Saturday, 27 April 2013

3 Poems by Susan Terris; 3 Poems by Rebecca McKeown; Alert for Subs

3 Poems by Susan Terris::

Memo to Self

did you clap for Tinkerbelle or wish her dead
and Little Mother who betrayed Tiger Lily

you never were one to put up with competition
were you

Memo to Self

try not to see yourself as Hester that letter
the scarlet A is only the mark

of a desperate soul willing to risk
all for an alphabet of joy

Memo to Self

neither Beatrice nor Laura you are
no one’s muse no poet extolls your virtues

invokes immortality but still you may a-
muse and intimate immoralilty


Susan Terris' book GHOST OF YESTERDAY, New & Selected Poems was published in 2013 by Marsh Hawk Press. Ms. Terris is the author of six full-length books of poetry, fourteen chapbooks, and three artists’ books. Journal publications include: The Southern Review, FIELD, and Ploughshares. She had a poem from FIELD in PUSHCART PRIZE XXXI. She’s editor of Spillway Magazine and a poetry editor for Pedestal Magazine and In Posse Review.


3 Poems by Rebecca McKeown::


Trapped in a never ending loop of pill cocktails.
Anti-thises and anti-thats — prophylactic lullaby-makers
In this clinical inferno.
My head’s a hatchback open wide.

No Sunglasses

Let me down.
My spirit is spiraling—
Her wings tattered—
She’s done with soaring

She likes to stare down dreams
In back alleys,
Like a stray cat, her
Wiry, wasted purrs
Rattle past ears
Too sick to listen

Let me bounce
I want to just
Open my self
And be careless.
I don’t want
Or muse
About what
I would want
If I could have everything.

I just want to exist
And soar a little, again.
Just high enough
To brush the clouds
With my ruddy
Knees and to giggle
Through my lungs
And squint into
The sun
Because you don’t need sunglasses when you’re free.


Sitting on the park bench,
Watching old mothers
And young mothers
And pigeon ladies
And ice cream sellers
And men with pointy, greased moustaches
hustling by--each thinking in echoing chants,
“Step, step, breathe, step, breathe, step, step.”
I am reminded of your leaving
And how I’d shuffled backwards,
My feet collecting carpet fuzz,
As I’d tried to backtrack through time.


Rebecca McKeown grew up in a small western New York college town, which has inspired many of her poems and short stories. A journalist, PR coordinator, craft blogger, and handmade jewelry maker, McKeown prefers fine poetry over fine wine, and rum over most other things, except maybe whiskey. She is also the Editor-in-Chief and founder of The Rampallian literary magazine. She rambles a lot over at

Dear Submitters/Friends,

For your information, here is our new email address for submissions::, which becomes effective on 3 May 2013. please feel welcome to send all your poems and/or artworks to this address. The old email address ( will be closed permanently very soon.

Also, we have just set up our facebook account for Poetry Pacific; the address is You are more than welcome to network with us there!

Please note that PP is to switch into a quarterly publication in just a couple of days. In fact, Poetry Pacific (2.1 Spring Issue) is ready to be released on 5 May 2013; and PP (2.2 Summer Issue) has already been fully committed, but submissions are open and welcome for subsequent issues. 

Many thanks for attention, and stay tuned...

PP Editors

3 Poems by Denny E. Marshall

Wind Dance Green

Trees dance
With each other
Some dance close
Some far away
Others sing
While others sway
Then settle softly
Till the wind
Kisses them again


I want to hold you
Like the light
You are
To capture
And put in a jar
To carry around
With me
To shine
Those times
We are apart

The Sign

I am at the point
I do not know what to do
Would it be the best thing
To let her go
I do not know the answers
God, please give me a sign
I do not know what she wants
You know what she is thinking
All the silent covers
All the many fronts
I cannot see through walls
Or the burden that she carries
I would rather hold her
Than walk away
I could be invisible
If that is the way, she feels
If she needs someone to love
I will not let her go
Will it be a mystery
Does she love me
A question I do not think
She may never answer
The hardest part
Is not the pain
The hardest part
Is why?
Oh, God
Please give me a sign
Should I really
Walk away
With something pulling at me
Oh, please give me a sign


While Denny E. Marshall has done art & poetry for many years, the last couple of years have brought a lot of first. In 2010, he wrote his first haiku, in 2011 first fiction, and 2012 first article. The article titled “Rejection Is A Good Thing, Stop Whining.” appears online at the Eclectic Eel website on the All about Art page. Denny does not have a Facebook page or Twitter account but does have a website with previously published works.

3 Poems by Martin Willitts, Jr.


Some will deny this happened.
This always happens when they realize it could have been them —
either the ones that made it happen; or, the ones it happened to.
Complicity is the same as victimization.

There are some will say this event was a lie.
No one can fake the aftermath of carnage,
so they exaggerate truth with some lies
until anything is possible or impossible.
Conspiracy is a word to the unwise.

Some will say the death squads are imaginary.
Tell that to the nameless buried in mass graves.
Tell that to the ones identified.
There are some prayers that seem useless.

Some will say the killing fields never happened.
Tell that to the ground-up bone fragment.
Tell that to the ones never coming back.
Tell that to the incinerators working overtime to erase evidence.

Some will say, I should not write this.
Some say, I will be silenced for it.
Some say it threateningly.
They say they know where I eat.
They say they know what I think when I eat breakfast.
They also say that this never happened.
They say this, eating their own words.

The internment camp is lovely today.
My; how the sun glitters off the towers.


Every night, I plan my perfect escape.
It must be dark, starless cold as a guard’s breath.
I must blend through razor wire.
I must evaporate, levitate as droplets.

When they conduct ROLE CALL, I won’t say ONE.
They will have to start all over with the count.
They won’t realize what is missing will not return.

And that distant woodpecker — will be me
sending messages of rescue
for those still caged,
mostly skin and bones,
mostly less each day.

What Have I Left Behind

A locked door against the approaching night.
A memory of curtain. A rattling window
in disturbed wind.
A kitchen, perhaps, the stove lit,
a pot burned black with neglect.
A blackout. A rug worn down,
exhausted by waiting.
Toothpaste tube strangled to get more information.
The mirror seeing me leaving with nothing to say.
The upstairs bed, unmade, disturbed by the fleeing.
A rush of clothes. Where did I go?
The unsettling surrounding where I used to be.


Martin Willitts Jr retired as a Senior Librarian and is living in Syracuse, New York. He is currently a volunteer literacy tutor. He is a visual artist of Victorian and Chinese paper cutouts. He was nominated for 5 Pushcart and 3 Best Of The Net awards. He has three full length books "The Secret Language of the Universe" (March Street Press, 2006), “The Hummingbird” (March Street Press, 2009), and “The Heart Knows, Simply, What It Needs: Poems based on Emily Dickinson, her life and poetry” (Aldrich Press, 2012). His forthcoming poetry books include “Waiting For The Day To Open Its Wings” (UNBOUND Content, 2013), “Art Is the Impression of an Artist” (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House, 2013), “City Of Tents” (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2013), "A Is for Aorta" (Seven Circles Press, e-book, 2013), "Swimming In the Ladle of Stars" (Kattywompus Press, 2013), and he is the winner of the inaugural Wild Earth Poetry Contest for his full length collection “Searching For What Is Not There” (Hiraeth Press, 2013).

Sunday, 21 April 2013

2 Poems by John Grey


They’re sweeping the water
for fish.
How easy is that.
No wriggling worm ruse.
No patient line dangling,
reeling the bounty in one at a time.
No arm muscles rigid as bricks
fighting the big one.
No shrug of the shoulders,
tossing the minnow free.
It’s just one huge trawl of the ocean,
hauling out whatever’s there.
It’s not like meeting you.
It more like the flood
swamping a thousand homes.
It’s no quiet, canoodling,
interplay of fingers.
But a forest fire,
a flame that doesn’t know
oak from possum,
green from brown.
And yet the fish taste the same,
whether trapped in their flapped thousands,
or pierced alone on a hook.
And so you and I
are in a sea-food restaurant
and we can’t taste the difference.
But we sure can tell the difference.


I don’t know about these things.
Stock car racing? What’s that?
And gun running?
Who’s out there in the jungle
pushing AK47’s?
I know love, I believe.
But not tiger watching in Bengal.
And the feel of a woman.
But cliff diving? Running with the bulls?
There’s no adventure in my holding you
so why does it feel so extraordinary?
Would a spin around Le Mans
provide a bigger thrill?
Or a tight rope walk across Niagara Falls?
One soft, warm, kiss.
Why am I not yearning for
the ten million warm, soft kisses
of downhill skiing?
Or surfing off Oahu?
I make love to you
and I feel as if I’ve done it all.
But something’s missing.
Deep sea diving? White water rafting?
No, we make love again.
The Iditarod never saw that coming.
Mush, my love!


John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.

1 Poem by Mary Mann


I've measured my life in email chains
Chats and texts and messages
(Things you wouldn't write home about,
And anyway, no-one write letters anymore)
And the occasional concert
Kiss or twilight run
That's so much bigger than everything else
That it actually hurts
And the time I ran into you
In front of Double Windsor
And you said my voice had changed
Gotten raspier
And I said I didn't know
And it was good to see you
Who knew what my old voice sounded like.


Mary Mann is a reader and writer in New York City. She is an MFA candidate in writing at Columbia University. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, New York Magazine and Bookslut, among others.

2 Poems by Joe Massingham


Que cerise sera
signals of Vancouver Spring
-que sera sera

Nippon’s pink blossom
blown across north Pacific
Vancouver’s cousins

Vancouver Springtime
pink and white spread all over
Summer’s on the way

Wearing white or pink-
cherry brides and bridesmaids bound
for Easter weddings


Faded facades from
The men that came to Shanghai
to impress those here
Greek myths retold in buildings
Along Huang Pu river


Joe Massingham was born in UK but has lived about half his life inAustralia. Retired early because of heart problems and now waits to see medical practitioners, writes and smells the roses. He has lived in Canberra for the past twelve years. He has had work published in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, UK, Eire, USA and India.

Monday, 15 April 2013

3 Poems by Samuel Smith

Photo Album: Venezia, 1562

Here we are dancing
in Piazza San Marco.
Pigeons, more pigeons,
a churning bile of gray snow.
And Pulcinella –
we laughed until our throats hurt.
Here's Cassio and
that silly whore Bianca
kissing, downstairs by
the well in the Ca' d'Oro.

Black armor of the sky.
Iago, his smile like a sheath.

Kitsune's Wedding

Sign of good fortune:
rain falling from sunny skies.
Be not proud, Kensei.

In infinite universes once
Musashi said: her dual nature ruptured
the world in threes: Trickster, Mother, Crone.

Nine-tailed Kitsune
smiles like a will-o-the-wisp,
skips into the wood.

    When two people dream the same dream, it ceases to be an illusion. – Philip K. Dick

Tecumseh bade the leaves to speak.
Code talkers raised the flag at Iwo Jima.
A beam of pink light saved Christopher Dick's life.
Claude Shannon forged a science of signal,
Roland Barthes a cult of noise.
Words ride the drums from Kumasi to Techiman.

Trust the pictures on the screen.
Build an altar to the projectionist.

Rods and cones and ganglia:
our bodies enigma engines.
I call to say it's storming,
drive safely:

my voice encodes
flies through the air
hits a tower.

I touch you,
tongue to the base of your neck.
You shiver ones and zeroes.

These are Psalms of the Cryptodaemonomicon,
each scribble a divine variable,
fugue made dogma:

You cannot outrun the talking drums.


Originally hailing from Winston-Salem, NC, Samuel Smith now lives, works, writes and practices his photography in Denver, CO. He'd love it if poets sold millions of copies of their work and played stadium tours, but since that's not the planet he was born on he labors away in the exciting world of marketing by day and plies his craft in the evenings and on weekends, which never last long enough. His work has appeared in places like The New Virginia Review, Poet & Critic, The Cream City Review, storySouth, Pemmican, Uncanny Valley, Amethyst Arsenic, Manifest West and The Dead Mule. He is the publisher and poetry editor for Scholars & Rogues, an online journal of culture, arts, literature and politics.

1 Poem by Walter William Safar


When destiny leaves you alone in the dark;
When your mother and father leave you early,
All you have left are hope;
All you have left are Faith;
All you have left are dreams,
Yes, my friend, life rolls along the road of dreams,
And each dream is finished soon;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into the land of color,
the wonderful land of noble memories,
So that my blind spirit might see through the turquoise moon's eyes,
So that my tired spirit finds its peace in your sacred cradle.
Fly with the breath of Freedom,
So that you may sow the seed of young hope
In the courtyard of heavenly gates;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
To honor the many tears haunted by memories,
To honor the many stars haunted by lonely nights,
To honor the many winds haunted by prayers of the unfortunate;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into distant valleys of saturnine silences.
Find your humble home
In the infinity of human tragedies,
So that you may fraternize many unfortunates
With your merciful existence,
So that my lonely spirit can see the magnificent light
In the fraternal souls of people I hold dear;

When they want to kill your hope,
hoist your flag of dreams
And keep on marching your way,
like a noble soldier of Dreams.


WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.

3 Poems by Cheri L. Miller

All Summer

All summer I looked forward
to that rose-gold horizon drawn ahead in the haze,
some place on the other side of this sea.

I waited on the sand in the white sun,
glided through the jade waves
attempting to bathe in each moment.

It’s always slipping by me, slipping through me,
love, heat, a rush of days
of warm wind and water,
an ethereal hand
of light on my shoulder.

Middle Age
My chest is freckled from years of sun,
and my breasts sag
so you must cup them in your hands
to kiss them.

I am no longer the Christmas fruit,
yet the irony of the coconut
is not lost on me—
such succulence in a coarse-haired shell.

Clear Mind

White sky, white woods,
and a blue jay--
a single streak of indigo ink
across blank paper.


Cheri L. Miller is a poet, fiction writer, creative nonfiction writer, and writing tutor from Baltimore, Maryland. Her poems have appeared in journals across the country, including Rock & Sling: A Journal of Witness, Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters, Penn-Union, Welter, Snakeskin, and others.

3 Photos by Joneve McCormick

Monday, 8 April 2013

3 Poems by Ali Znaidi

The Olde Word

o word
thou art
o word
thou hast
just soak
in a bath
of ale

In the Abyss of a Desert Mirage

Prickly pears in succulent stems,
make no bones about! You never
the preciousness of water
until all water drops turned into
flakes flying in the mirage.

The Story with the Meat’s Smell

Does the grass tell stories?
wondered the grasshopper—
a barbecue
prepared in a grassy terrace
of a villa in the countryside.


Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. His work has appeared in Otoliths, The Tower Journal, streetcake, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, Stride Magazine, and other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network-

2 Poems by Mbizo Chirasha

I am  a night mare

My breasts are dry of milk in the climate of this heat
My earth ejaculates platinum and uranium
anus of my rock puff pure gas and crude oil
The clay of my heart binds together the dust of my dreams
Forests of my mind sagging with coco beans and coconuts

I am tired of bullet and paparazzi gossip
I am a country eating peanut and bananas
I am the flower of want, whose bloom was pruned by madness,
Whose holy nectar was imbibed by mad drunkards?
I am a night mare, poets and prophets bring back my wildness

I am Congo 11

I am Congo, with my cough riddled voice
I am Congo i see my children bewitched by the wizard of Nile
I am Congo whose clans are foot mats of war gods and goddesses from the east and the west
Iam Congo with emerald in my blood and diamond in my stomach
I drink my tears with triplets’ kayole, kwangware and kiberia,
We ate our stolen coco beans with
Ivory Coast and gold coast
When will chairman Mao, Samora,Neto amilcar of this  earth of  stolen diamonds and dried
Peanuts, that we write our history in blood, sand and granite
Shaping the ideology of generations and the dreams that we eat the eggs of uhuru
And see the dimples of freedom smiling.


Mbizo Chirasha is an internationally acclaimed performance poet, writer, and creative projects consultant. He is widely published in more than Seventy-five journals, magazines, and anthologies around the world. He was the poet-in-residence: from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN Dialogue among civilizations project; the United Nations Information Centre - 2001-2008; Convener/Event Consultant THIS IS AFRICA POETRY NIGHT 2004 - 2006; official performance poet Zimbabwe International Travel Expo in 2007; Poet in Residence of the International conference of African culture and development/ ICACD 2009; and official Poet Sadc Poetry Festival, NAMIBIA 2009. In 2003 Mbizo was a delegate of Zimbabwe International book fair to the Goteborg international book fair in Sweden . He perfomed at Nordic African Insititute and Swedish writers union.A delegate to the Unesco photo novel writing project in Tanzania, Mbizo is the Official poet in residence for the ISOLA/ international conference of oral literature 2010 in Kenya.Mbizo is Chirasha is widely profiled in both local and abroad media institutions. His poetry books Good Morning President is Published in UK and Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi is published by an Indian/American Publisher Cyber wit Press. A lot of more anthologies are under review by other publishers.Mbizo Chirasha the Founder /Operations/Creative Director of Girl child Creativity Project, the newly founded Urban Colleges Writers Prize. Curator and Producer of GirlchildVoices Fiesta/100 thousand poets for change program in Zimbabwe. Coordinator of Zimbabwe -Nigeria Literary Exchange

3 Poems by A.J. Huffman


Liquid stars fly nowhere
in sea of gold, slide
up side of crystal flute, erupt,
tickle nose before diving
down into darkness,
swathing tongue and throat.


Patterned ghosts blowing or
still.  Their movements haunt
dreams, nightmares, depending
on angle of light.


Screaming tantrum, a temperate
child waiting for responsive touch.
Too late, fire
recedes in a breath, a sip of cup.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.comShe has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.  Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( ).  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at and!/poetess222

Monday, 1 April 2013

1 Poem by Larissa Shmailo

Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus)
            James Joyce b. February 2
            Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet to kill the adulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare,
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most,
Who would rise to be his ghost?


Larissa Shmailo's poetry, translations, and criticism have appeared in Gargoyle, Barrow Street, Drunken Boat, Fulcrum, The Unbearables Big Book of Sex, Rattapallax, Lungfull!, the Cordite Review;, BigBridge, MiPoesias, American Translator, Jacket, and over 30 anthologies. Her books of poetry are In Paran (BlazeVOX [books]), the chapbook A Cure for Suicide (Cervena Barva Press), and the e-book Fib Sequence (Argotist Ebooks); her poetry CDs are The No-Net World and Exorcism, available from iTunes, Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, and Rhapsody. Her original translation of A. Kruchenych's Victory over the Sun is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She has been a translator for the American Bible Society's Nida Institute for Biblical Scholarship's History of Bible Translation series. Larissa blogs at

3 Poems by Jessica Slote


1.The Hawk

A hawk is tearing apart a bird (I see
a wing and bits of feather fluff ripped) from the ridge of the house extension, across the garden.

I must have just missed the kill.

I came out to sweep the porch and set up a chair as I haven’t
      done in a long time.

(It just flew down to the garden floor with prey hanging from talons—
‘cheep-cheep’—was that predator or still-alive prey?)

It’s a hawk. Saw it in garden several times last winter, but
      not since then.

What else?

Rustling of bamboo bushes—enormous thicket
      in elusive currents of winter air

Prayer bell occasionally moved to sound—its message
      simple, clear:

Now—hear?  Now—here.

2.What is it?

Little birds perch at the tops of tall trees, darting for minor
changes. Pigeons perch securely on rooftop edges—clucking and observing. The garden is at peace—minus the hawk.

 Little thoughts perch at the top of tall ideas, darting for minor
changes. Assumptions perch securely on concept edges, clucking and observing. The mind is at peace—minus the hawk.

3.The Hawk (again)

Hawk in my Heart
Bits of Flesh, Feathers Fly—Ripped
Tear at my Entrails
Guts in Revolution

Brain, Memory, Language—three Sisters
   on a Throbbing Respirator
Pumping out the Same, Old Tune

I’ve been Lonely for a Lifetime
for as Long as I Remember

Clung to your Sleeping Body like
“Man Overboard!”


Jessica Slote is a playwright, poet, performer, and teacher. She comes out of theexperimental theater scene of NYC's Lower East Side in the 1980s. She is currently working on "The Next Step: Le Luminarie," the construction of a theater — an imaginary landscape—mirrored by a double construction in the heavens, le luminarie of the gods.

1 Poem by Martin Reckhaus

poem 46 JAZZ
                  eddy returns                                                                
with food of the streets
we dry them with our hands
on your eyes
your fingers
your imprint
our passion
ancient and exiled
the wind sweet
we dream of our courage
forever with us
and drink the moon milk
we sing


Martin Reckhaus (actor, director, poet) is currently composing the dramaturgical score for a new theater work, Le Luminarie, a play about providence and divination. He is a founder of the theater collective, Loretta Auditorium, based in Naples,Italy and the Lower East Side.

Topic 4 for PP Chatroom: What Makes a Poem 'Best'?

Editorial Note

From the pageview statistics, we know that our 3rd topic has been receiving more readerly attention than almost all other postings of the month. This fact is so encouraging that we will continue this more theoretical approach to poetry. In other words, we will try to keep this chatroom open insofar as there are a reasonably good number of visitors dropping by.

The Observation

Over the past two decades or so, we have had increasingly more 'best' poems of every conceivable kind: there are as many 'best' poems as journals, media, places, years, authors, or readers in power. While every judge seems to be authoritative enough to proclaim whatever s/he considers the 'best,' very few have even mentioned in passing why s/he has chosen the piece(s), let alone officially disclose a set of criteria used in the selecting process. At the same time, all common readers could do nothing but acquiesce. The reason is all too understandable: in matters concerning poetry, everything is simply personal and subjective. That is to say, the 'best' poems, if any at all, are 'best' simply because they are most favoured by a privileged reader or a group of privileged readers.

The Question

What are, if any at all, the universally acceptable elements that make a poem 'best'?

Your written comments on or response to the topic are more than welcome in the box below or at

PP Call for Submissions


* Thus far, PP has been featuring 3 selected poets and their artworks every Monday; however, starting from May, PP is to switch into a quarterly publication, with the four issues to be released respectively in early May, August, November and February; 

* Submitters are welcome to send over up to 5 (rather than only 3) poems each time. 


WARRANTY: By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty.

*All poetic and photographic works are carefully considered year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring, summer, autumn or winter issue;  

* No author information except names and email addresses in your submissions please - we will ask you for a brief professional 3rd-person bionote upon acceptance;

* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you hold the copy/publishing rights;

* There is no money exchange involved, except a genuine shared love for words;

* Please paste up to 5 poems in the body of your email text and send them over to; our response time is shorter than 3 weeks after receipt;

* Please note only those accepted will get a reply - Many thanks & Gooooodluuuuck!