FF12 -Sept20

Founder’s Favourites

Issue 12-Sept 2020

Bruce Levine

Ed Ruzicka

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Jack D. Harvey

Jerrice J. Baptiste

John Grey

Ken Wetherington

Morgan D. Bazilian

Nancy Lou Henderson

Nolo Segundo

Sarah Henry

Stella Mazur Preda

Founder’s Favourites | September 2020—Issue 12 | 1


Issue 12-Sept 2020

Bruce Levine

To The Heights of the Limitless ....................................... 4

Vegetating ....................................................................... 5

The Road Ahead .............................................................. 6

Ed Ruzicka

The Blow ....................................................................... 22

Vacuum ......................................................................... 22

The Generosity of Cups ................................................. 23

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Envelop .......................................................................... 3

Jack D. Harvey

Cats ............................................................................... 18

Jerrice J. Baptiste

After the Rain ................................................................ 14

Cloudsky ....................................................................... 15

John Grey

Walking by the House You Grew Up In ........................... 8

A Face at the Window ..................................................... 9

Amanda Says ................................................................. 10

Memories of my Father Shaving ................................... 11

The Girl Who Sat in Front of Me in High School .......... 12

Ken Wethierngton

Boy’s Night Out ............................................................ 24

Morgan D. Bazilian

Tests .............................................................................. 26

Puppy ............................................................................ 27

Nancy Lou Henderson

Leaves ........................................................................... 16

I Lost Me ....................................................................... 17

The Trench Coat ........................................................... 21

Nolo Segundo

A Passing Glance ............................................................ 7

The Book Lady .............................................................. 13

Sarah Henry

Mother Bear .................................................................. 19

Stella Mazur Preda

One Very Old Tree ........................................................ 28

Twister .......................................................................... 20

Why They’re My Favourites

Bruce Levine

To The Heights of the Limitless The words imagination

and limitless. The Road Ahead I love the phrase ‘raining

memories and longings.’ Vegetating It’s a favourite because

I relate to this so much.

Ed Ruzicka

The Blow I like that the nail is as thin as a streak of rain.

Vacuum I like seeing the vacuum’s controlled whirlwind—

the toy tornado—in my mind’s eye. The Generosity of

Cups I love the last three lines.

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Envelop I love the analogy to an envelope—contents

private and full recipients.

Jack D. Harvey

Cats I like that they live at night and trust the moon.

Jerrice J. Baptiste

After the Rain I love the idea of ladybug kisses. Cloudsky I

like the image of “Cloudsky” tracing each of his

grandchildren.

John Grey

Amanda Says I like she didn’t blame God when things went

wrong, and the last line. Walking By The House You Grew

Up In The senses in this poem made it a favourite. It gave

me the yikes feeling. A Face in the Window I love the word

choices. And the last line. Memories of my Father Shaving

The visual is a comforting one. The Girl Who Sat In Front

Of Me In High School I You never know who you’ll

influence!

Ken Wetherington

Boy’s Night Out The dogs perspectives of humans and the

ending made this a favourite.

Morgan D. Bazilian

Tests and Puppy These are current and relatable.

Nancy Lou Henderson

Life Is Brief The motions in this piece make it my

favourite. I Lost Me I relate to the emotions and

experience. The Trench Coat This fun perspective has a

surprising twist!

Nolo Segundo

A Passing Glance I like that the ladies can still enrapture

this senior. The Book Lady The phrase ‘cavern of books’

and book adoption is awesome.

Sarah Henry

Mother Bear I love perspective submissions. And this

bear’s environment brings me comfort.

Stella Mazur Preda

Twister I hope I never go through one but am glad for the

experience while reading this shape poem. One Very Old

Tree I love the phrase ‘inaudible heartbeat of the

woodland’!


Envelop

By Gaiyle J. Connolly

You envelop me.

We are an envelope,

the contents private

we are not stamped

with a seal of approval

yet we are full recipients

not mere occupants

no need to return to sender.

fox17 | stock.adobe.com


To The Heights of the Limitless

by Bruce Levine

One’s life is only limited by

one’s imagination

And since one’s imagination

is limitless

Life can reach to the

heights of the limitless

If one has the courage to dream

and imagine what’s limitless

Fotoschlick—stock.adobe.com


Vegetating

by Bruce Levine

Vegetating

A specialty of mine

Not asleep

Not awake

A semi-comatose state

Languishing

And yet transporting

Thoughts seeking their own repose

While fulfilling their own destiny

A sidewalk paved with particles of energy

Mindfulness intertwined with reality

A speed racer in slow motion

Testing the waters while hovering in space

Fantasy or frivolity

Finalizing without finality

The essence of thought

paton47—pixabay.com


The Road Ahead

By Bruce Levine

Focusing on tomorrow

Without forgetting the past

Building new bridges

In an everlasting chain

In the hierarchy of life

The future prevailing

As time marches

Through a parade of confetti

Raining memories and longings

Past, present and future

Silken threads entwined

Holding the promise

Of new beginnings

With a fanfare

Played on heraldic trumpets

Polished brass

Reflecting tomorrow

Free-Photos | Pixabay.com


A Passing Glance

By Nolo Segundo

The other day

as I turned the corner

onto my quiet street

I saw a woman so perfect,

she snatched my breath away

as she waited to cross the road.

It was like seeing a movie star

or a beauty queen close up--

my heart ached a bit, I confess,

when I thought, once, a long time

ago, I might have had a chance….

But now I’m just an old man

driving an old car to an old house.

I drove slowly and could see

her gracefully crossing the street

in my rear-view mirror, much

like a dream fading quickly away …

suddenly, from somwhere far

beyond my mind, I realized

the truth of what I saw: that

it was all just stupid illusion--

she was young and beautiful,

I, old and lame, but those were

just markers on the wheel of time.

The wheel would turn,

my body would die, hers would age,

no longer enrapturing men—in truth

she was already an old woman

which

I could not see, nor could I see the

sweet child still playing within her.

When there are no more days left,

our souls will be free of the wheel,

and all the world’s illusions will

seem as distant, fading dreams.

Alfons Ven | stock.adobe.com


Walking By The House You Grew Up In

By John Grey

What is all this?

A gutter dangling

from the roof,

busted tiles,

bird nests in the eaves.

Half the house painted,

the rest abandoned

to the peeling of its previous coat.

A pit-bull snarling

from a rusty cage.

A couple of skinny cats

pursued by a grubby kid

in nothing but his underpants.

Tattooed men

leaning over

a stripped-down car

parked sideways

across the front lawn.

A loud-voiced woman

cussing through the kitchen window.

You used to live here.

Now you never did.

Nancy Galligan | stock.adobe.com


A Face at the Window

By John Grey

Here is the sunrise.

The front door,

the windows,

are turning into gold.

Dew-tipped grass-stalks

glow like candles.

The filigree

of a maple tree

is blurred by dazzle.

I’m at the window

in my bare feet,

and bared face.

Light moves in.

Morning fills veins

with something other than

blood.

Piranhi | stock.adobe.com


Amanda Says

By John Grey

She’s the last of my friends who still believes in heaven.

She’s well-educated, a philosophy major.

And yet she’s always been a believer.

In someone watching out for her.

In someone listening.

In paradise at the end of all this.

She’s beaten cancer twice.

So she’d had her miracles but also times

when God didn’t come through.

Like when she lost her husband two years

into the marriage.

And her miscarriage two weeks beyond the funeral.

And her mother’s drawn-out painful dying.

But she didn’t blame God.

Merely praised His beneficence when He put her out of her misery.

But she’s always been a good listener.

I tell her my troubles and she doesn’t recommend that I see a priest.

She has enough human answers to help assuage human problems.

I don’t have to get born again.

I can go on living the life I’m halfway through.

But there are times when my earthbound scientific mind,

just once, wants to engage her everlasting spirit

in some kind of no-holds barred, metaphysics versus empiricism debate.

No loud voices. No personal attacks.

Everything calm and measured

like a chapter from a book by C. S. Lewis.

But how do you argue against yourself?

O college professor with a new book to write?

O holy woman within?

tookapic | pixabay.com


Memories Of My Father Shaving

By John Grey

The clouds of lather,

tight grip of the razor’s handle,

the sharp gleaming blade,

the slow skate around the chin,

gentle paring of the upper lip,

glissading the throat

like a ski-jump in reverse –

and now,

with my electric Remington,

I shave in prose.

vargazs | Pixabay.com


The Girl Who Sat In Front of Me in High School

By John Grey

Her back was rose-pink in winter,

lightly freckled in spring,

then beautifully tanned

as summer waned into fall.

Occasionally, she turned around

so the guy who sat in front of her

could write his poem.

Nicola | stock.adobe.com


The Book Lady

By Nolo Segundo

She travels with grace through the caverns of books,

searching for the neglected, the forgotten, the abandoned,

then slowly, sadly, she pulls them off the shelves and

places them in the box of fate, destined now either for

adoption or a re-incarnation in some lesser form--

perhaps as paper bags or toilet paper-- what once had

been thoughts and poems and even magical words....

Simonetta | stock.adobe.com


After The Rain

By Jerrice J. Baptiste

I watch her encircling my wrist.

Black spotted red wings.

My eyes and heart in awe

of a tiny creature—lady bug

with power to bring good luck.

And the long deep breath

she summons. Kissing

delicate skin.

onepicnowords—Pixabay.com


Cloudsky

By Jerrice J. Baptiste

His brown hands & fingers

extend as he kneels to feel soil.

And each object in his hand, a

clam shell, a red mango, a white

feather. Can I touch your face?

I want to know you better, he

requests. He traces features of

each one of his ten

grandchildren, names them

without a word exchanged. His

hands always reach toward sky

as if to touch clouds. He’s

known as Cloudsky.

Nikita | stock.adobe.com


Life is Brief

By Nancy Lou Henderson

Budding and growing in early Spring,

shaping, then becoming colors of green.

Rustling and holding tight,

cooling, then shading in the sunlight.

Changing and turning brown in the Fall,

floating, then bouncing like a ball.

Rolling and sailing in the wind,

rising, then gliding once again.

Twirling and dancing in the air,

landing, then resting somewhere.

Understanding and loving being a leaf,

Accepting, then knowing life is brief.

Gundula Vogel—stock.adobe.com


I Lost Me


I lost a deep desire,

with a brightly burning fire.

I lost the will to be,

the truth inside of me.

I lost a yearning to be much more,

but then faith led me to a new door.

Opening the door to a beautiful sight,

finding me in the glowing light.

I lost me, but now I can see,

I was not lost; God was holding me.

He gently put my feet on the ground,

but surprise-filled me once turning around.

Glowing embers burned brightly at my feet below.

God placed on new logs then gave them a blow.

The logs began to flame as a new fire grew,

but beyond the flames, there was something new.

A path laid beyond with many bends in the road,

and at each bend stood an angel ready to help carry the load.

Far in the distance shone a beautiful light

that I knew it would be a magnificent sight.

I lost me but only for a little while.

My faith found me, and then God made me smile.

Jurgen Falchle | Adobe.stock.com


Cats

By Jack D. Harvey

Cats' philosophy.

Stay close to home.

Avoid people with

cold hands;

in plain sight

hide all the time.

Walk alone.

Live at night.

Trust the moon.

Bessi | Pixabay.com


Mother Bear

by Sarah Henry

I found my den

twelve years ago.

I amble there

and fall asleep

to pass the empty

winter months

mindlessly.

I don’t toss

and turn, grind

my teeth or have

bad dreams.

My cubs are born

while I sleep.

Life is easy for

bears in winter.

Spring comes,

and then my

family crawls

outside the den.

We travel through

rivers, fields

and leafy woods,

Hunting for food,

we’re a team.

The cubs get big

and wander off

at two years’ end.

In my den, winters

stay calm again.


Twister

By Stella Mazur Preda

Twister

zigs

and zags

erratically

through sycamores pines maples

skips over

shrubs crouched in hiding

indiscriminately sucks up forest giants

exposing black lesions

leaving the wounded earth with gaping sores

soil-encrusted tentacles tremble painfully

subterranean inhabitants hurriedly scramble

over each other

seeking anonymity

as if caught in compromising acts

the spinning grayness swerves

and accelerates

taking a short cut

tunnels through the Eldridge farmhouse

spits out

remnants of human existence

like an old man chewing tobacco

cattle juggled skilfully in mid-air

dumped randomly

bloated mounds littering

the path of promiscuous rape

dust clouds, pine trees and death

a rancid perfume blending

with the sweet smell

of newly mown

Kentucky

bluegrass

**published in Butterfly Dreams, 2003

tannujannu | stock.adobe.com


only time I heard words from others was when my

owner wore me after leaving his home.

The last time I heard my owner talk was as he placed

what he called a key to secrets in my hidden

pocket. The object felt light but had a strange shape,

which was long, with one end feeling round, then my

owner hung me on the hook in the hall. Later that

evening, the phone rang, but I could not hear the

conversation, then my owner ran out of the house,

leaving me hanging on the hook. He never returned.

Soon a new person came into my owner's house,

searched my pockets, but did not discover my secret

pocket. I tried hard to keep my owner's key to

secrets safe. Finding nothing in my other pockets, the

stranger left. Not understanding what was going on, I

continue to hang on my hook.

Days passed, then someone took me from the hook,

folded me, and placed me in a container, but that same

day, I was placed on a hanger then hung on a

rack. There was lots of activity with many people

talking around me. Soon a soft voice not as deep as my

owners came close to me. A deeper voice asked the

soft voice, "Young woman, may I help you?".

Taking me off of the hanger, the young woman

answered, "I want to buy this trench coat."

The Trench Coat


Lightfield Studios | stock.adobe.com

H

anging on a new hook now, but what the

existence I have had.

My first owner was a man. After

purchasing me, for some reason, the man

took me to a tailor then instructed the tailor to add a

secret pocket in my lining. At different times, strange

items hid in this hidden pocket, some heavy and some

lite. I held those items securely regardless of the

weather conditions or the man's haste.

My new owner took me to a new place, then the young

woman decided to go through my pockets, and she

found the key to secrets. She seemed surprised

startled, and questioning, as she exclaimed, "A

key! What is it doing in my trench coat? It looks like

a key to a bank safety deposit box!"

The next morning, the young woman took me off the

hook, placed the key to secrets in my secret pocket, put

me on her small body, then left her home. After a

short stroll, she went into a building, asked to check

her safety deposit box. Once inside another room, she

took the key to secrets out of my hidden pocket. For a

moment, the room was silent then I heard the young

woman gasp as she exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! Is

this real?"

Not being much of a talker, I heard very few words

from this mysterious man. If he answered the phone, I

would hang on the hook in the hall and listen to him

say, "Yes, no, maybe, when, where, or what

time." The rest of the time, he was silent. Although

my owner listened to music, he never had visitors. The


Renee Gaudet | Pixabay.com

The Blow

By Ed Ruzicka

A hammer head is about the size of a heart,

pounds and pounds. It is a fist made hard

from forged steel that bangs a ten penny home.

Like many riveting rhythms, the tempo

of my slams gets off set at times.

Blows fall in patterns, slack off,

tap back up. Always my drumming

comes from the muscles of men.

A circle saw shrieks. A concrete-drum churns.

My work is to marry two by four to two by six,

set a frame in rectangles and squares,

build a house and subdivision where

only scrub and pine stood six months ago.

The nail itself has a pin prick point, gleams

clean and thin as a streak of rain but can

spike true through grains and flows of wood,

hold for decades. Once all the nails are driven,

I am set aside or slid into a leather holster.

The family moves in. Seasons are long.

There is outside and there is in.

There is safe respite and there is always

work to be done in rough weather.

Both are good and both are needed.

The hammer’s heavy blow moves on.

Vacuum

By Ed Ruzicka

I take it all in,

do nothing but breath.

until every grain, expanse,

corner, fiber comes clean.

Bit by bit I lift,

by steady breath raise.

I pack off what offends.

What is left behind

is vivified, younger

to the eye, better under

tarsals, heels, soles.

With a tiny,

controlled whirlwind,

a toy tornado, I lift

dust, scrap, hair

off their landscape.

A vacuum glides, pivots,

maneuvers with the thrust

of an arm or subtle twist

of a supple wrist.

A tornado breaks dying branches

from the trees. Birds come

back in, whistle bird songs.

gunnar3000—stock.Adobe..com


The Generosity of Cups

By Ed Ruzicka

Formed of fired earth,

glazed to love light,

put down on dark shelves

to rest stone silent.

I am a shape made to mimic

the bell of cupped hands.

Contain, let well, meet thirst.

Picture the hands of the potter

as they shape a cup, intense

absorption in purpose,

wheel’s spin, wet palms.

The freshness of water steamed,

then steeped in ground black beans

is what I offer today – what

minerals coffee bushes could

draw from mountain soil

comes to you now in clay

once gouged from along

a creek bank, then baked.

Go ahead, bring me

to your lips, drink

long, slow and deep.

cstibi | Pixabay.com


Boys’ Night Out

Ken Wetherington

I

love the smell of my own urine, especially when spread

over a mound of newly fallen pine needles. The mingling of

scents is so distinctive—a definitive marker of my territory.

Barney must like it, too. He comes along and sticks his nose

in it, but after a few seconds, he spoils it with his own discharge.

He looks at me with a wag of his tail and tilt of his head. I can’t

stay mad at him. After all, he knows who the alpha male is.

We understand what’s expected when our humans put us out into

the backyard just before bedtime. After peeing, we patrol the

perimeter, sniffing along the chain link fence. It’s our duty to

ensure the security of the household.

After dark on a crisp fall evening as I turned toward the backdoor,

Barney howled. Something was up. I found him in the back

corner, digging furiously at the base of the fence. A wild aroma

floated lightly in the air. Barney’s got such a good nose. Better

than mine, though I hate to admit it. He’s got that streak of hound

in his genes.

I glanced toward the house. Could they not hear Barney’s racket?

It’s surprising how little humans are aware of the sights, sounds,

and smells that surround them. And they underestimate us. We’ve

learned a lot more from them than they have from us. I hear them

say dogs can learn about six hundred words. Boy, if they only

knew.

Barney’s excitement reached a fever pitch. He had identified his

prey—possum! Those slow, dull-witted creatures inhabited the

wooded area beyond our property. Their ugly, skeletal faces can

haunt one’s nightmares. I’ve seen Barney chasing them in his

dreams.

I shook off the creepy image. Barney had thrust his head and

shoulders under the fence. He twisted, gave a push with his back

legs, and was out. Arrrgh … I had to follow to keep him out of

trouble. My body is rounder than his. It took a couple of minutes

to wriggle through.

Even without tracking Barney’s scent, his baying led me right to

him. He had trapped the possum in a hollow log, behind Old Man

Winslow’s house. Thankfully, the opening didn’t provide enough

room for him to reach the creature, but he sure created a fuss. All

the dogs in the neighborhood heard him. A chain of canine gossip

circled the block.

I nudged him, but he refused to budge. Then Old Man Winslow’s

backdoor slammed. Trouble! The floodlight at the corner of his

house outlined his lanky silhouette and the shotgun he carried. He

spewed out a stream of curses. I pushed Barney again, just as a

boom echoed through the night and buckshot jangled in the

foliage. I think a pellet grazed Barney’s butt. He yowled and took

off. We quickly distanced ourselves from the irrationally irate oldtimer.

The faint, desperate, callings of our humans reached my ears.

However, Barney had other ideas. He hustled across the street.

Before I could follow, a car with its blinding headlights zoomed

by. Drat those infernal machines.

I knew where I would find Barney. Last time we got out, he

discovered a feast in a trash can in the backyard of the house on

the corner. When I got there, he was standing on his hind legs

trying to pry loose the lid, oblivious to the humans’ pandemonium

in the front yard. It took only a few seconds to understand that

Coco, their French Poodle, had slipped out. I’d seen her when

they took her for walks, but never off the leash.

After picking up a whiff of her essence, I yelped for Barney. He

reluctantly left a partially eaten chicken breast and joined me for

the hunt. We followed her trail up the cul-de-sac and through the

woods, finding little patches of fur on prickly briars. Then her

path circled back. Did she intend to return home or had she lost

her bearings? I presumed the latter. We were gaining on her,

though.

A loud, deep “woof” broke my concentration—Thor! What a big

dufus. German Shepherds are supposed to be smart, but he

obviously didn’t get his share of the breed’s usual genes. Thor—a

stupid name for a stupid dog. What were his humans thinking?

They didn’t seem too bright, either.

His barking got louder and nearly drowned out yips from Coco.

We came upon an appalling scene near a mass of honeysuckle, its

fragrance sweetening the night air. Thor strutted heroically, and

Coco shimmied coquettishly.

This had to be stopped. Barney agreed. He dashed between them

and into the honeysuckle. Thor, distracted from his quest, looked

confused. His instinct to chase any moving object conflicted with

his amorous desire. Barney bayed as if tracking prey. Thor started

after him. Coco, clearly miffed, let out a summoning whine, but

Thor’s short attention span had moved on.

I strode up to Coco, offering myself as an alternative to Thor’s

brutish strength. She gave a haughty snort and turned her head.

How could she reject me? Maybe I didn’t have Thor’s muscles,

but brains should count for something. She stuck her nose up in

the air and sashayed away. Should I let her go or slink along

behind, begging for a change of heart? I swallowed my pride and

followed, though at a moderate distance.

Thor’s remote howls echoed. It sounded as though he had become

tangled in a patch of briars. It would take a while to free himself.

Good riddance.

As we neared the woods behind my humans’ house, Coco halted.

Her body language indicated trouble. I sidled up beside her.

Before us stood a raccoon with glazed eyes and drool seeping

from his mouth. It’s easy to outrun a rabid creature. They tend to

move slowly and lack focus. But Coco stood frozen. Did she

understand the danger?

I gave her a push, but she didn’t budge. The raccoon took an

unsteady step toward us. I growled in Coco’s ear, yet she failed to

move. I needed help. What had happened to Barney? His

mournful outcry came from a couple of houses away. God, he was

back at Old Man Wilcox’s, still after that damn possum. I called

for him. Coco edged closer to me. I urged her to run, without

result. Stupid dog! Common sense had apparently been bred out

of her lineage.


The raccoon stumbled. Now was our chance, but still she stood

there. Then a rustling in the undergrowth drew my attention. What

now? Barney emerged from the brush. A tall figure with a

blinding flashlight followed.

Blam! The sonic impact nearly knocked me over, but it spurred

Coco from her stupor. She, Barney, and I sped away, but not

before I caught a glimpse of the raccoon’s splattered remains. For

the first time in my life, I was thankful for Old Man Wilcox and

his shotgun.

When we hit the street, Coco’s humans found us and scooped her

up, upsetting my desire for a romantic encounter. Wearily, we

made our way home, where we first got a scolding, then tight hugs

and some dog treats.

The next day, we found that the fence breach had been blocked

with cinder blocks. That would thwart our excursions for a while,

but our humans’ vigilance will lapse. It always does. I’m already

looking forward to our next night out.

Alice | stock.adobe.com


Tests

By Morgan D. Bazilian

And some days he gets furious

thinking about

the tests or the

president

or the elected officials

or the epic lines

at the supermarket

or liquor stores.

Those days

start bad

start with some general anxiety

and then a recognition

of incompetence

and malfeasance;

move into fury

or rage.

And then he recalls the days

watching his son grow, slowly,

as a blessing.

Nehul | stock.adobe.com


Puppy

By Morgan D. Bazilian

The kids

are all getting puppies

Pandemic puppies,

as their moms say.

They are at home all the time

and need

projects

and educational opportunities.

That are non-traditional,

and yet able to show

responsibility

and engagement.

So, they get puppies

from the rescues

and the breeders

in yellow, brown, or black.

The dogs seem perfectly oblivious

to the pandemic

helping reaffirm the

position of the children.

Cecilia Malmlund | pixabay.com


One Very Old Tree

by Stella Mazur Preda

intruding on the Acadian Forest

footsteps plot a cautious path

respectful of every living organism

inaudible heartbeat of the woodland

then a fortuitous discovery

towering among other red spruce

stands the majesty of the ancient one

four hundred and forty-five years

sequestered as if in quarantine

living breathing growing

stories bound and stored in its trunk

camouflaged in rough layers of bark

inaccessibility on a steep slope

its salvation its constant

in the evolution of time and history

cortez13 | pixabay.com


How to

become a

Founder’s

Favourite

Content contains anything I find

memorable, creative, unique,

visual, or even simple. Accepted

contributors will most likely write

about things that are emotionally

moving. Not sure I will like your

submission? Take a chance! You

have nothing to lose. And who

knows? You may end up being

among the founder's favourites!

Submit today!

http://foundersfavourites.blogspot.com


Contributor Bios

Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music

and theatre professional. Over three hundred of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including

Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literary Yard; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual

Coast Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. Six

eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. A

native Manhattanite, Bruce lives in New York with his dog, Gabi. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com

Raised beside creeks and cornfields not far from Chicago, Ed Ruzicka now lives with his wife, Renee, and their doddering

bulldog, Tucker, in Baton Rouge. Ed’s second full length volume, My Life in Cars, is set for release in October. Ed’s poems

have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary and the New Millennium Review as well as many other literary

journals and anthologies.

Gaiyle J. Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of

them prize-winning. They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines,

which she also illustrated, was published in 2015. Her background of several ethnicities, love of art and travel and

devotion to social justice are reflected in her work. Her readership includes Canada, the United States, Mexico and India.

She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is at

the moment working on her second book of poetry for which once again she will provide illustrations. As a change of

pace, she is trying her hand at short story writing inspired by her childhood years spent in rural Quebec.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Bay Area Poets’

Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and

over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in

a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. His book, Mark

the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Dwarf-Jack-D-Harvey-ebook/dp/B019KGW0F2

Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet and author of eight books. She was the recipient of a residency for The Women's Leadership

Program at The Omega Institute, NY, 2019. She has been published in The Yale Review; Shambhala Times; Kosmos

Journal; The Caribbean Writer; Breathe Free Press; The Lake Poetry Journal; The Tulane Review; Autism Parenting

Magazine; So Spoke the Earth: Anthology of Women Writers of Haitian Descent and many others. She also facilitates

creative writing workshops. Her poems and collaborative songwriting are on the Grammy award winning album Many

Hands: Family Music for Haiti. Jerrice is the host of Women of Note on WKZE, 98.1 FM in Red Hook, NY where enjoys

playing Jazz & world music for her international audience. Visit her at Guanabanabooks.com to learn more about her work.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work

upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Morgan D. Bazilian is a poet and short story writer. He splits his time between Ireland and the US, where is a professor of

applied physics.

Nancy Lou Henderson was born and raised in Texas, where she met and married her soulmate, Frank, when they

were both eighteen. Frank was in the Army,so they lived in Massachusetts then Okinawa before Frank went to

Vietnam in 1971. After twenty-nine years of marriage, in 1997, Nancy became a forever widow and is still

devoted to her soulmate. In 2015, she said a prayer to God for purpose. Her prayer was answered that night

through a dream leading to a cedar chest that contained a box of letters. The box of letters through God’s

inspiration led her to write a four book memoir including all of Frank's letters. Nancy has since branched out

into writing Flash Fiction, Short Stories, and Poetry. One of her favorite things to do is bringing to life

inanimate objects through poetry and writing.


Contributor Bios cont’d

Nolo Segundo is the pen name of a retired teacher, 73, who chose it for the way it rolls off the tongue. Though he wrote some poetry in

his 20's as well as an unpublished novel inspired by the time he taught ESL in Phnom-Penh in 1973-74 (leaving a year before the time of

the Killing Fields), for some reason he stopped writing altogether for over 30 years. For an equally obscure reason, 'they', the poems,

began arriving in his conscious mind about 5 years ago. Since then he's had over 50 published online/in print by literary magazines in the

U.S. Britain, and even one in India. Married for 40 years, the only other interesting aspect to his life besides his years teaching, including

3 years in the Far East, was an NDE he had at 24 whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river that shattered his former materialist world

view [as in believing only matter is real]. For 1/2 a century he has known that beneath his conscious mind and its counterpart, the

unconscious, lies an endless, eternal consciousness that has always existed, and that what we call the world, the Universe, is permeated

by a far greater and largely unknowable Mystery.'

Sarah Henry studied with two former U.S. poet laureates at the University of Virginia. She is retired from a major

newspaper. Her recent publications include Pure Slush, The Writers' Club, Rue Scribe, Lummox and The American Writers'

Review. Sarah writes and lives quietly in a small Pennsylvania town without distractions.

Ken Wetherington lives in Durham, North Carolina with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in various

publications, including Ginosko Literary Journal, The Fable Online, Borrowed Solace: A Journal of Literary Ramblings,

and The Remington Review. When not writing, he is an avid film buff and teaches film courses for the OLLI program at

Duke University. He may be reached thorough his web site: https://kenwetherington2016.wordpress.com

Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada. Having retired from elementary teaching in

Toronto, she is owner and publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press publishing company, located in the Hamilton

area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press is now temporarily

on hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian anthologies and some US, most notably the

purchase of her poem My Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. Stella has released four previous books,

Butterfly Dreams (Serengeti Press, 2003); Witness, Anthology of Poetry (Serengeti Press, 2004), edited by John B.

Lee; From Rainbow Bridge to Catnip Fields (Serengeti Press, 2007) The Fourth Dimension, (Serengeti Press, 2012).

She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton, Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society. Stella is

currently working on her fifth book, Tapestry, based on the life of her aunt and written completely in poetic form.



Issue 12—Sept 2020

Thanks for

spending time with

my favourites.


FF12 -Sept20

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