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 RONALD VANKALKER

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.


Dave Barber

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 warmth,
not attitude
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

You underlined
each element in black
sinewy ink.
The book's stains
suggest its life.
No stranger to lab,
field and work,
you collected it all
every piece
each equation,
carefully wrapped them
in dullness.
I always hurt to see
the pain you wore
but loved your science eye.

Copyright © Dave Barber

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 ten.    
And everyone should have
a snow poem.

Seasonal raiment

It seems so innocent, this surge of spring,
this swirl of new fashion. For a few weeks, 
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.

Afternoon pruning

I cannot spot the sun 
on afternoons short of summer     
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 crumblings.         

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

Ron VanKalker

To The Light With A Friend

Leaves And Stream

Life And Death

Sentinel Tre


Whitewater Leaves

Haze And Shade

Copyright © Ron VanKalker

R.D. McManes

“Special Place”
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.
Exuberant expressions
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.

“Full Circle”

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

Bruce Reeve

Copyright © Bruce H. Reeve

field hollers of the dispossessed

     maybe it was the war 
   that disgraceful exercise of power and duplicity 
maybe it was the assassinations 
  that rocked our little niche of security
there was always something
           i don’t know 
those three words have fallen 
  from the honest lips of thinkers and wanderers 
    great religious philosophical and political questions 
the first wave of what was to be called the baby boom       
nothing was more certain than uncertainty 
or more correctly guinea pigs 
the rock and roll generation 
 hiding under desks in atomic bomb drills 
    told of communist bogeymen 
under every bed
consumed by so much confusion
   the bible read against on the road 
  the brush fire became a conflagration 
  theology displayed along with the pill 
everything was televised and someone on the west coast 
knew how to finish a sing song chant 
that started  from the east coast 
       the fad and the phenomena 
sputniks and puppets 
   mass culture and home town simplicity 
        far more questions than answers 
 transitions became brick walls 
    yin and yang graying 
 suffering from insecurity where once it celebrated change       
the vine produced nothing of permanence 
             and the smoke’s now a haze
   the music struggles with hints of new realities 
         sex  drugs and good old rock and roll 
internal themes and half crazed anthems 
dancing to  external rhythms 
       and field hollers of the dispossessed

  A comment about the passing show.  Anon. 
Copyright  © Bay Front Press



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 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 tilgi Bestefor!