December 27, 1999-January 16, 2000: Marcielle Brandler, Michael David Coffey, Mark Marston and Christina Kiplinger-Johns

week of December 27, 1999-January 16, 2000

Marcielle Brandler, Michael David Coffey
Mark Marston and Christina Kiplinger-Johns

Marcielle Brandler

Bio (auto)

Marcielle Brandler’s poetry has been published in journals such as Southern California Anthology, Africa World Press, New Alliance Records, Nueva Generacion Literaturas, and many others.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Marcielle Brandler and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

When I Used to Drive the Fast Lane

I thought it would be easiest,
would get me there fastest,
but I kept getting lost The oncoming lights blinded me
The debris from other failures
always slowed me up So many
times, I took the wrong road
and found I couldn’t get off
So many faces behind speeding
walls and windows I thought
I could see So many eyes in
my rear-view mirror; someone

I could have loved, someone
who thought wrongly of me,
someone I thought I wanted,
someone who broke me

down and left me stranded I wanted to make these happy
times with a song that would
blast to the others But they

were bouncing to their own
tunes or chatting on their
phones, barely aware of
the road There I was, more

alone by searching than if
I’d never gone out The road
cannot love me as separate,
since I am the road.

Decomposing Mystery
(To the Immortal Dancer, Pavlova)

My bare arms
reveal no joy
as joy would

have you
believe it
to be smiling
The beams
which ride on
my shoulders

are inside If ballet
is inherent

in the forest,
one becomes
a forest

only to

How I Want the Poem to Be

Closer and closer, I draw
it to me, focusing
the unleashed images,
the depth of uncharted
territories, chiseling
the mine of my mind
Where is the poem? How
will I know when I see it?
Will it be a person? Will
it be a voice in my head?
Will it have an odor?
Will I be enlightened
or simply amused?

Must I hold a standard,
or can I simply speak and
write the all-powerful
word? Am I vehicle, or
must I find vehicles?
As I give it birth, it
gives birth to me.

Michael David Coffey

Bio (auto)

Michael David Coffey , Moscow, Russia and Riverside, California

Poet , Photographer and Plant Pathologist

I am a scientist, a biologist, a citizen of the world In my professional life I have sought to fight the diseases that attack our food crops I am also fascinated by the microbial life some of which plagues our world causing misery and disease As long as I can remember I have also been interested in history, politics and the arts My own artistic outlets were, and are, in photography but about 2 years ago I began writing poetry It was on the way back from a trip to Russia Somewhere in that journey I became intensely interested in some Russian poets, Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetayeva and Yevgeny Yevtushenko And began reading Nikki Giovanni,  Pablo Neruda, and others In two years I have written about a thousand poems My style is my own and I am not unduly influenced by schools or rules Many of my works are posted on my website DeepWaters and selected poems have appeared in various online publications such as Eclectica Magazine, Journal of the Tigerlily, Poetry Downunder,  Poetry4Peace, Seeker Magazine, etc My first published poem And the Children Cried appeared recently in the Artist’s Proof issue of an anthology of poems Will Work for Peace edited by Brett Axel

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Michael David Coffey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Mountains craving
attention in the
surging foam
of a summer storm
Rio came amid
the brown bodies
Sensuous lips and
curves of hillsides
Enclosing the skyscraper
cathedrals and
tree lined streets
of Leblon

It was a dream
among the chitter
chatter of
Rio’s chic elite
And the disco mania
rocking electric
metallic clatter
of the night club’s
In Copacabana’s
fertile fields
of tighthipped
swaying princesses
and macho princes

It’s Rio’s prayer
among the surly
surf kisses on
long languid sandy
And early morning
joggers and
those brown bodies
in micro magnificence
In switch swaying
attention grabbing
On hot sands and
tie dyed cotton
And the foamy
surf surging
on sandy souls

It’s dark
and enchanting magic
lights of
And samba soothing
So we dance and
flirt to the
play of the jazz
band and
the soft sounds
of the singer
Surging feelings
and swaying
dancing to
the long night

It’s hot and humid
and the high hotel
Room in magical
dusky sultry
And those soft
brown eyes
And glittering
display of
seductive cloth
Slowly removed
and the
rhythmic magic
of the Southern
night of
Over and over
And Rio was
I remember


Tangled barbwire thistles, broken bricks
Glass green emerald shards
Hillocks and mounds
A bombscape field of adventure
Black broken down bicycle
Chariot of fire, armored car
Hurtling through the air
Mud, blue sky, sweat and adventure
At 12 it seemed like paradise
As I patrolled my city block
Bombed flat ten years before

Strange how a war torn field
In a city of destruction
Became my escape to nature
But the thistles, the nettles,
Purple loosestrife in profusion
Were my glory
My whirlwind adventure
And my black rusty steed
It was my freedom from repression
And sometimes, rarely
I went with Margaret there

She was my soulmate
In the forests of a chapel
We built a wooden house there
Like Robin Crusoe in a city block
But this place was behind tall walls
Of decaying brick, crumbling
And within behind the white and black
A forest, wild in the city confusion
Dense thickets of young sycamores
That we cut and hewed
And created our seclusion there
A secret place in a secret world
Of youthful joys, native creation

Urban Fusions

Skyline conglomerate, aggregated alps
Confusion, in the traffics belching anger
Sounds reverberating in the glassy canyons
Clanking, groaning, the cable cars
Crunch, fume, steel cables winding
Shouts, slinky tight skirts, lean long
Legs scurrying, hurrying to the lean
Tall pyramidal cathedrals of commerce
Shadows of the urban forest, shrouding
The day’s promise, in sleek limousines
Oriental princesses and bankers
In conurbation fast time, collision
The forest, dark, dense, enclosing
The mad bustle, hustle, commerce chasm
Bookstores, exotic foodstores, fuckstores
Italy in cappuccino, beat generation relics
Church on the green, clank, clank
City of hills, mind emanations, poetry
Irish, Italians, Catholics, gays, lesbians
Fascinating fringe revolution, culture
Asia in Ireland, Guinness and Italian pasta

Mark Marston

Bio (auto)

I am a poet based out of Mahtomedi, MN Skirting the twin cities My work has appeared in many journals including SKINNER’S IRREGULAR HORSE, OFFERINGS MAGAZINE, AND RE/AL I will have two poems posted in January on Ralph Haselmann’s Lucidmoon poetry website

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Mark Marston and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Sitting .Thinking

I am sitting on a toilet seat
warmed by another man’s buttocks
I wonder how many germs can be spread
through the buttocks
All of the thoughts that go through
your head on the toilet
Like, who was here before me?
He’s got a story all his own
And just how clean is this water
that splashes on my ass?

And why can’t they fill the Sahara
with cactus crossbred with corn?

The Cold War Kid

My era in history has no equivalent As a child of the cold war, I thought the world
could end tomorrow, and probably would So polarized So powerful People brought together people dragged apart My vision of tomorrow was warped and skewed Looking back on it, all comes down to money There was no threat because of the threat
of the second strike The what if scenario was always there Long range planning was short sighted A situation no one would confront
finally crumbled (literally) on it’s own Eastern Europe saw Solidarity Too bad
it didn’t spread across the ocean
to this side Because that’s what we all need after all.

Gannon, part II

I am watching my daughter at play She is the beautiful wife,
neighbor boy the husband They have beautiful children
I know the day will come
when I will have to let her go As of now, I can’t see myself
doing it, I’ll never be ready
She is the reason I’m still here Everywhere I go is because of her I work to keep her clothed,
warmed, fed, healthy, loved
She is my life
and she doesn’t even know it She is my first thought of the day My life is good.

Blow Up

I wish I could just blow myself up
shards of me floating
soaring everywhere across
the night sky
in brilliance, I am brilliant
touching all
leaving my mark
spreading the sickness
spreading the laughter
spreading the heart
spreading the love
I wish I could just blow myself up

Christine Kiplinger-Johns

Bio (auto)

Christina Kiplinger-Johns is a Canton, Ohio poet who has spent most of her life in Ohio Cleveland, Cincinnati and Cambridge are only a few of the Ohio cities in which she has lived With over 500 pieces of her work published, the poems below are part of a collection,Sunnyside At Midnight, which is looking for a home

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Christina Kiplinger-Johns and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Journey To Sunnyside

People have queried
Since I am an outsider
How I came to Sunnyside
And why I stay I smile and tell them
That I had been
Passing through
And the town
Was so nice I stayed I don’t mention
The monsters hot on my trail
Or the shackles
The police have attached
To my bed .


Fudd the clown
Can be found
At funerals
Passing out his flyers The response is quite good
To Fudds’s mildewed, bloodstained garb,
Of which he has six exact replicas
In his closet at home Once the jeers of the crowds
Have subsided,
When Fudd returns to his damp
Basement apartment-
The clown sits in front
Of a brightly lit looking glass
And heavily applies his
“Clown Face Erase,”
Smiling, Fudd is done and he
Grins at an empty, reflectionless mirror .


Doctor Cracker is the baby-deliverer
Of the town In his black bag, he carries
A stethoscope and a variety of
“female instruments”
he rarely uses In his lint-filled coat pocket,
He totes his most-used tool
A small, feather-filled pillow,
With which he hushes
All wails
At birth.


Sunnyside has no time-
Only the change of seasons Winter, spring, summer, fall,
How long have I been here?
I don’t know Seasons
I have observed deaths
I have observed births It’s only strange that Sunnyside’s population
Is affected by neither .

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