograph in much the same way as a great
sculptor must visualize an image in a block of
stone. There is nothing difficult about working a
shutter or aiming a camera. The art is believed to
be in knowing when to shoot and from what angle...about
the light and speed...but Bruce Reeve has some magic
he's using that separates him from the majority of
artists. We learned a long time ago not to analyze
or dissect his work. We invite you to do what
we've learned to do: SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE
PHOTOGRAPHY OF BRUCE H. REEVE.
Early Winter, Okinawa.
Now the grass is gray
and the ocean comes in
under the feet of the morning,
long shimmering lines of foam.
Here the noise is gone
with all those arguments we had.
Strange, my desire wasn't control
but aching to see you.
Enough to ask for help
some told me - be a man.
Men don't feel the night sky.
Well I'm not myself
I'm still waves coming in
under the morning's feet.
On Reading Dad's Book
each element in black
The book's stains
suggest its life.
No stranger to lab,
field and work,
you collected it all
carefully wrapped them
I always hurt to see
the pain you wore
but loved your science eye.
Copyright © Dave Barber
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Janet Lynn Davis
A snowless lawn
We get no snow,
though beads of new-green leaves
come early here.
Concerts of small-winged chatter,
the return of the dove pair:
spring is our most brilliant season.
It’s been years since
I’ve seen a snowflake,
except for paper cutout.
A fair trade, some would say:
no brutal cold, a snowless lawn,
for floral gems by winter’s end.
But I remember it—
crunchy, thick, oblivious
to the sun—a perfect
northern feast when I was
And everyone should have
a snow poem.
It seems so innocent, this surge of spring,
this swirl of new fashion. For a few
we are impervious to death’s crispness:
It is not the time to learn lessons of loss.
Spring’s crime is that it strikes so suddenly—
exits as abruptly, then leaves us bare
against the summer swelter, when truth
is soldered to our eyes. The contrast
crawling out from underneath
its cloak of many colors is almost
more than we can endure.
I cannot spot the sun
on afternoons short of
when I gear up to subdue
tangled tiers of Chinese fringe-flower.
Yellow is oozed far across
the sky, thin as a filo pastry
layer, my rounded back
a tabletop for the fallen
Attended to, the vagrant outer
coverings prepare for new birth.
Back inside, the mind stands apart.
Whole cities remain untamed;
no regular crew will come close
to toppling their towers.
The melted sun creates
a temporary safe house, no
incentive to raze and rebuild.
Copyright © Janet Lynn Davis
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
To The Light With A Friend
Leaves And Stream
Life And Death
Haze And Shade
Copyright © Ron VanKalker
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I long to taste rainbows
and drink clear mountain skies,
to see a wooded valley spread,
like a patchwork quilt
beneath my bare feet.
I long for pine forest breath,
to smell its needles’ fragrance.
carried on a sunrise breeze
touched by a hint
of fresh morning dew.
I long for that special place
where I can feel the sun’s face,
warm against my cheek
and just for that moment,
nothing else exists
but a mountaintop and me.
“The stone and I”
The sky is just a stone’s throw away;
I am like a far-flung stone,
enjoying momentary sense of freedom
turning children’s cartwheels.
suspended in mid-air.
In my heart I know;
The stone and I are not unlike,
bound by natural physical law
and it’s tight wound invisible chains.
Ours is a destiny to fall.
We both know our place.
Freedom is a brief taste
before we touch the ground.
I could write about life and death.
The joy of birth and
the passing to “a better place”.
How clear the moments are
beginning and end.
Definitions are left to the living
yet defining those moments exists
somewhere in between.
I remember the birth of four sons
precious gifts, bright colored ribbons
flutter in life’s light breeze.
New beginnings, full of promise,
streaks of unknown purpose
melting within the gray.
Two sons still travel bright paths
I cannot fully chronicle their journey
nor will I try, what lies before them,
is theirs to find.
Two sons have gone to that “better place”.
I am left behind, the reason eludes me,
a purpose I cannot define.
Their journey is beyond my grasp,
mourners speak of time.
The years have not helped me
nor can I pretend to understand.
Life is a beginning.
Existence is gone
in the wink of an eternal eye,
and we can’t help but blink.
Copyright © R.D. McManes
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright © Bruce H. Reeve
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
field hollers of the dispossessed
maybe it was the
that disgraceful exercise of
power and duplicity
maybe it was the assassinations
that rocked our little niche of
there was always something
i don’t know
those three words have fallen
from the honest lips of thinkers and
philosophical and political questions
the first wave of what was to be called the
nothing was more certain than
or more correctly guinea pigs
the rock and roll generation
hiding under desks in atomic bomb
told of communist
under every bed
consumed by so much confusion
the bible read against on the
the brush fire became a
theology displayed along with the
everything was televised and someone on the
knew how to finish a sing song chant
that started from the east coast
and the phenomena
sputniks and puppets
mass culture and home town
more questions than answers
transitions became brick walls
yin and yang graying
suffering from insecurity where once it
the vine produced nothing of permanence
and the smoke’s now a haze
the music struggles with hints of
sex drugs and good old rock and
internal themes and half crazed anthems
dancing to external rhythms
hollers of the dispossessed
FIELD HOLLERS OF THE DISPOSSESSED
A comment about the passing show.
Copyright © Bay Front Press
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
With a lessening hesitation
I dedicate this volume to William
Stockland. Born in 1890 in Wisconsin of
Norwegian immigrants, he was my
grandfather. I saw him once in my
life. For a long time I found that to be
more than enough. He was known as a hard,
almost cruel man. I grew up hearing
stories of his tight fisted rule and frugal
ways...monitoring the electric meter to insure
no waste when using the appliances...his son
cutting used railroad ties for heat...an abuser
who had to be knocked unconscious with a frying
man...a hard drinker. The stories
abound. Lately I’ve been doing some
research and I’ve come across some photos of him
as a young man. Eyes full of hope and
adventure. Eyes that would be tempered by
terribly hard work as a railroad section
hand. The rest is my imagination but maybe
sharing his genes will give me insight. I
can imagine the young man as a young
father...his first child came close to arriving
before the wedding ceremony...a situation faced
earlier by his father. I see the young
man growing old worrying about food,
clothes and shelter for a growing family.
His generation had nothing even close to the
safety net under mine. I see the young man
growing weary working on rails that will help
other people seek their fame, fortune and
adventure in faraway places. I lie awake
and listen even now to lonesome train
whistles. I imagine him doing the
same...and longing to see just some of the
things his grandchildren have been able to
see. I located a yellowed newspaper
clipping that surprised me...something almost
out of Field Of Dreams. Young William
Stockland, the star pitcher of a semipro town
team where he won 19 of the 20 games to be
played that year, stood tall and broad
shouldered...the very picture of a promising
young athlete. The gruff, cold man I once
briefly met was a worn down shadow of the
veritable kid staring out at the world from the
weathered clipping. What happens to a man
when his dreams die?
DEDICATION A Toast: Hvile, elske duck