April 16-22, 2001: 3rd Annual Yom HaShoah Issue

week of April 16-22, 2001

Our third annual Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) issue

Sherry Asbury
Moshe Benarroch
Jim Bennett
Michael H Brownstein
Isabella Bruno
Salvatore A.M Buttaci
Mike Cluff
T.J Daniels
Peter Desmond
David Gershator
Jerry Hoff
Ken Jones
Ward Kelley
Christine Lennon
Joleen Lutz
Peter Magliocco
Val Magnuson
Stazja McFadyen
Barbara Nightingale
Barbara Phillips
Alex Stolis
David Taub
Lawrence Upton
Garth Wehrfritz-Hanson
Laura Winton

here for submission guidelines

Sherry Asbury


My name is Sherry Asbury, but I’m known mostly as Ladypoet I live in Portland, Oregon and am 56 years-old I am a survivor of very savage brutality and torture, in childhood, and again in my marriage to my husband My work has been widely published Here in Portland I am the Resident Poet for a homeless advocasy newspaper, as well as a regular contributor for almost five years I am an Emily Dickenson recluse, but do readings once in a while I have four chapbooks of my own and have appeared in several from street roots, our newspaper I recently won first prize in The Writer’s Web poetry contest My work is poste on several sites on the net .and I have been invited to post many times, thus making new friends and having new venues for my poetry It’s been an arduous life I am 7 years Free and Safe and in recovery from homelessness and mental illness I take all those bumpy parts of the road and put them into words, hoping along the way someone will find something for themselves in my work.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Sherry Asbury and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Her Holocaust and Mine

It was 1956 in a very small and rural Montana town
where I learned about hate, how it tasted, how it felt My parents refused to come to Family Day and
punctuated their refusal with a hiding from The Belt
So Susan Cloud and I sat huddled and embarrassed
in our outcast isolation Susan’s folks were reservation Susan was brave and hateful, she called out funny remarks,
and we leaned int each other in our desperate conversation
Aaron Abromovitz was a Jew and I was forbidden to even
walk to school with him, though he passed the house each day When it was his turn to introduce his family, proudly stood
the father and mother, and a bent old woman whose hair was gray
It was Susan who said, “Christ Killer,” in a loud, heavy voice It was the grandmother who looked over at us with kindly eyes Our giggles were fueled by self-righteous emptiness, with an
envy two very small and abandoned girls could not disguise
Aaron’s grandmother told us of the Holocaust in Germany,
took off her sweater, rolled up her sleeve so we could see
the line of numbers that marked the skin of her wrinkled arm Our eyes met again and I felt sorrow for her sturdy dignity
Treblinka, Auschwitz, Dachau, Bergen Belsen were just words Someone had hurt this old woman just because she was a Jew I could feel the ridges of my scars, some healed, some not I understood then, because I was a child who was being hurt too
In a strong voice, she said, “They could scar and mark me,
but they couldn’t take away who I am, here, deep inside “
She looked at me and smiled, softly, as if I really mattered I felt the searing flame of every mark I had to deny and hide
If strangers could main and kill old people like Aaron’s gran,
maybe the people who marked my skin were the ones to blame Could it be that I wasn’t really worthless and ugly and lazy?
They could take our bodies, she said, but never, ever our name
When it was time for cookies and punch, kids went up to Aaron’s
gran and asked if they could touch her numbers tatooed in ink She said scars are private things, not meant for the eyes of others She said what really matters is inside, not in what others think
An old woman and a little girl lived through their Holocaust The next day as Aaron walked by, I walked with him to school I got a hiding that day, and others, for taking up with Jews, but
I’d learned there were no rules when people chose to be cruel.

Moshe Benarroch


Moshe Benarroch has published two collections of poetry in English “Horses and other doubts” (http://iuniverse.com, 114 pages, 9.95$) and “You walk on the land until one day the land walks on you” (http://xlibris.com, 248 pages, 16$), both available from Amazon, Borders and Barnes And Noble He was born in Morocco and lives in Israel He writes in three languages, Hebrew, Spanish and English and his poetry has been published in hundreds of magazines worldwide He was featured poet in the international Austin poetry festival, 1999, in poetrymagazine.com (july 2000) and has read his poetry in Israel, Spain and the US He has published ten books, of poetry prose and one novel For more information and more poems:

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Mosh Benarroch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


I always carry a suitcase
take it everywhere
waiting for the moment
they will chase me
from house to house
from town to town
from country to country
and the suitcase is full of toys
no child has played with
full of memories
of people without a past
full of love affairs
that never materialized
full of clothes
no one will ever wear
full of anger
on a quiet river
full of discriminations
by people of illusions
full of cruelty
toward people who reached their hands
and were told it’s the end
who wanted love
and received a suitcase.

Jim Bennett


Jim Bennett is a writer, poet and journalist, who is married with six children and living in Merseyside (UK) He has over thirty books published covering many subjects including, transport studies, marketing and poetry

In 1997 he was invited to attend an international conference in New York on the work of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, where he delivered a paper on her short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” This paper is to be published in the USA next year along with the work of other Gilman scholars While in the United States he gave public readings of his poetry which were judged to have been very successful he is currently considering an offer to return to America for several months next year
During the year, Jim was editor of a poetry collection and is preparing a second volume for publication along with a volume of his own poetry to be called “Painting On Sand ” “When I get the time to finish them ” He is currently working on a new edition of two of his technical works and has a book for children due to be published before Christmas
Visit Jim’s website here:

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Sherry Asbury and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


In photographs
all sunsets look the same
red sun sinking into night
but I have seen so many
and all of them are different
you cannot photograph
the way it makes you feel
but you can feel that way
when you look at the photograph
even if it looks
like a thousand other sunsets
but if you put that sunset
on a billboard
it is just another sunset
to everyone
apart from you

you cannot photograph
or starvation
you can photograph the effect
you can show stick figures
frozen as they walk aimlessly
with sunken empty eyes
towards their death
put that on a poster
post for everyone to see
till it becomes
just another figure
walking to their death
it’s just like another sunset
to everyone

but it isn’t is it?

Michael H Brownstein


Michael H Brownstein has been published over four hundred times in the small and literary presses He has a few spoken word CDs and a number of poetry chapbooks, He is in search of a publisher for his first book length poetry manuscript.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Michael H Brownstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Bruno Bettleheim

You work a lifetime on one idea
and they take it from you,
strike a match page by page,
forcing you to work These people still do not know
the strength of rape,
how you quest learning,
how music flowed thgrough cell blocks
how even children saw a future Somehow the loss of a manuscript
changed you into something
else, and you survived,
came across the ocean,
created a better vision
of how we think and know.

Isabella Bruno


Isabella Bruno is a junior in high school in New Orleans, Louisiana She is interested in going to Fordham University and continuing her studies in dance She formulates poetry out of occasional bursts of inspiration (and the other way around).

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Isabella Bruno and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Yom Hashoah

i remember
brushing twigs of bushes
in fields
brown hands pulling playfully
at my hair
thin prickly fingers
that i barely noticed

now those fingers are my own
and they scratch what remains
of my hair
the length of which is gone
made up for by the mass of lice

i remember
feeling soft flesh
pliable, comforting fat
a security blanket that’s part of me

now i only feel
the hardness of the structure within
bones i touch and i hear a crunch
the crunch they make
the sound that echoes
every day as the ovens are fed

i remember
cutting myself during play
surprise and apprehension passed over my countenance
until the release of red would end

now i use my jagged nails
to release the flow
and restore my faith in my vitality
it’s red: still not invisible

i remember
feeling real

i wish this was a dream

Salvatore Amico M Buttaci


The former Editor of New Worlds Unlimited (1974-1988),  and of Poetidings, the newsletter
of the New Jersey Poetry Society, Inc (1995-1997) His poems, and short stories and articles have recently appeared in Friction Magazinepoetrymagazine.comAphelion: Webzine of Science Fiction and FantasyPoetrySuperHighway.com,  and The Record He is the author of a collection of poetry entitled Promising the Moon, and his most recent book A Family of Scilians: Stories and Poems
A graduate of Seton Hall University and Rutgers Graduate School of Management, Sal is an elementary school English teacher in Garfield’s Thomas Jefferson Middle School and adjunct professor at Bergen Commmunity College He is listed in the current volume of Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers Sal lives in Lodi, New Jersey, with the love of his life, his wife Sharon.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Salvatore Amico M Buttaci and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Emma Levi

By then, inside the death camp gates
of Theresenstadt, she had been someone’s
grandmother, but long before, the men raved
about her long blond hair, “Gold like
the sun!” her neighbor Julius said,
though he played down her beauty in
earshot of his wife Sophie, called her
meshugunah, that crazy bleach-blond
who walked like a slut down Schillerstrasse “Cover the children’s eyes,” he’d tell Sophie “The Whore of Babylon is coming!”
but at night Julius dreamed himself
a Satan, long spiked tail, ears sharp
as pitchfork tines– the devil himself
succumbing to her blondness, losing
himself in the parting of Emma’s lips,
trading his dominion over hell for
one night in Emma Levi’s arms In bed beside him fat old Sophie slept
That was in Munich when young Emma turned
men’s heads, long before she was the grandmother
of Nathan, also blond, who was gassed that
first day in the camps Little Nathan whom
they tore from Emma Levi’s arms Later, shaved head bowed, she stands on a cold
December morning shivering in a wobbling
line of camp slaves Commandant Franz Mueller
struts up and down as if inspecting troops
He holds a luger in his black-gloved hand,
with which he taps each woman as he passes “Your name, Jewess,” he says “Emma Levi,”
she replies He worms the gun between
her trembling lips, closes his eyes, 
remembers childhood, Hide-and-Seek in Bavaria, 
then fires She lies crumpled at his boots,
staring up at the polluted sky, seeing what?
he wonders “I am Emma Levi,” he mimics
“Emma Levi,” he says, spitting out her name At the next woman, he points the luger
like an accusing finger, a maestro’s
baton, a wand blessed with dark magic.

Mike Cluff


Mike Cluff works as the Assistant Chairperson for the Communications Humanities and Social Sciences Department at Riverside (Ca ) Community College-Norco Campus where he also teaches English Literature and creative writing full-time He has hosted many readings in the SoCal area as well as published eight chapbooks of poetry and currently is scheduled to perform “Matt” in a staged reading of Eileen Bateen’s “The Stony Road” on May 6 and 7 in Beaumont and Palm Springs, Ca He also played “Aaron” a Jewish rabbi in a staged reading of Rowena Silver and Mark Steven Scheffer’s “The Disputation: A Christian and Jewish Dialogue in Sonnet Form” on March 24 in Norco, California.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Mike Cluff and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Treblinka, September 1944

“I was hired
because I had experience
back in Bratislava,”
Josef stated
stolidly, stoically,
” It really is not
all that different——-

“it’s just the way
you look at it——–

man is
an animal too

“Let us go now
and meet the cattle train;
it should be arriving
from Warsaw
or Berlin

T.J Daniels



I’m not sure why I write poetry All I know is that I HAVE to I MUST!! The words come and I must write them down If I didn’t write something down that wanted to be written, I would feel something inside of me, desperatly trying to get out

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and know who I really am
After my divorce, I lived alone for many years, but I don’t really recommend that, unless you’re such a great person that you can get along with anyone, including yourself I don’t live alone anymore, I live with a friend I finally got tired of me
I don’t own any dogs or cats I don’t dislike animals, I just enjoy them much more if they are owned by someone else I live in Wisconsin.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
T.J Daniels and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Merciful Beasts

Some were thrown
to the lions
Some were thrown
to more hedious beasts
The lions
were more merciful.

Peter Desmond


Peter H Desmond lives in Cambridge, Mass , where he prepares tax returns and writes poems you can see some of his published work at http://members.nbci.com/peterdesmond/poetry.htm

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Peter Desmond and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

At the Museum Cafe

For lunch I order matzo ball soup
before I tour the museum
“How was it?” asks the waitress
as she wipes the table
“It was light,” I say “Airy A dense matzo ball
is like a stone in your stomach “

She smiles “Some people ask me
why it doesn’t have noodles, or carrots “

Halfway through the exhibit
I reach the hollow boxcar
stenciled “Karlsruhe” on its side:

Karlsruhe, Rhineland hometown
of my German ancestors,
car that rolled towards Mauthausen,

crammed with Jews
from one of the
four hundred ghettos,

each with its traditions,
its folk songs,
its recipes for soup.

David Gershator


David Gershator lives in Saint Thomas in the U.S Virgin Islands.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
David Gershator and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

These I Will Remember
,,,,Ele Ezkérah

Memory? What memory?
The uncles aunts cousins
father’s sisters
nameless nameless
not known unknown
and most forgotten
the nameless close family
the nameless collection
my ersatz collection
my make believe family
so few names remain
and among them shadows
of shadows
how shall I remember these?
Ele Ezkérah
the Ten Yom Kippur martyrs
of the prayerbook
at least we know their names!*
what names do I go by
why are names so nameless
this hunger for names
with or without Yom Kippúr
this hunger
that nothing can assuage
returns again and again
this hunger will never be broken
this hunger to know the named
and the nameless
Ele Ezkérah
these I shall remember
without a memory to go on

*The martyrs of the Hadrianic
persecution after the Bar Kohba
revolt of 132-135 C.E.

Jerry Hoff


My name is Jerry Hoff, am 65 (years of age), semi-retired–live in Akron, Ohio

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Jerry Hoff and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


She kept looking over her shoulder
as she walked away–wearing ragged clothing
streaked red and blood-brown as was her
scattered skin She kept looking over her sloping shoulder
like a woman accustomed to doing so The whites of her melancholy eyes,
as she flashed her naked face back,
were like the concluding remarks
of a lecture on the benefits
of being guilty With her chin flanked left and a deft
pirouette into the legerdemain
of her calculated camouflage,

she disappeared–she and her sister
Was the magic in the black ink
of her tattoo, or the yellow star on her armband?

Ken Jones


HOUSTON, Texas-Ken Jones has been a pubished poet for over 20 years.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Ken Jones and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Know That Evil is Close at Hand

One fly buzzes us
In Mauthausen’s gas chamber
So many spirits

Ward Kelley


Ward Kelley has seen more than 800 of his poems appear in journals world wide since he began publishing in 1996 A Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelley’s publication credits include such journals as: ACM Another ChicagoMagazine, Rattle, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Spillway, Porcupine Literary Magazine, Pif, Melic Review, PoetrySuperHighway, 2RiverView, The Animist, Offcourse, Potpourri and Skylark He has been honored as featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Physik Garden, Poetry Life& Times, and Pyrowords

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Ward Kelley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Elegant With Guilt

Yes, we all want to be Jews, for there
is a need deep in all of us to become
the very people our ancestors persecuted
No one, I notice, ever wants to be Irish,
or Lithuanian for that matter, since we
have not suffered with as much literary

grace as the Jews, nor have we wrestled
so elegantly with guilt, even though we
tried to be Catholic, and in the end we

see we’re very angry with life, but who
can admit such a thing? So we instead
rail all the way to the core of our anger,

and there we find ourselves as distraught
children ;then, aghast with us, we fall
in love with the thought of persecution.

Artist’s note:
Abba Kovner (1918-1987), Jewish partisan leader during World War II, thanked
the Mother Superior of the Dominican convent who hid him from the Nazis, “You
have done so much for the Jews.” She responded, “In this situation, a Jew is
the only decent thing to be.”

Christine Lennon


Christine has been writing poetry and prose for more than 20 years She resides in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia (Harrisonburg) She is the editor of “Verse Libre Quarterly” (http://thispoetgirl.com/verselibre) and “The Eclipse” (http://theeclipse.net) She is a freelance web designer and writer/artist Her design studio is Artisan Studio (http://artisanstudio.org)
She has also been a magician’s assistant, an “extra” in a few movies, a computer operator, a licensed artist in New Orleans’ French Quarter, a soldier in this girl’s U S Army, a baker, and a student of all things interesting (currently, flying small aircraft) She is also a Master Poet in Ardeon’s Poets Guild Her publication credits include Poems Niederngasse, New World Poetry, Free Zone Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Countless Horizons, The White Shoe Irregular, Bay Review Liberal Arts Journal, Friction Magazine, 2 River View, Kota Press, Absinthe, The White Shoe Irregular, Clean Sheets, Erosha, and a forthcoming issue of Beauty for Ashes She is also a contributor to “In Their Own Words; a generation defining itself ” Her other personal poetry sites are Pieces of me (http://thispoetgirl.com) and Allegory (http://stas.net/poems).

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Christine Lennon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


She was weathered
aged, a basket dangled
from her arm
as she felt tomatoes
at a long table
in downtown Darmstadt’s
out door market

She placed several firm
red ones in the basket
and moved on, shuffling
steps, to apples

I wondered if she was
once tattooed
and shaven

or had she hidden
a Jewish family
in her cellar

or had she been
the kept woman
of a polished and
decorated SS officer
his glossy shoes
typically beneath her bed

perhaps, instead
she’d kissed her
Luftwaffe pilot good-bye
one last time
before the RAF
shot him down

or had she only been
squeezing her tomatoes
waiting for the world
to stop spinning

Joleen Lutz


Joleen Lutz, from Los angeles, California,  is a playwrite, poet and actress Author of “Poetry without Prozak”

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Joleen Lutz and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Filthy Rich

The business still bears the name
A name that should be hidden in hushed tones

Justice has long passed it’s time
But there is still time for truth

“I too have a name worth remembering”
Cry the children of Auschwitz

It’s only propaganda”
Reply the sons of famos Nazis

The building still reads his name
His name bleeds .Mengele.

Peter Magliocco


PETER MAGLIOCCO, 52, single white writer, was raised in Southern California but has spent the last 16 years editing the lit-art zine, ART:MAG, out of Las Vegas, Nevada His bio appears in the Marquis’ WHO’S WHO IN AMERICA 2001 He labors in the security field for a day job, but has worked in print shops, warehouses, & telemarketing boiler rooms His next poetry chapbook is “POEMS & STORIES OFFLINE” from JVC Books, due this summer Also a freelance artist, he’s done drawings for several small press outlets like NOW HERE NOWHERE, NERVE COWBOY, FIRST CLASS, et al His recent fiction & poetry’s at THE ANGRY THOREAUAN, COMRADES, GNOME, THE DOOMED CITY, FRICTION, THE PHYSIK GARDEN, THUNDER SANDWICH, & elsewhere .

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Peter Magliocco and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Of a Vision in the Anne Frank House

There was something bruised
on your sister’s corpse: Her breasts
once milkwheat gold, now shadow-livid
with welts impeccable from flaying There was something
in your sister’s tomb debauchery stilled,
a sweat-chilled wend
of something not right
in looming hair-branches
She was not dead
but at fourteen years
poised to live for eternities I was smitten
by inescapable truisms, & placed
porcelain gifts inside her coffin
bearing plant life clot-filled,
amid loam from hyacinth fields
There was something
in her last look suspended
which said another would take
her growth from there
& to the masses give back truth
(An uncontrolled sustenance?)

As only a child prophet mired in slumber
could give to the memory of still-born souls

Val Magnuson


Val Magnuson: http://valmagnuson.com, Author of “Destiny”, editor of the “Company of Women”, upcoming book, “Five Gates of Poetry,” was born in Detroit, Michigan BA, MBA and is a stained glass artist- Her work has been exhibited in both the Corning Museum of Glass and the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, Canada- Her work is published world-wide.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Val Magnuson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Provisional Existence

There are no words strong enough
To disclose
The places that need to be known
From not so far away
From not so long ago

Provisional existences
Cut down
Within the Hall of Remembrance
Oh, the faces
Forever diminished

There was an angel
Dwelling in one of these inescapable places
That fate had hit her so hard

From a path of affluence and abundance
The only return
Not so far away
Not so long ago

She calls
To the only creature visible
From her window
A chestnut tree

Speak to me
Speak to me!
Chestnut tree
How silently she whispered

The tree assured her
I am here
I am here
I am life
Eternal life

In the sea of man’s truest inhumanity to man
The angel was tossed upon
The breakers of provisional existence
Crashing into shores of nothingness

May prayers
The memories of these places

Stazja McFadyen


From print to performance, poetry societies to slams, Stazja McFadyen, nee Braunstein, is an equal opportunity poet Her works have appeared in over 200 print and electronic publications in the US, Canada, England and Australia She has featured throughout the United States, most recently at Poetic License in Los Angeles, Oscar’s in Houston, and Dialogue Among Civilizations Through Poetry readings in Austin
Committed to spreading the word for poets worldwide, she publishes Map of Austin Poetry weekly e-newsletters and coordinates Austin International Poetry Festival each April   

She has published four chapbooks, most recently: Two Bit Love Poems Cheap, $5 Buys You 21, available from the author at stazja@aol.com

Stazja was voted Poetry Super Highway’s 1998 Favorite Featured Poet She lives in Austin, Texas.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Stazja McFadyen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Sunday Recital, Interrupted

Sunny parlor, air alive with
dust moats floating on the tinkling
music of piano keys in
upper octave, Rachel singing
Last rehearsal, first recital,
finest dress and hair in ribbons,
freckles scrubbed to pink and glowing,
fingers arched against misgivings
Mother makes her preparations,
polishing the silver service Lily-patterned china tea cups
set by proud hands, white and nervous
Underfoot and in the way,
Father paces, disconcerted,
pops his knuckles, tugs at tie knot,
hiding tears, his eyes averted
Footfalls heard beyond the window,
stomping past in marching cadence Thirty fingers clenched in silence,
pounding hearts devoid of patience
Seconds rage from mantle clock Guests arrive by invitation No one home to answer knocks,
hadn’t time for cancellation.

Barbara Nightingale


Barbra Nightingale has had over 100 poems accepted for or published in numerous poetry journals and anthologies, such as Calyx, Kalliope, Many Mountains Moving, Birmingham Review, Chatahoochee Review, Liberty Hill Poetry Journal, Florida in Poetry, The MacGuffin, Crosscurrents, The Kansas Quarterly, Cumberlands Poetry Journal, Passages North, The Florida Review, The Palmetto Review, The South Florida Poetry Review, Coydog Review, Red Light/Blue Light, Voices International, Visions International, Teaching English in the Two-Year College, and The Poet.

Singing in the Key of L, her first full length collection, won the 1999 Stevens Poetry Manuscript Award and was published by the National Federation of Poetry Societies (June, 1999).She has had four chapbooks published, Lovers Never Die(1981), Prelude to a Woman (1986), and Lunar Equations (1993), and Greatest Hits (1980-2000) PuddingHouse Press, 2000.

Barbra Nightingale holds a doctoral degree in Higher Education and is Professor of English at Broward Community College, South campus, Florida, where she was awarded the 1997 James L Knight Endowed Teaching Chair.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Barbara Nightingale and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

No Dream
(for Henry & Sabrina Frydman)
(first published in The MacGuffin, 1994)

Night after night
the soldier watches
the woman give birth–
takes the baby
still wet from the womb
tosses it up high
into the unwilling air
then shoots with his rifle
the yet unwailing target
Silk in winter
wool in summer,
real showers
icy cold, scalding hot-
counting, always counting
in the deadly night
while bodies drop
like snowflakes, like rain
into puddles of bone Confusion breeds fear,
submission breeds silence
And always the air
thick with ash
the smell of flesh-
mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,
aunts, uncles, grandparents, children
a magician’s trick
up in smoke
through the nights, the days,
the long, aimless marches
through woods, glass,
barefoot and bleeding,
past memory, beyond reason
some survived
and fifty years later
it is still no dream.

Barbara Phillips


I have had work published in publications such as The Canadian Writers Journal and in anthologies in the Open Window and No Love Lost series I was a winner in a poetry anti-contest run by imp press in Vanderhoof B.C in Canada I was a featured poet on the PK List site and have had work appearing in Transparent Words as well as in various ‘challenges’ supported by the PK List I live in Toronto in Canada.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Barbara Phillips and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

After Battles

beneath the sod souls bleed
roots claw away from trees
supplicants who raise arms skyward
imbued with eternal grief

winds erase time
stunned into skeletal silence
across walls stained by tears
immovable through rains or snow

voices rise in dry whispers
ricochet across violated spaces
wasted into voided sepulchers
past hope of reclamation

Alex Stolis


Alex Stolis lives and works in Minneapolis, Minnesota  After a ten-year hiatus, during which he had kids, got sober, changed careers (from Hotel Management to Drug and Alcohol Counselor) and got divorced, Alex has returned to writing poetry  In the past year, he has edited the on-line Literary review Samsara and has been published both on-line and in print Recent publications include Ilya’s Honey, Stirring, Nerve Cowboy, Thin Coyote and Chiron Review.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Alex Stolis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

On the Day Maximillian Kolbe Died

Wind carves rosettes in dirt,
sticks to tongues like shoe leather,
a blank eye turns yellow in the shade,
drapes a lash over sunburned roofs,  
summer is cut into a quilted garden Tattooed arms wrap prayers in brown grass,
fingers, thin stiff poles
spear words into the sky’s throat
beat down clouds that walk with compound fractures,
wait for the steel drip of sleep  

David Taub


Columnist, Journalist, Consultant Editor, Poet, Lecturer and Narrator / Voice-over talent Born in England, David currently lives and writes in Umatilla, Florida His poetry and various magazine articles have been, published in England and North America He was an editorial board member and overseas columnist for Writers’ Forum (UK) magazine, is overseas columnist for Poetry Now (UK) magazine, Consultant Editor to UNKNOWN Magazine (USA),and also freelances for other USA & UK publications Finally, his current co-authored hardcover book, Language of Souls is an entrant for the Pulitzer Letters David Taub’s website is www.ukpoet.cjb.net.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
David Taub and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

In Denial of Atrocity
“It never happened!”-his dark, empty eyes
stared through me
“I never saw bodies burned Nor black stenched smoke –
from towering stacks- ten miles away…”

And the horror of rattling train-trucks –
“It NEVER happened!” (He emphasised “never” )
“Train trucks?-Cattle –
I heard the low moans-cattle, cattle, cattle …”
Through clenched teeth, “It never happened!”

His mind could not calculate –
could not comprehend such numbing numbers “I was there-never happened –
lies, lies, lies …” he spat
“Perhaps a few I heard about a few I never saw them BUT … I was there!”
A flicker of anger A brief break
in his otherwise stoic stance “We all knew it never happened!
Yes ALL!” (he emphasised “all” …)

My mind caught and dwelt upon one word –
“Knew “
Past tense-‘what they wanted to know’ Knowing what they never saw-or knew –
or did not want to know?

what we know now,
is not what we thought we knew
then …

Lawrence Upton


Lawrence Upton’s publications include Initial Dance, housepress, Canada; Game on a line, PaperBrain Press, USA; & Meadows, Writers Forum, UK With Bob Cobbing, he co-authored D.A.N ## 1-300 and co-edited Word Score Utterance Choreography in verbal and visual poetry He is chair of Sub Voicive Poetry He lives in London

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Lawrence Upton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Photograph: Child, Warsaw, dead

beyond the face you can see, at least one other face, your own
beyond the face, you can see flirtation
and beyond that, one other face your own
and beyond that are several who are cybernetic
a few, each with their own doom, shuffle near to the therapist

in my foreword, I bid to refer to this; and to gain kudos
this exhibit is of a recent mass-produced moccasin
how happy are we?

we said that a sturdy process is informal; we said that a queer expression
and a good explanation could be thought to exemplify goodness

Garth Wehrfritz-Hanson


Garth Wehrfritz-Hanson is a Canadian poet, living in Calgary, Alberta He has two poetry web sites–Garth’s Page with fortunecity, and Lo Gos Room with tripod He experiments with different genres, but gravitates towards freeverse His interests and involvements include the Canadian Council of Christians and Jews and Amnesty International.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Garth Wehrfritz-Hanson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Remembering the Shoah

The Shoah:
may humankind
never forget
the hatred
and evil
that killed
six million
of Abraham’s
and Sarah’s
daughters and sons
What words
shall ever
come close
enough to
adequately describe
the Shoah?
We are
all silenced
before such
destruction of life
Yet speak
we must,
to remember
the dead
and teach
the world
all humans
are sisters
and brothers,
children of God
It is 
divinely ordained
that we
live and
work together
for true
shalom and
love to
overcome all
hatred and evil.

Laura Winton


Laura Winton is a poet, playwright, and spoken word performer and editor and publisher of Karawane: Or, the Temporary Death of Bruitist.  Her poetry and short fiction have been published in journals around the country She performs her work at open mics, cabarets, and arts and theatre festivals around Minneapolis.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by
Laura Winton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

A Surrealist in Dachau
For Robert Desnos

How do we live with the loss of the sun?

The skin falls from my bones;
I have never slept Leaves crumble between broken teeth
my words are dust spit dry
from my tongue leaving ash
and wishes gray upon my lips The exiled
Queen of Yugoslavia enters the Gates
riding the white buffalo
sacred whore defiant she breaks
open seals reads proclamations
adjusts her hair in the
dawn she walks alone
there are a million yellows
hands dis-
embodied in prayer await
the day, clasp beads to their bosom When you
look into the sky have you forgotten
how many times you bisected the clouds?
Your arms forget themselves, how once
they reached, their bones slump limp
and empty Your mothers
crawled out of the ocean and left you
grounded Every hair
is numbered on your head woven
into the shroud you sleep in A surrealist
in Dachau digs his own ditch Lie
down now and dream in color Remember how the pools
of the moon once washed your wounds Pray for ecstasy and say
Goodbye to the sun.

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