Bio: Diane Funston writes poetry of nature and human nature. She co-founded a women’s poetry salon in San Diego, created a weekly poetry gathering in the high desert town of Tehachapi, CA and most recently has been the Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture Poet-in-Residence for the past two years. It is in this role she created Poetry Square, a monthly online venue that features poets from all the world reading their work and discussing creative process.
Diane has been published in Synkronicity, California Quarterly, Whirlwind, San Diego Poetry Annual, Summation, Tule Review, Lake Affect Magazine, and other literary journals. Her first chapbook, “Over the Falls” was published this July 2022 from Foothills Publishing.
Diane is also a visual artist in mosaic, wool felting, and collage. Her pieces have been in galleries in the Sacramento Valley.
The Visitors
There is a knock on my door, most unexpectedly,
in a well- deserved moment of solitude.
Two woman are at the door,
their faces, pallid, hair pulled back, distant eyes.
It took me a while, but I soon recognized them.
Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
I could see my front yard trees through their gossamer nightgowns.
Ghostly and forthright they walked right through me
and sat on the settee by the fireplace.
"Can I get you something"?, I asked,
feeling it was such a dumb question.
"We are here to give you something",
Anne said, lighting a cigarette.
I was too taken aback to protest.
"Virginia was supposed to come too", Sylvia whispered,
"but she was drowning in responsibilities".
"We noticed you are struggling between family need and self",
they said in haunting, choir-like unison.
"We've been there, many of us, your sisters.
We thought it might be easier in modern times,
but once again we were misled".
"I'm happy, I am well,
my kids are grown", I said, "why warn me?"
"You have that room of your own, dear.
Be rude if you must, be selfish, rest your mind.
but do go into your own room, your own space,
and write to save your life".
A moment later, the fire surged a bit,
and I was all alone, left on the settee,
a blank pad of paper and a pen at my side.
Bio: Kerri Nicole McCaffrey taught English for many years—most recently at Lake Forest Academy on Chicago’s North Shore. While teaching, a huge goal she always had was to conduct poetry clubs— in order to attract more young people to express themselves through verse. Three of her own favorite poets are Jane Kenyon, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath—all of whom have helped Kerri write better and navigate her way through life. A lover of the outdoors, Kerri hopes to one day hike the Appalachian Trail.
To Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton
In the era you died—
desiccated and insect eaten
plunging thirty stories or more
I parachuted away
a small redwood seed
gliding to safety.
Then, I sadly watched you splinter
in giant concussions
even as the pillow of alluvial soil
tried to save you
not realizing you were a falling coffin–
a wooden corpse.
And I grew in the nutrients
you left behind—
the organic metaphor
your figures of speech
soaring similes
and themes like peat.
Your confessions
–exposed heartwood–
were too much for others
even arborists and young mothers,
but I hung on every word
to me—a hundred blessings.
I am rising now
a proud fir—
my sap flowing in colored words—
after all, you taught me
in meter and rhyme
that poets don’t reach these heights
to look down,
but to help others make sense of their world,
their rotting wounds
which will heal—
if they just give them time.
Bio: Barbara Anna Gaiardoni is an italian pedagogist, author, doodler, ex-violinist and former swimmer.
She have participated in national literary and poetic competitions, obtaining the publication of her texts; currently publishes Japanese poem on the international trade journals.
Drawing and walking in nature are his passions.
Her motto is “I can, I must, I will do it”.
@BGaiardoni (Twitter)
barbara.gaiardoni (Facebook)
*
smiling the old butterfly
emerges from the shadows -
her last supper
*
to smoke in the field
infested with nettles...
how to kill the time
*
there is only
a flight to oblivion -
little fireflies
Within the palm of Miles DavisFrom a 1986 photograph by Irving Penn
You can feel the grooves
all the notes created from
exhausted breaths, of his
lips chapped gold on his
glowing instrument, gripping
sounds trying to capture music—
by coloring the air canvas
with new notes he creates
in the gust of improvisation,
always chasing the rhythm that
eludes him— under the sweat
of spotlight, overcoming
calluses, he reaches for
creations exhale, when
he blows, Davis loves
the taste of inspiration
inside his mouth, making
out with masterpieces
in the middle of his solo—
with so many miles to go
his trumpet never sleeps.
Midnight at Newnham Gardens
Sylvia loved speaking poetry
to the sculpted boy and dolphin,
splashing in Cambridge winter
silence, as she moved her shivered
lips speaking to something who
could listen without accents. She
loved to daydream within the snow
globe shadows. Plath would make
up naturally blessed Ariel verses
and the boy would glow statuesque—
frozen marble eyes would attract
her night after night, not saying
much ears open waiting to hear
her sneaker footsteps, standing
in front of her quiet friend was
her favorite solitude, conversations
sharing December breaths alone, when
she spoke in whispered Winthrop,
Massachusetts rhymes, Plath
would beautifully melt icicles.
Chewing midnight sojurn,
Sylvia loved listening
Trying to decipher all
the frozen London voices—
buried in the moonlit snow.
Driving us, Floating Uptown
Bluntly passing joints
watching the street
car, car stereo loudly
imagines Bob Dylan
between us, almost floating
on the grassy median
while on this short
mind trip, you drove us
Uptown on St. Charles
Avenue, the trees
are colorful carnival
umbrellas, scattered
with Mardi Gras beads
hanging on every
branch. As I reach
from the car window,
wishing I could grab
one but as you signal
to turn the car onto
your street. I can feel
my munchies kick in,
remembering the laughter
when we smoked out,
it was not just getting high,
passing me the joint,
there was this unspoken
joy of two buddies
lifted, sitting on his
couch listening to Dylan’s
Man of Constant Sorrow,
two po boys munching
down on our favorite
Magazine St. sandwiches,
minds stoned sharing
so many silence of moments—
although I’ve forgotten
so many NOLA nights,
shows at Tipitinas, State
Palace Theatre raves,
free movie passes at
Canal Place Prytania,
pizza slices/ SIN discount
drinks at Club Decatur—
I always remember
cotton mouth contagious,
like howlin’ wolves
lifting our spirits,
joyfully, sipping
bottled beers next
to a buddy in a smoky
room, with minds in
the clouds, always
missing the jubilant
uptown banter, bongs
of remembrances
parking grins—
spinning CD’s
imagining Dylan
between us, lyrically
lighting one up,
in an afternoon daze,
with my buddy Keefer
the high always transcends.
Only the wind can truly kiss me
“I was coming apart. / They loved me until/ I was gone”
— Anne Sexton
Some nights, I sleepwalk
on the beach, waking up
quivering, knowing this
is where my often maltreated
body loves to feel the chills
rippling against my robe,
titillating underneath,
my naked skin. My face loves
the way the gust could reach
deeper, each breeze against
my cheeks, the gale kisses
wildly like no man’s lips
never dared to reach—
the wind never takes me,
she blows inviting thoughts
so cool, revealing the only
time I feel naturally blushing
without make up, just me—
my eyes closed loving how
much the tempest winds match
each storming burst tempting
so beautifully disrobing me
from my inside.
(If I had) Five Minutes with Marilyn MonroeFrom a 1955 photograph by Ed Feingersh at Costello’s Restaurant, NYCI would light up more than her cigarette,
and her soft inquisitives smile. I would
sit across the booth and encourage her
not to only focus on silver dreams, attractions
becoming only on theatre screens. Instead
of centerfold, photoshoots, exposing more
than skin, show all your body, volumes
printed from the spine. Remember Sandburg,
Miller, Capote’s gift? You too can expose sharing
every imperfect scar, have your legacy so brave
on the page, each line you bare engraved like
a lyrical kiss. So many dreaming to touch
you, why not reach out with words from afar?
Reflecting your verses connecting so much
closer, circulating each of your most secret
fragments, pieces, crumpled ink stains
see through markings; underneath your flashing
beauty reveals the most captivating poetry
a voice of siren, that star is you.
At Marilyn's grave
Still everblooming
like the roses glowing
on your wall, despite
everyone who doubted
you, those who could
never see beyond your
beauty, your life, a poem,
like the most perfect
rhyme, in eternity’s
spotlight, Norma Jeane even
my shuttering camera knows
you will outlive us all.
Bio: Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press, Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing, La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and his 6th poetry collection La Lengua Inside Me will be published by FlowerSong Press in 2023.
Adrian lives with his wife in Los Angeles with their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold.
The Morning Walk
I wander the streets
in late mornings,
windblown hair brushing
against my face,
jagged at the ends,
as if torn by a shark's teeth.
The eyes inside the booming cars
pierce my thin skin.
I wear a sweater,
but it doesn't protect me
from their glares.
I'm a pedestrian.
My slow steps and daydreams
get in the way of a world
that needs to keep moving,
keep its children fed.
Escaping the Voices
The night has fallen,
turning the sky deep purple,
the color of bruises.
Outside the glass door
of the place I call home,
the noises,
and the witchy voices
on the intercom,
are drowned out.
Some men have tried
to quell my anxiety.
We've gone browsing
in the shoe store,
the phone company,
to distract me from fears.
But I've come back
again and again,
to hardened criminals
with hard hearts.
I've held them to my chest,
let them chew me to bits.
I've gotten used to
this frozen sidewalk,
where I've learned
to ground my feet.
The following Poem inspired by Marilyn Monroe's poetryLife-
I have been a rose,
sometimes wishing to be the bee
buried in its petals,
the one who is intoxicated
by another's nectar.
But life-
I have bloomed
in your very dance halls,
twirled under the strobe light
in satin and chiffon dresses,
red-lipped and silver-footed.
I've looked into the mirror
long and hard,
my flushed cheeks yellowing
under the bathroom lamp,
the years stolen from my face.
Bio: Jackie Chou writes poems about romantic love, friendship, coming of age, grief over losses, mental illness, the creative process, and more. Some of her works are published by Fevers of the Mind Press. Her new poetry collection, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit.net, is available on Amazon.
Fevers of the Mind 