Saturday, 1 October 2016

Sister Publication to Poetry Life & Times

Issue of October 2016




The Cultivated Ones.
A Poem by Janet P. Caldwell.

The pampered roses are are all bred
much like step-ford wives to look alike.
From seedling to flowering
with abundant care, they do survive.

The gardener making sure they lay in measured mulch
are properly watered, holding the moisture
to prevent unwanted weeds from drinking and growing.
Halting the choking of a prized dressing of a cultivated lawn.

Unaware they are slaves to man’s idea of beauty
and never serving themselves.

Now, look at the daisy, some say she’s ugly,
just a wild, uncultured weed.
I say she’s a beauty, bending with the wind
growing sturdy through arid ground, so wild and free.

She’s the clever one, she’s cast off conformity.

Janet P. Caldwell December 16, 2015

The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.)
by Janet P. Caldwell.


5 degrees to separation

I learned to count early
Read the bible too
Wrath, punishment
Seemed no absolution
Separate at five

In the morning
When I was defiled
Five screams a minute
Five shiny points from
The glass shards

Five fingers, to check off
As I calculate
In five minutes I’m clean
and new
Separated by five degrees

Five from what I don’t want
To remember, anything green
Black or brown
Make it easier
Five letters/numbers are my friends

The ceiling fan;
Wood, glass, white, brown, brass
Another set of quints
A quick escape
When I should need one

My rabbit hole with
Back-doors aplenty
Five senses all shut down
I’ve got good and can count
Before what might happen

Safe in numbers, hidden
When I separate from myself.

©2001-2014 Janet Caldwell


Weep for the Child that Never Was

Tears fall down my face
for a child with no name
A child filled with anguish
suffering disgrace.

How could they have lied
and treated her so
Why didn’t they love her
just let her go?

Buy her new clothes
fill her with song
Mess her up more
you can’t be wrong!

She grew up with walls
forever all around
The music you played
she couldn’t hear a sound.

You look at her now
with disgust in your eyes
You can’t see her though
she wears a disguise.

Hand-made by you
so carefully sewn
With coagulated drops
all her own.

You thought that you knew her
but there’s no way that you could
She’s not what you think
behind the mask stained with blood.

© Janet Caldwell 2001 – 2014


Daddy # 2

I Remember him

Glassy blue eyes
Fingertips brown
Black greasy hair
Forehead high
Child killer
Sick bastard

I Remember me
Scuttling like a rat
Running from a cat
Scattering across the tile

Like a roach on fire
When the lights came on
Better scatter, Daddy’s home!

I Remember (séances)
Straddling his head
The Shoulders so high
Calling up the dead
Peering in the sky
Let the dead arise
It’ll stop Daddy’s cries.

I Remember Abuse
Dancing to the belt
That beat me blue
Decorated with welts

Daddy, I Remember You

© Janet P. Caldwell 2003 -2014


Child’s Lament

I assume you’d say that I’m
As beautiful as I was when I was six.
I think … (I’m jinxed)
Mother Dear, what do you think of me now?

I really must know… I’m lost.
Did I say that I miss you?
I’m sorry if I haven’t.
I feel like Anne. Always have.

Did my beauty transpire when, I cooked your
Supper? Was I special when
Your sick fuck of a husband
Molested me? Made it easy for you,
well, answer me?

(If only in my mind, for my mind, I’m losing my mind . . . again)

Tell me, Mother, I want
To understand. (Significance?)
Myself, a wisp of value
I don’t have far to go.

It’s an indistinct trail, but
I try. Just explain it, please.
I forgive you.

And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???

©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell


Sugar & Spice

Hey, Pom Pom girl, swingy
Red and blue, shake it
Shake it, cheer so loud
Until the acid bleeds your throat

Green eyes glaze and glisten
Smiling through the bile
You pretty little thing
For everyone to see, but
If they only knew, and could
See the scars beneath

The make-up, the crafted image
They wouldn’t be jealous
Now would they Blondie
Surely not of you?

You’re all grown now
If you believe a calendar
Hiding in a house, in plain
Sight, an icon for everything nice
And all that spice, so spice that nice

But tell me, what the
Hell happened to you?
A funny thing, frequent
Thoughts of suicide
A whispered middle-aged craze
Still hip, staying in style

You’re still pretty, my silly girl
Even with your head
Crammed in the toilet bowl

When did it stop being easy to cheer?
As you count the vomit chunks
Regurgitate love, empty
Your soiled soul.

Feeling better now?
No, I didn’t think you would
How about a pill? You know
That you can’t drink
Too many calories to consume
Remember? Pissing in the sink

I’ve been around, seen
Everything you’ve done
The things that you can’t handle
I saw you scrub and scrub.

Wipe at the dingy stains
From his dirty love, that stench
Perfume won’t hide.

You had to find a way
To survive the attentions
Of an unconvicted felon
That uncircumcised bastard
Who brought dinner home

You do it still you know
Those little tricks and games
Recount the vomit chunks

Hurry, hurry, hurry
That filthy secret’s visible
Flush, flush, flush!!!!!!

Tidily out of sight, out of mind
Your filth is in the sewer
A safe-deposit box
For unwanted truths

So you can facade the day

© Janet Caldwell 2002-2014


Janet P. Caldwell wrote her first poems and short stories in an old diary where she noted her daily thoughts. She wrote whether suffering, joyful or hoping for peace in the world. She started this process at the tender age of Eight. This was long before journaling was in vogue.

Along with her thoughts, poetry and stories, she drew what she refers to as Hippie flowers. Janet embraced the Sixties and Seventies flower power symbol, of peace and love, which were a very important part of her consciousness.

Janet wrote her first book, in those unassuming diaries, never to be seen by the light of day due to an unfortunate house fire. This did not deter her drive. She then opted for a new batch of composition journals and filled everyone. In the early nineteen-eighties,

Janet held a byline in a small newspaper in Denton, Texas while working full time, being a Mother and attending Night School.

Since the early days Janet has been published in newspapers, magazines and books globally. She also has enjoyed being the feature on numerous occasions, both in Magazines, Radio and on Several Web Sites. She went on to publish three books. 5 degrees to separation 2003, Passages 2012 and her latest book Dancing Toward the Light.

All of her Books are available through Inner Child Press along with Fine Book Stores Globally. Janet P. Caldwell is also a contributing editor of Inner Child ltd, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site, Inner Child Newspaper, Inner Child Magazine, Inner Child Radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company.

She will be sadly missed by all of the poetry community and all her friends and family.



A Poem by Steve De France

 Credit to Poetry Life & Times

A Poem by Steve DeFrance



A Poem by Steve DeFrance

Early in the morning
the day after Thanksgiving,
I bleakly regard my fellow patrons,
squeezed from surrounding tract homes.

They had nudged out & stumbled away
from frightened lives.
They stand at the restaurant wall
looking at grease splattered
These accidental victims of excess,
butts bulging, thighs dropping,
ruminate on pancakes or burritos
chorizo or bacon, tacos or tuna salad
eggs with hot chili. or coffee, tea, or Cerveza,

They order—filling an emptiness,
jockey for a seat overlooking a sea of hybrid
station wagons plastered with “baby on board” signs.
These folks dying of cancer, or filled with divorce,
or worse yet, homes infected with lies that kill,
homes of infidelity, homes of indifference,
homes one plots to leave,
homes with children without parents,
or worse yet–with twisted parents
looking ordinary—but living on rape,
or blood or tears on the mattress,
as suns come up & moons go down.

You don’t know how to love them,
or pity them. They simply are—and they leave
no apologies for their pain, your eyes glaze over,
as you too stare at the parking lot.



 Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002 and 2003. Recent publications include The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetrybay, Yellow Mama and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity. for further work by Steve De France see Poetry Life & Times &



My Sun is Orange.
A Poem by William S. Peters, Sr.

Bill is an avid Writer / Poet who has been committed to this path since 1966. He currently has to his credit over 70 Published Books as well as a myriad of Newspaper and Magazine Articles. Bill supports the venue of Creative Expression regardless of form. He also is an activist for the progression and evolution of Humanity and its Love of each other.

Recently (September 2015) Bill was honored to be named the Poet Laureate at the Kosovo International Poetry Festival where his book The Vine Keeper was showcased. He was also awarded The Golden Grape Award.

Bill currently serves as the CEO of Inner Child Enterprises, ltd., Managing Director of Inner Child Press, Executive Producer of Inner Child Radio and Executive Editor of Inner Child Magazine. His life partner Janet P. Caldwell stands by his side in support of the Inner Child vision

For more of Bill, visit his personal web Site at : www.iamjustbill.

for Inner Child . . .


The Thracian Rider Is Doomed to Moonlight. A Poem by RW Haynes

Artemis of slippery rocks, O power
Of mesquite, O night, O resonant night
Of owls and tricky rapids, in this hour
Guide my faithful warhorse aright
In this crossing of this magic stream,
Where the ghosts of ancient rattlesnakes
Arise a moment from their deathly dream
To view the crossing an intruder makes.
Thus splashing splashlessly, now I ride,
Saluting the river with my brazen spear,
Across through the shallows to the western side,
To Mexico. Moonglow is strong, but sunrise is near,
And here I will abide when darkness is gone
Awaiting the impulse which will impel me on.

Just one game plays out at no remove
From reality, and its rules both produce
And require defiance of traps that prove
What you are. You must somehow turn loose
Of love’s numerous and bogus avatars,
Of pride’s super-subtle, invidious claims,
And all false illusions, from Hell to the stars,
As the clock steals vigor, and all the other games
Clamor for attention. But I have arrived
And crossed this river, one dragon slain
In Bulgaria, the battles I survived
Having cleared my soul of useless pain.
And now, freed from compulsion of choice,
I listen for orders from an inward voice.

Last night I met a perished knight at arms
Wandering feebly down the murmuring stream,
And we spoke awhile of debilitating charms
That lurk malignantly in hope and dream.
Death had relieved him of all but regret,
He smiled, his eyes unseen in the ghostly shade,
But hoarsely whispered then that to forget
He’d instantly take agony in trade,
And he reached forth to me his bony hand,
And I pronounced forthwith the living curse,
And he was gone with that crushing command
That the dead must obey and none can reverse.
And the waterfall echoes its perpetual sighs
And I stand watch here silent at moon-rise.

R. W. Haynes has taught literature at Texas A&M International University since 1992. His recent interests include the early British sonnet, and he is completing a second book on the Texas playwright and screenwriter Horton Foote (1916-2009). In his poetry, Haynes seeks to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness without sounding any more dissonant notes than he has to. In fiction, he works toward grasping that part of the past which made its mark on his generation. He enjoys teaching drama, especially the Greeks, Ibsen, and Shakespeare, and he devoutly hopes for a stunning literary Renaissance in South Texas.



A Poem by James Dennis Casey 1V.

James says: "I fancy myself as a bard & wordsmith, madman, artist, free thinker, cat lover, hat lover, owl enthusiast, and crystal collector. My poems have been featured in print form on two separate occasions. My poem “A Philosophical Treasure Chest” was picked for the anthology ‘Where the Mind Dwells’ after wining a submission contest, and five of my poem submissions were accepted to be in ‘Tribute-Pirates Anthology’ by Writing Knights Press. Some of my poetry has also been in the pages of various online magazine publications. Poetry Blog: http:// jdcivskeletonsfrommycloset.
Rev. James Dennis Casey IV. Ordained Dudeist Priest at Dudeism, the Church of the Latter-Day Dude"



All the Babble of the Souk
Robin Ouzman Hislop

Click book image to visit the Amazon page

Poet Robin Ouzman Hislop’s first full-length collection, All the Babble of the Souk, is appropriately titled. With a remarkably consistent ear for the market’s noise, for “[t]he broken lights of the bazaar/spangled] with glistening promise/in the eyes of the dusky beggar …” (Laminations in Lacquer ) Hislop’s poems, many of them cinematic-style montages of sounds and images, show us the metaphoric souk of the world, on the beach or in the street, its glitter, its sadness, its ragtag glory:

“pets, flower pots framed captive in a moment 
outside the house of the painter, a robot
in chains with an alms bowl”
(“Departures”) ...Read more of this review by poet Miriam C. Jacobs

More Reviews for this book:

 Aquillrelle. Press Release. All the Babble of the Souk

Richard Vallance Reviews All the Babble of the Souk

Reviewed by Marie Marshall All the Babble of the Souk

Richard Lloyd Cederberg Reviews All the Babble of the Souk

Adam Levon Brown Reviews All the Babble of the Souk

Further comments and reviews on Motherbird



Barbara Crooker Selected Poems / 2015 available on

by Barbara Crooker

This collection brings together 102 poems from Barbara Crooker’s previous ten chapbooks of poetry, two of which won national prizes, with a handful of uncollected poems at the end. Of Crooker’s work, William Matthews has written, “Barbara Crooker’s poems have been written with a deft touch and with that affection for their textures and pacings that we’re accustomed to call, a little dryly, ‘technical skill.’ It’s a form of love, actually, and since she’s expended it on her poems, we can, too.” Janet McCann, writing in the Foreword, says, “The poems in this collection come mostly from chapbooks, collections which cluster around a theme, such as loss of a parent or friend, raising a child with autism, travel, art. Crooker’s collections are remarkable for their unity; their poems, epigraphs, even covers have a thematic thrust that collects and directs the work, making each a coherent work of art.... Reading the work from beginning to end provides an experience of Crooker’s world, that place of work and sadness balanced by art and love. It also provides vignettes of growing up in the fifties and sixties and shows what it was like to come of age as a woman in those years—the expectations, the hopes, the barriers that had to be overcome. Even in poems of loss, the energy persists, giving us the sense that Crooker is truly in the current of life, feeling its verve—what Wallace Stevens called ‘the intensity of love’ that he identified with ‘the verve of earth.’”




Dancing toward the light book promo video  by Janet P. Caldwell

Angel of Peace by Author/Poet Aberjhani

Janet Kuypers reads 3 of her poems in round 1 at Kick Butt Poetry, 9/11/16

 Nordette Adams reads her poem Misery: New Orleans Gun Violence & Other Crimes

Sara L Russell (pinkyandrexa) reads her poem "Bohemian Quest" (about Artists)

Tuesday, 30 August 2016

Sister Publication to Poetry Life & Times

Issue of September 2016

America: The Rave.
A Poem by Adam Levon Brown


Of the store-bought
pizza dinners

Land of the flies
who scrape the paint
off of barnyard doors
with fingernails of lace


Camel cigarette
butts lining the crevices,
reminding us to
take pride in our

Land of the trees,
the oceans, and the
snow; covering us like
a whale song sung from
the bleachers of Wrigley field
in ’89


Scarface gangsterish
slang aimed at our throats
while revolutionaries paint
their stories on box trains
destined for the great beyond

Land of the stolen coffee bean
with all of its richness fueling
our neurotic skull contents in
the bleak December rains


Social injustice in the form
of Television, telling us a tale
as old as time; oppression
as an old, raggedy flag drenched
in the blood of sacrificial lambs
who never got to see the pasture

Land of the bombs, the guns,
and the assault rifle speeches
of sputtering, malignant hatred


Chain gang alamode
served with a slice
of adversity in the morning

Land of the Cinematic
bloodbath and violent
pornography with Twilight zone
on repeat


Crooked-nosed piety seekers
in rags on the streets who sleep
right outside the doors of the disillusioned youth
who partake in Molly until their ears
scream and their voices listen

Land of the freezing
Home of the Rave.

Adam Levon Brown is a poet and author residing in Eugene, Oregon. He has one published poetry book out, Musings of a Madman, which is a collection of poems made to enlighten and inspire the reader. Adam attributes his love of poetry to the many great poets he discovered in the school library during his formative years. He enjoys listening to political hip hop music and is a political activist himself.


Let me go.
A Poem by Robin Wyatt Dunn

Let me go;
I am drawn.

Hereout the maids hinder my suffering;
The maids are buildings, and faces.
The asphalt itself. They seem to care for me;
to prevent my exit from the city’s gravity.

All my wishes are spent on the mornings here;
And even the nights tell me I am growing.

I want to shrink, under the sun,
Away from all this history.

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.

“Agitate. Agitate. Agitate.”
— Frederick Douglass


Out of Time.
A Poem by Soodabeh Saeidnia