You may send between 2-5 single spaced poems with a brief bio via e-mail to editorsATtheadirondackreviewDOTcom with your poems pasted into the e-mail, please make sure they are previously unpublished poems. In the heading of your e-mail include your Last Name, date of submission, and “POETRY.”
For more details, use the link below:
http://adirondackreview.homestead.com/submissions.html
Good luck to all who submit, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Poems Found by Poet Hound
http://www.blossombones.com/summer09/weaver_s09.html
“I Don’t Want to Write a Poem About Costco” by Julene Tripp Weaver
http://apt.aforementionedproductions.com/twentytwo/halston.htm
“After You’d Gone” by Carrissa Halston
Thanks for clicking in, please click in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
“I Don’t Want to Write a Poem About Costco” by Julene Tripp Weaver
http://apt.aforementionedproductions.com/twentytwo/halston.htm
“After You’d Gone” by Carrissa Halston
Thanks for clicking in, please click in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Tom Healy's What The Right Hand Knows
Four Way Books has introduced me to two wonderful collections of poetry and today I will feature Tom Healy’s What The Right Hand Knows, published by Four Way Books. Tom Healy lives in New York and Miami and has appeared in The Tin House, BOMB, and other journals. This collection of poems is edgy, full of wit, surprise, tragedy and was a thoroughly enjoyable read. I have countless poems I’d love to share with you but I will narrow it down to a few and hope that you will look for this book in stores or use the link below to capture a copy for yourself:
Oh, Hi Dad
I thought I had killed him.
But here he is,
come to life so quickly,
despite the scarce crop
of talk, how long
words went hungry,
the distance I’d driven
to dump his memory.
But here he is,
the fruit of famine,
an alphabet emptied
of ice or apology.
Look where it comes!
Here he is.
Taste and eat.
Smile and wave.
This poem is the way I imagine it to be when you cut ties with someone close to you and that person then returns to your life unexpectedly and inexplicably. It is obvious that the poet didn’t actually kill his father but perhaps all memory had been carefully blocked out of mind only to have to confront the father face to face. The ending is what intrigues me most. Despite “killing him” the ending portrays trying to put on a happy face with the ending line of “Smile and wave”, trying to bury the negative thoughts when confronted with the very person he had tried to bury away in his mind and instead showing off a smile. Isn’t that just the way of human nature? Torn between putting on the “happy face” or the “angry scowl” when confronted with someone you had long since abandoned on purpose?
What The Right Hand Knows
I am not in stereo.
Deaf in one ear,
I am unable
with any accuracy
to pinpoint clamor
and quiet.
Argument reaches me
only on my left or
marching down
the center of the street
cleared
of other traffic.
I lose the background,
the sotto voce.
I lose scratch,
whisper, rain,
white noise, color
if it’s muted,
the good gossip
unless I turn to it.
Stories must
circle west
toward twilight.
I have no east.
I learned this
on an ordinary afternoon,
my parents fighting,
torching one another,
and the only place
to run for cover
was standing there,
covering my ears.
But my right hand slipped—
to nothing.
Nothing?
I rolled up the gates,
brought my fingers
flat again, lifted
one, then the other.
Both hands. Neither.
I don’t know why I didn’t
cry or
tell anyone
the sound wasn’t working.
Suddenly strange,
hearing and not—
I kept the sugar taste
of that secrecy
well-hidden
until eventually
Armstrong
landed on the moon
and our family’s first
color console
broadcast the Earth
reflected in the bubble
over the astronaut’s face—
itself another
television
attached to the body
of the best father
of all possible worlds.
Did you know,
I said to my mother,
that the moon’s dark side
has no sound?
I love the eeriness of this poem, the rude awakening of discovering you have no hearing in one ear and then not speaking a word of it. There are wonderful lines that bring to life the absence of sound, how “Stories must/circle west/toward twilight./I have no east.” The parents, distracted: “torching one another” do not notice their son testing out his ears by placing one hand alternately over and then away from his ear and never do notice as time goes by with the poem. I love the ending, a child’s imagination of the “moon’s dark side” having no sound and pairing it with the idea of his own hearing loss. I think this is a beautiful poem that brings out the innocence of a child’s perspective in such a discovery.
An Act of Forbearance
i.
You’re the type
who’d murder.
I’m the one
who eyes
his own wrists.
Should we shed
and spend life
thwarting
one another?
ii.
Compare apples
and oranges.
Compare fiction
and breathing.
One peeled,
one bitten.
Which, my spider,
is which?
We swing
in the threads
of this web
waiting
for sting,
for struggle.
iii.
Consider this.
Consider clay
where there
was once a field.
Consider
what it would
have been for us
to flower—
or stealing
the work
of another verb,
to weed.
iv.
I have my doubts
about the alphabet
bending to our will
like spoons.
We’re the ones
always following
like dogs
and their tongues,
fetching for letters,
playing dead
across sentences,
working sad eyes.
Pity me
in the pound.
This poem, although not necessarily joyful, introduces some playfulness in comparing the writer to his companion. One being the type who’d murder vs. one who would murder him/herself, the idea that the other version is a spider and they are both tangled in the same web makes me wonder what the relationship is? The last section makes me wonder if they are both writers as the poet introduces the idea of “the alphabet/bending to our will/like spoons” (an imaginative visual) and the idea of “fetching for letters/playing dead/across sentences.” The ending lines are an interesting metaphor, referring to being the dog mentioned earlier, and I am dying to know what form this particular “pound” takes? Is it the writing desk? The poet’s home? What do you think? Either way it brings out the idea that the poet and his companion are opposites, one being perhaps stronger than the other.
As I said before, there are countless poems I’d love to share with you but narrowed it down to just a few. All of them are interesting and this collection held my interest through the entire 88 pages. You may be able to find Tom Healy’s book, What The Right Hand Knows, in your local book-store or to purchase a copy for yourself for $15.95, not including shipping, use the link below:
http://www.fourwaybooks.com/books/healy/index.php?PHPSESSID=1f484dd61c16c0dd2a69d43f6f13dab0
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Oh, Hi Dad
I thought I had killed him.
But here he is,
come to life so quickly,
despite the scarce crop
of talk, how long
words went hungry,
the distance I’d driven
to dump his memory.
But here he is,
the fruit of famine,
an alphabet emptied
of ice or apology.
Look where it comes!
Here he is.
Taste and eat.
Smile and wave.
This poem is the way I imagine it to be when you cut ties with someone close to you and that person then returns to your life unexpectedly and inexplicably. It is obvious that the poet didn’t actually kill his father but perhaps all memory had been carefully blocked out of mind only to have to confront the father face to face. The ending is what intrigues me most. Despite “killing him” the ending portrays trying to put on a happy face with the ending line of “Smile and wave”, trying to bury the negative thoughts when confronted with the very person he had tried to bury away in his mind and instead showing off a smile. Isn’t that just the way of human nature? Torn between putting on the “happy face” or the “angry scowl” when confronted with someone you had long since abandoned on purpose?
What The Right Hand Knows
I am not in stereo.
Deaf in one ear,
I am unable
with any accuracy
to pinpoint clamor
and quiet.
Argument reaches me
only on my left or
marching down
the center of the street
cleared
of other traffic.
I lose the background,
the sotto voce.
I lose scratch,
whisper, rain,
white noise, color
if it’s muted,
the good gossip
unless I turn to it.
Stories must
circle west
toward twilight.
I have no east.
I learned this
on an ordinary afternoon,
my parents fighting,
torching one another,
and the only place
to run for cover
was standing there,
covering my ears.
But my right hand slipped—
to nothing.
Nothing?
I rolled up the gates,
brought my fingers
flat again, lifted
one, then the other.
Both hands. Neither.
I don’t know why I didn’t
cry or
tell anyone
the sound wasn’t working.
Suddenly strange,
hearing and not—
I kept the sugar taste
of that secrecy
well-hidden
until eventually
Armstrong
landed on the moon
and our family’s first
color console
broadcast the Earth
reflected in the bubble
over the astronaut’s face—
itself another
television
attached to the body
of the best father
of all possible worlds.
Did you know,
I said to my mother,
that the moon’s dark side
has no sound?
I love the eeriness of this poem, the rude awakening of discovering you have no hearing in one ear and then not speaking a word of it. There are wonderful lines that bring to life the absence of sound, how “Stories must/circle west/toward twilight./I have no east.” The parents, distracted: “torching one another” do not notice their son testing out his ears by placing one hand alternately over and then away from his ear and never do notice as time goes by with the poem. I love the ending, a child’s imagination of the “moon’s dark side” having no sound and pairing it with the idea of his own hearing loss. I think this is a beautiful poem that brings out the innocence of a child’s perspective in such a discovery.
An Act of Forbearance
i.
You’re the type
who’d murder.
I’m the one
who eyes
his own wrists.
Should we shed
and spend life
thwarting
one another?
ii.
Compare apples
and oranges.
Compare fiction
and breathing.
One peeled,
one bitten.
Which, my spider,
is which?
We swing
in the threads
of this web
waiting
for sting,
for struggle.
iii.
Consider this.
Consider clay
where there
was once a field.
Consider
what it would
have been for us
to flower—
or stealing
the work
of another verb,
to weed.
iv.
I have my doubts
about the alphabet
bending to our will
like spoons.
We’re the ones
always following
like dogs
and their tongues,
fetching for letters,
playing dead
across sentences,
working sad eyes.
Pity me
in the pound.
This poem, although not necessarily joyful, introduces some playfulness in comparing the writer to his companion. One being the type who’d murder vs. one who would murder him/herself, the idea that the other version is a spider and they are both tangled in the same web makes me wonder what the relationship is? The last section makes me wonder if they are both writers as the poet introduces the idea of “the alphabet/bending to our will/like spoons” (an imaginative visual) and the idea of “fetching for letters/playing dead/across sentences.” The ending lines are an interesting metaphor, referring to being the dog mentioned earlier, and I am dying to know what form this particular “pound” takes? Is it the writing desk? The poet’s home? What do you think? Either way it brings out the idea that the poet and his companion are opposites, one being perhaps stronger than the other.
As I said before, there are countless poems I’d love to share with you but narrowed it down to just a few. All of them are interesting and this collection held my interest through the entire 88 pages. You may be able to find Tom Healy’s book, What The Right Hand Knows, in your local book-store or to purchase a copy for yourself for $15.95, not including shipping, use the link below:
http://www.fourwaybooks.com/books/healy/index.php?PHPSESSID=1f484dd61c16c0dd2a69d43f6f13dab0
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Best Selling Poetry of 2009
I thought you might like to see which poetry books made the best seller’s list last year according to Small Press Distribution. Check them out at:
http://spdtoday.blogspot.com/2009/12/spds-best-selling-poetry-2009.html
Perhaps you and I will check out one or two or more of the best sellers to prepare for a new year of best sellers?
Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet, Tom Healy…
http://spdtoday.blogspot.com/2009/12/spds-best-selling-poetry-2009.html
Perhaps you and I will check out one or two or more of the best sellers to prepare for a new year of best sellers?
Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet, Tom Healy…
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Under the el by David Stone
David Stone’s chapbook, Under the el, is produced by Alternating Current and is filled with all things Chicago and city life moving through its pages. It is a smart, gritty, just like Chicago. Whether you’ve ever been to Chicago or are a native, you’ll enjoy this collection of poems—and I urge you to read it twice in a row because you’ll pick up more insight on your second round. Here are a few that caught my eye:
The Fire Engine
The fire engine
skidded through
the intersection
& crushed
a compact car.
Earth whisked
wizardous rants.
Breathers reiterated
the aroma of death.
The cell counters
apologized
in Socrates’ tank.
While the first stanza tells you the story, it’s the following stanzas that bring you the depth of the experience watching it happen. I find the lines “Earth whisked/wizardous rants” intriguing and wonder how Mr. Stone wants us to imagine what he means. I imagine the awed gasps of onlookers. The “Breathers,” which I take to mean onlookers again, can smell the wreckage and so can I as the reader. The whole poem is tragic and wondrous thanks to the lines Mr. Stone provides.
The Morning Pace
The Commuter
counted five bills,
placed money
on the counter,
left the diner fed,
passed a taxicab,
dreamed at a stop light,
pushed the pedal
past the legal limit,
heard a nearby scream
but pedaled on
ahead of schedule.
I like the idea of an “everyman” in Chicago going through these exact motions. Seeing as my husband is from this grand city, I can tell you he can relate to this poem exactly. The fast pace, the dreams and tragedies flowing through in the background, the Commuter going about his day despite the flow around him.
Fault
Dedicated to James Liddy, 1934-200
In the observatory,
a yell,
the plink
of foreign
matter.
In
juries
in rotation
escape
the land.
In prison,
tunnels
and thirst
crack rock.
I like how David Stone streamlines this poem so that each word takes on added meaning. What I gather from it is the sad plight of the prisoner, the constant in and out of jail and the experience of jail. It is brief but powerful. I also looked up James Liddy and found out he is an Irish Poet, I’d like to learn a little more about how David Stone created and dedicated this poem to James Liddy, wouldn’t you?
If you enjoyed this sample of poems, you can purchase a copy for $5.00 + $2 US or $3 out-of-US shipping by mailing a check or money order to Alternating Current, PO Box 398058, Cambridge MA 02139. You can also e-mail for information at alt.current@gmail.com. Remember, Alternating Current is one of the few small press publishers that is able to pay their poets so be sure to learn more about them at:
http://alt-current.blogspot.com/
Thanks always for reading!
We will meet again January 4th, I’ll be inundated with family and festivities for the next couple of weeks and won’t have time to put up posts or carry my computer with me while visiting family. I wish you all safe and happy holidays, please drop in again on Monday, January 4th…
The Fire Engine
The fire engine
skidded through
the intersection
& crushed
a compact car.
Earth whisked
wizardous rants.
Breathers reiterated
the aroma of death.
The cell counters
apologized
in Socrates’ tank.
While the first stanza tells you the story, it’s the following stanzas that bring you the depth of the experience watching it happen. I find the lines “Earth whisked/wizardous rants” intriguing and wonder how Mr. Stone wants us to imagine what he means. I imagine the awed gasps of onlookers. The “Breathers,” which I take to mean onlookers again, can smell the wreckage and so can I as the reader. The whole poem is tragic and wondrous thanks to the lines Mr. Stone provides.
The Morning Pace
The Commuter
counted five bills,
placed money
on the counter,
left the diner fed,
passed a taxicab,
dreamed at a stop light,
pushed the pedal
past the legal limit,
heard a nearby scream
but pedaled on
ahead of schedule.
I like the idea of an “everyman” in Chicago going through these exact motions. Seeing as my husband is from this grand city, I can tell you he can relate to this poem exactly. The fast pace, the dreams and tragedies flowing through in the background, the Commuter going about his day despite the flow around him.
Fault
Dedicated to James Liddy, 1934-200
In the observatory,
a yell,
the plink
of foreign
matter.
In
juries
in rotation
escape
the land.
In prison,
tunnels
and thirst
crack rock.
I like how David Stone streamlines this poem so that each word takes on added meaning. What I gather from it is the sad plight of the prisoner, the constant in and out of jail and the experience of jail. It is brief but powerful. I also looked up James Liddy and found out he is an Irish Poet, I’d like to learn a little more about how David Stone created and dedicated this poem to James Liddy, wouldn’t you?
If you enjoyed this sample of poems, you can purchase a copy for $5.00 + $2 US or $3 out-of-US shipping by mailing a check or money order to Alternating Current, PO Box 398058, Cambridge MA 02139. You can also e-mail for information at alt.current@gmail.com. Remember, Alternating Current is one of the few small press publishers that is able to pay their poets so be sure to learn more about them at:
http://alt-current.blogspot.com/
Thanks always for reading!
We will meet again January 4th, I’ll be inundated with family and festivities for the next couple of weeks and won’t have time to put up posts or carry my computer with me while visiting family. I wish you all safe and happy holidays, please drop in again on Monday, January 4th…
Monday, December 21, 2009
Lit Kicks
This blog talks about reviews, conducts reviews, and talks about shocking news regarding books and other reviews. I found it interesting and entertaining, lots of good links that had me traveling down the deep literary rabbit hole. I urge you to check it out at:
http://www.litkicks.com/
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured poet…
http://www.litkicks.com/
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured poet…
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Blue Pencil Open Submissions
Accepts both free and measured verse in any length, either three poems, or one prose piece with a reading period of October through May, simultaneous submissions ARE accepted, please have all your poems in one text attachment via e-mail sent to: thebluepencilATwalnuthillarts.org
For more details go to:
http://www.thebluepencil.net/bp-submissions/tbpo-writers-guidelines/
Good luck to all who submit, please drop in next week…
For more details go to:
http://www.thebluepencil.net/bp-submissions/tbpo-writers-guidelines/
Good luck to all who submit, please drop in next week…
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Poems Found by Poet Hound
http://www.sundress.net/wickedalice/manion29.html
Floating World by Jennifer Manion
http://arseniclobster.magere.com/200702.html
Hair by Kelly L. Morckel
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Floating World by Jennifer Manion
http://arseniclobster.magere.com/200702.html
Hair by Kelly L. Morckel
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Catching Cold
Sorry folks, I’ve caught the chest cold that’s going around the office so there are two posts I wasn’t able to get to, the Tuesday Featured Poet and Friday’s Poetry Tips. The rest of these I got made up before I caught the cold so please stop in Wed. and Thursday and try me again next week. I’ll hopefully be less fuzzy headed by next week, until then, take care of yourselves and keep checking back in!
Monday, December 14, 2009
Five Branch Tree Blog
A creative blog by Brian of Grand Rapids, Michigan in which he speaks of things literary and poetry—thought you might enjoy reading it, too:
http://www.fivebranchtree.blogspot.com/
Thanks for dropping in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
http://www.fivebranchtree.blogspot.com/
Thanks for dropping in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
Friday, December 11, 2009
Poetry Tips: "Oh, excuse me, very sorry..."
Or another title: What I wish I hadn’t stumbled on. This week I dare you to write a poem dedicated to an awkward moment in which you stumbled into someone’s business that you had no intention of stumbling into. Think office affairs, scandals, or even barging in on someone in the bathroom—public toilet or otherwise.
Good luck to all who try it, I can think of countless moments myself, how about you?
Thanks for stopping in, please click in next week for another featured site…
Good luck to all who try it, I can think of countless moments myself, how about you?
Thanks for stopping in, please click in next week for another featured site…
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Right Hand Pointing Open Submissions
A Call To Humor
“This year I asked for submissions for a humor issue and, unfortunately, it
didn't come together. We've done a couple of others with good results, but I
just didn't get enough submissions to feel good about it. We have a couple of
pieces we've accepted but haven't yet published and I ran a couple of others in
regular issues after the humor issue fell apart. Time to give it another shot.
So, we're opening up for submissions of humorous poems, fiction, and art.
Length requirements for poems and fiction are the same as for regular issues.
<500 words for poems. Not more than 16 lines for humor although we'll go up to
20 lines if the poem is <75 words.
Target date for publication is April 15th and the deadline is March 15th.
Get writing. And get funny.
Dale”
For more details check out the site below:
http://www.righthandpointing.com/
Good luck to all who submit, please come in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
“This year I asked for submissions for a humor issue and, unfortunately, it
didn't come together. We've done a couple of others with good results, but I
just didn't get enough submissions to feel good about it. We have a couple of
pieces we've accepted but haven't yet published and I ran a couple of others in
regular issues after the humor issue fell apart. Time to give it another shot.
So, we're opening up for submissions of humorous poems, fiction, and art.
Length requirements for poems and fiction are the same as for regular issues.
<500 words for poems. Not more than 16 lines for humor although we'll go up to
20 lines if the poem is <75 words.
Target date for publication is April 15th and the deadline is March 15th.
Get writing. And get funny.
Dale”
For more details check out the site below:
http://www.righthandpointing.com/
Good luck to all who submit, please come in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Poems Found by Poet Hound
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=173524
Birches by Robert Frost
https://sites.google.com/site/righthandpointingsite/decarteret
Artifact by Mark DeCarteret
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Birches by Robert Frost
https://sites.google.com/site/righthandpointingsite/decarteret
Artifact by Mark DeCarteret
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Never Trust A Man Wearing Purple Shoes by J.J. Campbell
J. J. Campbell lives in Brookville, Ohio and has been published widely in the small press. In his recent collection of poems, Never Trust A Man Wearing Purple Shoes, published by Propaganda Press by Alternating Current, Mr. Campbell explores life’s yearnings and uncertainties. Here are several that caught my attention:
forever a romantic
carrying a flame
for a love that
quit me many
years ago
and the lips of
that angel haven’t
graced me this century
yet i hold onto
hope like a
fucking fool.
Many of us know the memories of an old flame, I especially love how he ends it since the last two words are a surprise to the relatively tame lines in the beginning.
the spark of my youth
i keep listening to the
music of my teenage
years hoping to find
the spark of my youth
but as i wake each
morning and am
greeted at the mirror
with disappointment
i sadly realize those
old tunes are out of
magic.
This is another poem for memory lane, greeting the past with the hope of being inspired by it only to realize that which once inspired no longer does so. Mr. Campbell leaves us with a feeling of sadness with minimal use of drama and a simplicity of language.
4818
finally, the comfort
of my own bed after
five days of a hospital
bed
the first comfortable
pillow
the first soft sheet
the first tears of
knowing i’m
cheating death
soon i’ll know if i
have some rare blood
disorder or some
genetic defect that
gave me blood clots
at age 32
regardless, i got a
funny feeling death
just became my next
door neighbor.
The title leaves me wondering if this is an address or hospital room number? For me, the poem brings a sense of relief as the poet slips into familiar life back into a place where he is truly comfortable after such a daunting experience. However, the poet leaves us hanging in suspense at the end, as we never learn the results and that he feels death is next door.
If you enjoyed this sample of poems by J.J. Campbell, you can purchase a copy of Never Trust A Man Wearing Purple Shoes, which is Number Eleven in the Pocket Protector Series of Alternating Currnet’s Press for $3.00 plus Shipping&Handling at:
http://alt-current.com
Thanks always for reading, please drop in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
forever a romantic
carrying a flame
for a love that
quit me many
years ago
and the lips of
that angel haven’t
graced me this century
yet i hold onto
hope like a
fucking fool.
Many of us know the memories of an old flame, I especially love how he ends it since the last two words are a surprise to the relatively tame lines in the beginning.
the spark of my youth
i keep listening to the
music of my teenage
years hoping to find
the spark of my youth
but as i wake each
morning and am
greeted at the mirror
with disappointment
i sadly realize those
old tunes are out of
magic.
This is another poem for memory lane, greeting the past with the hope of being inspired by it only to realize that which once inspired no longer does so. Mr. Campbell leaves us with a feeling of sadness with minimal use of drama and a simplicity of language.
4818
finally, the comfort
of my own bed after
five days of a hospital
bed
the first comfortable
pillow
the first soft sheet
the first tears of
knowing i’m
cheating death
soon i’ll know if i
have some rare blood
disorder or some
genetic defect that
gave me blood clots
at age 32
regardless, i got a
funny feeling death
just became my next
door neighbor.
The title leaves me wondering if this is an address or hospital room number? For me, the poem brings a sense of relief as the poet slips into familiar life back into a place where he is truly comfortable after such a daunting experience. However, the poet leaves us hanging in suspense at the end, as we never learn the results and that he feels death is next door.
If you enjoyed this sample of poems by J.J. Campbell, you can purchase a copy of Never Trust A Man Wearing Purple Shoes, which is Number Eleven in the Pocket Protector Series of Alternating Currnet’s Press for $3.00 plus Shipping&Handling at:
http://alt-current.com
Thanks always for reading, please drop in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Haiku Foundation
A wealth of wonderful resources, informational posts, and more at a very easy to use site:
http://www.thehaikufoundation.org/
Thanks for stopping in, please drop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
http://www.thehaikufoundation.org/
Thanks for stopping in, please drop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
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