CONTACT

I forgot what a kiss is – the taste of an afternoon coffee. So as the waves pulled from the land, I feel like a desert ship.

Contact, I forgot what that word means, Shipwreck for months In books.

I look for a meaning to embrace me, to tell me everything will be fine .. To go and leave those roses in my father’s memory, To light a candle to the Virgin Mary.

Contact, To be in your dream hug. Let me see your eyes, To smell your perfume. I’m looking for that word in that old dictionary.

---

Eva was born in Xylokastro where she completed her basics studies. She loved journalism by small and attended journalism lesson at the ANT1 School. In 1994 she worked as a journalist in French newspaper “Le LIBRE JOURNAL,” but her love for Greece won and returned to her sunny home. Since 2002, she lives and works in Athens. She works as a web radio producer reading fairy tales at Radio Logotexniko Vima every Sunday. Recently she became responsible for the children’s literary section of Vivlio Anazitiseis Publications in Cyprus.

She published books and ebooks: ” I and my other avenger, my Skia publications Saita.” “Zeraldin and The elf of the lake” in Italian and in French as well as “The daughter of the Moon” in 2 languages ​​English and Greek. The Moon Daughter published by Ocelotos 4 times, received best reviews for author’s writing and writing style.

She is a member of the UNESCO Logos and Art Group, Writers of Corinth, and Panhellenic Writers Association. Also, her work is mentioned in the Known Greek awarded encyclopedia for Poets and authors, Harry Patsi, page 300.

Her books have been cleared by the Ministry of Education of Cyprus.

Eva’s recent work includes: “The water Amazon fairy called Myrtia”, illustrated by Vivi Markatos, dedicated to a girl that become handicapped after a sexual assault, the translation of stories by Lafcadio Hearn, “Fairy travel with stories from Far East” – an idea that she worked on for more than 6 months – illustrated by Ms. Ntina Anastasiado, a very well-known sculptor and sumi e painter in Greece. 

Blog: http://evalianou.blogspot.gr

E-mail: eviepara@yahoo.fr

The Mob    

April 4, 1968   

Emmett Till, a 14-year-old young black male was beaten, mutilated, and lynched, and shot in the head. He was tied down to a cotton gin-fan and thrown in the Tallahassee River near Money, Mississippi. His crime was that he was accused of flirting with a white woman in a family grocery store. He was abducted four days later. Emmett Till was murdered on August 28, 1955. The lynching of black people (men and women) by the Ku Klux Klan is a great part of America’s history. The lynching of Emmett Till brought lynching to the forefront in America’s national conscience. What has provoked such resentment towards nonwhite races? Issues of injustice, racism, and violence have always been directed towards black Americans. Yet, many black Americans, fought, suffered, and died, for the honor to be an American citizen.  The country learning of Emmett’s fate was outraged. If one is lynched, then no American is safe. Over the years people forgot about the difficulty of the Black Americans.

I was ten years old at the time. The fear and the tightness in my stomach caused me to vomit violently. The mob prowled the city with taunts of “Burn this motherfucker down, burn baby burn!” was the rallying cry, in addition, they repeated “if you don’t have “soul brother” on your door, we’ll burn your house down.” It was April 14, 1968, Martin Luther King had been assassinated. Days later blacks looted and set fire throughout neighborhoods in the nation’s capital. The police and national guards watched the mob devastate the community. The mob set out to destroy and threaten to kill other blacks. My foster father frantically used one sheet of my notebook paper and wrote the words with black shoe polish. “Soul brother” taping it to the front door. Like in the capital riots the mob menaced everyone in the capital that day. 

The Mob    

January 6^th, 2021   

“Hang Mike Pence!” they hollered repeatedly. A mob of white supremacists and white nationalists. All of them sent to the nation’s capital by former president Donald J. Trump. The violence and racism have grown in America under the presidency of Donald Trump. Now not only nonwhite races but our government leaders are targets of aggression.   

The white mob erected a gallows on the capitol grounds, while they continued to search the capital looking for Vice president Pence and Speaker Nancy Pelosi to murder them both. Lawmakers were also sought by the intruders in the capital that dreadful day. No one was safe from certain death. This coup led by Donald Trump to maintain power as he was voted out of the presidency in the November elections of 2020. The white mob attacked law enforcement officers on the capitol grounds leaving one officer killed and many severely injured all in the name of white nationalism.   

Adolf Hitler told the German people the lie that it was the Jewish people who were responsible for the predicament of the German nation. Six-million Jews died in concentration camps known as death camps. Adolf Hitler used this hate of the Jewish people to be a dictator. Donald Trump uses the dogma that other races are the enemy. Fear and hate are used by Trump to usurp our democracy. Trump uses deception, hatred, and dread to be a clone of Adolf Hitler.    

 I remember hiding from the black mob in 1968 was a horrific experience. Hearing the story of those lawmakers and staff and others in the capital on January 6^th and their recounting the “booming” sounds of glass breaking and banging on the doors by a rabid mob of the crazed white supremacists. Many said that they called their love one to say a final goodbye.

The trauma of facing death as a mob searched for them while destroying everything in their path. It is this violence that never resends in one’s memories. It is sadness and anger that I feel for all those that had to endure such an event in their lives. I walked through the rubble of the riots in a state of shock for years to come. Life seemed surreal to me and death was intimate at that time.  My world had been ravaged by the mob like those in the capital on January 6^th.    

The white supremacist destroyed many irreplaceable artworks in the house of the people. Leaving urine and feces on the walls and floors and artwork as reported. Reminding me of the night that the black mob ravaged my neighborhood. Recalling the shouts “Burn this motherfucker down!” Those words echoed in my thoughts for many decades. The insurrectionist shouted for what seemed like an eternity to hang Mike Pence. Hunting our elected officials to hang or execute them is the action of barbarians to commit atrocities against Americans. Led by a psychopathic and sociopathic, and egomaniac racist Donald J. Trump. It does not take courage to be a racist it takes valor to uphold the virtues of being a patriotic American.    

It was revealed that a black capital police officer broke down and wept after the melee said, “Is this America?” Men and women of the capitol police and metropolitan police braved the onslaught of a “murderous” mob of violent white extremists.  Three officers ended up dead from that day. Many survived because of the heroism of those officers protecting them and our capital and democracy.  This “Is America.” An America where courage and dedication to protecting our democratic way of life. The insurrection on January 6^th, 2021 will remain one of America’s harrowing moments.   

      Note: Black Americans have lived through the nightmare of being murdered for decades. Black Americans’ pleas have gone unheard. Martin Niemöller wrote, “First they came for the Socialist, and I did not speak out….”     Black Americans have been speaking out for decades and now that the violence has come to the capital of the nation. People now realize that white supremacist are a menace to our nation. Martin Niemöller continued, ‘…when they came for me there was no one left to speak out.”      

The Tomb

The fascination invested all around

Beguiled and made our trust diverted

Made the air poisonous

The fascination invested all around

Hacked and made our breath infected

Humanity today on the verge of jeopardy

Can’t shake our hands, stand in front of

Not to kiss nor to exchange love and hug

Remain one from the other apart

An unseen danger more than a tiger shrouded all over

How calamitous the present civilization!

Children getting admired afar from their father, mother, near and dear ones

Wives from husbands, fathers from mothers,

Brothers from sisters, lovers from the beloveds

Oh! The poor, helpless body trembling in temperature

Lips and hearts

Water rolling down on cheeks

How hungry, the pathetic world!

What do you teach us, dear?

Moving towards the sky the journey of the tempered body

Looming out of the darkness

We all go through

But the trance appears to be larger

Fly over the open blue sky

Twinkling the stars.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

01/04/2020

The Sky at Noon

Suddenly the sky covered with darkness

Possibly it may rain very soon

The shady world focus a glimpse of light

The sky appeared to be whiter and at same time darker

Sparking and roaring with thundering

Birds are flying and chirping and in the nest taking their shelter

Over my head, so many petals and cottons

Walking as if it was a moonlit night

Soft as like as this

You held my hand and stepped out

We sat for enjoying the light.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

02/04/2020

In This Lockdown World

In this lockdown world

Deer and dogs comes out to the paths

The trees make sound of the spring breeze

Blooming flowers spreading sweet scents

Birds and butterflies with their colorful feathers

Enjoy the beauty with new sights and spirits

Infatuated in love in this new world

I see and come back to my work

From the very noon this garland made for you

Dear, how can I reach?

I know you are on the other side waiting for me.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

03/04/2020

My Bygone Pastime

Chemicals sprayed all over the fields

On the wheat seeds

At the evening when they came back

All the hens, cocks and ducks at a time got attacked

Made me stunned, thundered down

They are lying dead before my eyes

Feel offended I failed to take the right care

When all my poultries became empty

I only stared at the sky

They’re floating on the white-colored feathers

I see the ducks on the water

I see the hens and cocks on my yard

Still now after so many years

O my love, can I let you go?  

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

04/04/2020

How I am

How do you do?

It’s difficult to answer straight ‘fine’

My heart is losing, breaching and beating

Though no singing or beating the drums outside

You do, I do and certainly we do our daily walks of life

But the strength of mind the gig gag lights inside or outside

We really miss, an unknown fear hovers around

My brother is dying

My sister is dying

What is it flying around?

Bounds all to stay at home

How many more days should we stay

No one advances to make it out

Pains my heart

Listless to work

Can I say I am safe and sound?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

05/04/2020

I Stand Still

The sky seems to be deep and darker

A windy light peeps through

The leafs of the trees growing greener than yesterday

A silent breeze makes the leafs dance 

The birds are flying here and there

Busy with the nestles in the nest to feed and care

I stand still

No storm or thundering to become worried

Softens the world day by day

My heart leaps up with joy

A heavy rainfall we may enjoy

The fields clothed with the green grasses

We can walk through all the way

The moon always smiles on. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

06/04/2020

THIS ARDENT REST




      This ardent rest breeds continuity 
 Allowing a passionate insight before
 the beginning.


     I imagine sight as lost yet the eyes 
 were open while lids were closed.


    The paralysis that never happened as
 inspiration marches the sightless draw
 in joyful repute.
 
     My song pulls from within. Vibration 
 requires no host only the Love that
 begins all things.


     I knew you were there all the time,
           Before time ever existing,
 As before finds no home in our past.


The magnitude
     As options build excitement
         Rest again, 
            For strength is found in the moment.


The process never left us behind


    Taste and smell, the hands speak,
       As ultra trillions sing a single stand
           Lifting to open skies.

Title: Santa In Two Worlds
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi

Genre: Crime Drama

For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:

– mrbenisreal@gmail.com

– rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com

Synopsis/Details: 

Santa’s world was in shambles. Just released from prison, having spent over a year, he was always the talk of the entire Santiago town. His long criminal records of stealing and drug-trafficking were reasons the 22-year-plus-old-man was always on the lips of every Santiagoan. Santa walked the length and breadth of the town in confidence but asked himself: “Why in the world are people of Santiago keeping me at armslenght, whereas I don’t mean any harm, I want a change but this addictions of crime wouldn’t help matters?!”

Like the old saying: “blood is thicker than water”, Santa’s family was an epitome of crime. His father was said to have died in a gun-battle with the popularly known Men of Peace, The Santiago Police Force, after an unsuccessful robbery operation, three months before Santa was born. His mom, a prostitute and drug addict, was a happy-go-lucky woman: flirting with any man she encounters on the streets of Santiago and beyond in exchange for drugs and money. Santa, having being raised by her single-handedly, grew up to embrace crime wholeheartedly. Santa thought of turning a new leaf; change for good and for the better. He craved for a sense of belonging and acceptance by the people. Santa looked forward to when the people of Santiago would embrace him like their brother. How to go about it was very confusing… There was no one he could confide in. Maria knew next to nothing! Her life was all about prostitution, drinking, smoking, despite being hospitalized at the Santiago Maternity Home.

In his ‘blur’ quest for the desired change and to avoid being ridiculed by people of the community—young and old, Santa foot-marched to the San-Amazona forest, Santiago’s most interior part to think about his life. There, he encountered a strange-looking plant but remembered what his mom would tell him about anything he saw as strange…The Tree of the gods. He chewed the leaves very well and swallowed them. Santa’s sudden weakness turned him to sleeping on the floor, under the canopy of the ever-green Tree of the gods.

Santa saw one thing he has never known—The unknown world of nature—where he saw exactly him in another world under a different situation but one thing connected them: CHANGE! Though they couldn’t get to see each other physically, both of them got what they wanted.

It was a world that would translate as: Santa in Two Worlds.

Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back

There’s a virus in the air, but I can’t see it.

People are dying around me, but I can’t save them.

There are spikes pierced in my back,

spasms, but I can’t touch them.

Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,

I covet in my prayers.

I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.

Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,

Jesus on that cross.

Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,

told me, “getting old isn’t for sissies.”

I didn’t believe her—

until the first mimic words

out of “Kipper” my new parakeet’s mouth,

sitting in his cage alone were 

“Daddy, it’s not easy being green.”

---

Leaves in December

Leaves, a few stragglers in

December, just before Christmas,

some nailed down crabby

to ground frost,

some crackled by the bite

of nasty wind tones.

Some saved from the matchstick

that failed to light.

Some saved from the rake

by a forgetful gardener.

For these few freedom dancers

left to struggle with the bitterness:

wind dancers

wind dancers

move you are frigid

bodies shaking like icicles 

hovering but a jiffy in the sky,

kind of sympathetic to the seasons,

reluctant to permanently go, rustic,

not much time more to play.

---

Group Therapy

Wind chimes.

Wind chimes.

It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.

I’m going to lead the group tonight talking

about Rational Emotive Therapy,

belief challenges thought change,

Dr. Albert Ellis.

I’m a hero in my self-worship,

self-infused patient of my pain,

thoughtful, probabilistic atheism

with a slant toward Jesus in private.

Rules roll gently creeping

through my body with arthritis 

a hint of mental pain.

Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,

writing this poem, late as usual.

It’s going to rain, thunder

heavy tonight.

---

Fiction Girl

(Transition)

Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction; 

the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.

Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing

to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,

yours is a manner of words at work. 

Mercury is a god of movement.

A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.

Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.

I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin

in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.

Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,

offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven

or hell, or toss back to earth.

Change is a choice where your energy flows.

No computer gods will help this poetic journey.

May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.

You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.

Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.

Flash fiction lines cross stars.

---

Cold Gray (V2)

Below the clouds

forming in my eyes,

your soft eyes,

delicate as warm silk words,

used to support the love I held for you.

Cold, now gray, the sea tide

inside turns to poignant foam

upside down separates-

only ghosts now live between us.

Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,

bearing no relation to reality-

my heart is beyond the sea now.

A relaxing breeze sweeps

across the flat surface of me.

I write this poem to you,

neglectfully sacrificing our love.

I leave big impressions

with a terrible hush inside.

Gray bones now bleach with memories,

I’m a solitary figure standing

here, alone, along the shoreline.

---

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2,013 new publications, and his poems have appeared in 40 countries. He edits and publishes 10 poetry sites.

Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry (2015), 1 Best of the Net (2016), 2 Best of the Net (2017), 2 Best of the Net (2018). 223 of his poetry videos are now on YouTube. He is the Editor-In-Chief of the poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, and Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry. Mr. Johnson is a member of the Illinois State Poetry Society.

The Shootist

In “The Shootist”, J.B. Books is not feeling up to snuff.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.

To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.

Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.

What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden murder of another.

There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word penis.

People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.

Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.

The Terminator

One leaf falls
holographic illusion
across time the Terminator travels
to shape Sarah Connors’ destiny.
Heart attack
a common enough destiny
as common as young men discussing girls’ tits.
The Constitution
is the document we refer to, the lodestone
to correct course and not go crazily astray.
Lose all purpose beyond murder, child sex and food hording.
Illuminated manuscripts
in a dark age, tape decks remind us of our voice
our communal voice
Supremes and Fred Astaire
the silken wail.

I lie alone in the night
its sensuality makes the best sense
it does or does not clarify the day
of classes or clients or chain saws
whatever fever may have infected me at the moment
a fever to achieve access to foreign films while living in the mountain community of
      Schroon Lake
the fever to instruct the American people how to apply ideals and practicalities of
      Constitution to international relationships
the fever not to die today, to maintain consciousness just one more season (and one
      more after that).

Anyway, what is being discussed–
the finiteness of one life–
or perhaps existence continues in another dimension, on another frequency
no owl hoots
but other purpler and indigo occurrences
with other purposes
as incomprehensible and wonderful as these purposes
to choke on a cherry pit or nuclear bomb
to wail our wail together
each individual identifiable hoot and wail, loud laugh and suppressed scream
one orbicular chant, humanity, from India to Indiana
complete, one sing.

I feel this way
searching for my place among you
childless, but a child among children
obeying or not obeying the speed limit
as my hormones permit
everywhere among brothers, the sisters among sisters
the races together exterminating the last rhinoceros and preserving its genes at the
      zoological society
my species attacking entire rain forests, temperate forests and boreal forests
like the engraver beetle in the red pine’s inner bark.
Thus, I occasionally cheer the Terminator
cheer the machine and neutron bomb
even in the face of individual heroics, the male and female face
their physical love, tender and violent
I don’t know what I want.

It could be simple
as this headache.
Not to despair
just to care enough to think clearly and accept 10,000 years of history.
Not to hate those in authority
humor is the only remedy
yellow ape teeth chimping in the glass death face
and ritual is remedy
a death song
and one for planting
and one for the beginning of loving.

The Burning of the Jews

It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the Modern World,
      that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting “the burning of the Jews,” flat perspective,
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially Jewish,
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
                                                         Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade’s performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My Favorite Things
but as the play darkened
with the town’s absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you=re just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.

Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won’t matter.
I’m reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn=t believe Israel should exist is by definition anti-Semitic.
Come to find out, I may fall into that category–not that Israel shouldn’t exist,
but as a so-called Jewish state
anymore than a Muslim or Christian land. To some
Jewishness is not a religion, it’s an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?

Jasper
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
                      A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it’s inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride
to my eye.

Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many’s more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
          we’re convinced
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European, African.
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags of ice, fields
      of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate toward the
      mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such abstraction and, thus, acted on a
      fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for “the burning of the Jews.”

A Gun in Every Home

Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.

A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases, fights) and a sexy,
      sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the community,
      the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the weed.
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women) side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.

Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian–Look what the Belgians are doing in the Congo!
When the state’s violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.

This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That’s a given–
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi’s scope, and King’s, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
                                                              Regarding King
the matter is simple–he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South’s violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be overwhelmed by southern
      violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the British. Or did he?
1)   There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi restrained but
       could release which the British feared, and
2) It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that allowed Gandhi to
      exist rather than be extinguished–this restraint was a (British) cultural imperative
      (limited scope) as well as emanating from Britain’s view of India as a protectorate
      and valued citizen of the united kingdom (defensive posture).

What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the common space, and
      preempt bad behaviors associated with otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.

---

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.