Founder's Favourites - Issue 12

Founder’s Favourites Issue 12-Sept 2020 Bruce Levine Ed Ruzicka Gaiyle J. Connolly Jack D. Harvey

Jerrice J. Baptiste John Grey Ken Wetherington Morgan D. Bazilian Nancy Lou Henderson Nolo Segundo Sarah Henry Stella Mazur Preda

Founder’s Favourites | September 2020—Issue 12 | 1

Founder’s Favourites Issue 12-Sept 2020 Bruce Levine

Why They’re My Favourites

 To The Heights of the Limitless ....................................... 4

 Bruce Levine

 Vegetating ....................................................................... 5  The Road Ahead .............................................................. 6 Ed Ruzicka

 The Blow ....................................................................... 22  Vacuum ......................................................................... 22  The Generosity of Cups ................................................. 23 Gaiyle J. Connolly

Envelop .......................................................................... 3 Jack D. Harvey

 Cats ............................................................................... 18 Jerrice J. Baptiste

After the Rain ................................................................ 14 Cloudsky ....................................................................... 15 John Grey

Walking by the House You Grew Up In ........................... 8 A Face at the Window ..................................................... 9 Amanda Says................................................................. 10 Memories of my Father Shaving ................................... 11 The Girl Who Sat in Front of Me in High School .......... 12 Ken Wethierngton

 Boy’s Night Out ............................................................ 24 Morgan D. Bazilian

Tests .............................................................................. 26 Puppy ............................................................................ 27 Nancy Lou Henderson

Leaves ........................................................................... 16 I Lost Me ....................................................................... 17 The Trench Coat ........................................................... 21 Nolo Segundo

A Passing Glance ............................................................ 7 The Book Lady .............................................................. 13 Sarah Henry

 Mother Bear .................................................................. 19 Stella Mazur Preda

One Very Old Tree ........................................................ 28 Twister .......................................................................... 20

To The Heights of the Limitless The words imagination and limitless. The Road Ahead I love the phrase ‘raining memories and longings.’ Vegetating It’s a favourite because I relate to this so much.

 Ed Ruzicka

The Blow I like that the nail is as thin as a streak of rain.

Vacuum I like seeing the vacuum’s controlled whirlwind— the toy tornado—in my mind’s eye. The Generosity of Cups I love the last three lines.

 Gaiyle J. Connolly

Envelop I love the analogy to an envelope—contents private and full recipients.

 Jack D. Harvey

Cats I like that they live at night and trust the moon.

 Jerrice J. Baptiste

After the Rain I love the idea of ladybug kisses. Cloudsky I like the image of “Cloudsky” tracing each of his grandchildren.

 John Grey

Amanda Says I like she didn’t blame God when things went wrong, and the last line. Walking By The House You Grew Up In The senses in this poem made it a favourite. It gave me the yikes feeling. A Face in the Window I love the word choices. And the last line. Memories of my Father Shaving The visual is a comforting one. The Girl Who Sat In Front Of Me In High School I You never know who you’ll influence!

 Ken Wetherington

Boy’s Night Out The dogs perspectives of humans and the ending made this a favourite.

 Morgan D. Bazilian

Tests and Puppy These are current and relatable.

 Nancy Lou Henderson

Life Is Brief The motions in this piece make it my favourite. I Lost Me I relate to the emotions and experience. The Trench Coat This fun perspective has a surprising twist!

 Nolo Segundo

A Passing Glance I like that the ladies can still enrapture this senior. The Book Lady The phrase ‘cavern of books’ and book adoption is awesome.

 Sarah Henry

Mother Bear I love perspective submissions. And this bear’s environment brings me comfort.

 Stella Mazur Preda

Twister I hope I never go through one but am glad for the experience while reading this shape poem. One Very Old Tree I love the phrase ‘inaudible heartbeat of the woodland’!

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Envelop

By Gaiyle J. Connolly You envelop me.

We are an envelope, the contents private we are not stamped with a seal of approval yet we are full recipients not mere occupants no need to return to sender.

fox17 | stock.adobe.com

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To The Heights of the Limitless

by Bruce Levine One’s life is only limited by one’s imagination And since one’s imagination is limitless Life can reach to the heights of the limitless If one has the courage to dream and imagine what’s limitless

Fotoschlick—stock.adobe.com

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Vegetating

by Bruce Levine Vegetating A specialty of mine Not asleep Not awake A semi-comatose state Languishing And yet transporting Thoughts seeking their own repose While fulfilling their own destiny A sidewalk paved with particles of energy Mindfulness intertwined with reality A speed racer in slow motion Testing the waters while hovering in space Fantasy or frivolity Finalizing without finality The essence of thought

paton47—pixabay.com

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The Road Ahead

By Bruce Levine Focusing on tomorrow Without forgetting the past Building new bridges In an everlasting chain In the hierarchy of life The future prevailing As time marches Through a parade of confetti Raining memories and longings Past, present and future Silken threads entwined Holding the promise Of new beginnings With a fanfare Played on heraldic trumpets Polished brass Reflecting tomorrow

Free-Photos | Pixabay.com

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A Passing Glance

By Nolo Segundo The other day as I turned the corner onto my quiet street I saw a woman so perfect, she snatched my breath away as she waited to cross the road.

It was like seeing a movie star or a beauty queen close up-my heart ached a bit, I confess, when I thought, once, a long time ago, I might have had a chance….

But now I’m just an old man driving an old car to an old house.

I drove slowly and could see her gracefully crossing the street in my rear-view mirror, much like a dream fading quickly away … suddenly, from somwhere far beyond my mind, I realized the truth of what I saw: that it was all just stupid illusion-she was young and beautiful, I, old and lame, but those were just markers on the wheel of time.

The wheel would turn, my body would die, hers would age, no longer enrapturing men—in truth she was already an old woman which I could not see, nor could I see the sweet child still playing within her.

When there are no more days left, our souls will be free of the wheel, and all the world’s illusions will seem as distant, fading dreams.

Alfons Ven | stock.adobe.com

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Walking By The House You Grew Up In

By John Grey What is all this?

A gutter dangling from the roof, busted tiles, bird nests in the eaves.

Half the house painted, the rest abandoned to the peeling of its previous coat.

A pit-bull snarling from a rusty cage.

A couple of skinny cats pursued by a grubby kid in nothing but his underpants.

Tattooed men leaning over a stripped-down car parked sideways across the front lawn.

A loud-voiced woman cussing through the kitchen window.

You used to live here.

Now you never did.

Nancy Galligan | stock.adobe.com

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A Face at the Window

By John Grey Here is the sunrise.

The front door, the windows, are turning into gold.

Dew-tipped grass-stalks glow like candles.

The filigree of a maple tree is blurred by dazzle.

I’m at the window in my bare feet, and bared face.

Light moves in.

Morning fills veins with something other than blood.

Piranhi | stock.adobe.com

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Amanda Says

By John Grey She’s the last of my friends who still believes in heaven.

She’s well-educated, a philosophy major.

And yet she’s always been a believer.

In someone watching out for her.

In someone listening.

In paradise at the end of all this.

She’s beaten cancer twice.

So she’d had her miracles but also times when God didn’t come through.

Like when she lost her husband two years into the marriage.

And her miscarriage two weeks beyond the funeral.

And her mother’s drawn-out painful dying.

But she didn’t blame God. Merely praised His beneficence when He put her out of her misery.

But she’s always been a good listener.

I tell her my troubles and she doesn’t recommend that I see a priest.

She has enough human answers to help assuage human problems.

I don’t have to get born again.

I can go on living the life I’m halfway through.

But there are times when my earthbound scientific mind, just once, wants to engage her everlasting spirit in some kind of no-holds barred, metaphysics versus empiricism debate.

No loud voices. No personal attacks.

Everything calm and measured like a chapter from a book by C. S. Lewis.

But how do you argue against yourself?

O college professor with a new book to write?

O holy woman within?

tookapic | pixabay.com

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Memories Of My Father Shaving

By John Grey The clouds of lather, tight grip of the razor’s handle, the sharp gleaming blade, the slow skate around the chin, gentle paring of the upper lip, glissading the throat like a ski-jump in reverse – and now, with my electric Remington, I shave in prose. vargazs | Pixabay.com

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The Girl Who Sat In Front of Me in High School

By John Grey

Her back was rose-pink in winter, lightly freckled in spring, then beautifully tanned as summer waned into fall.

Occasionally, she turned around so the guy who sat in front of her could write his poem.

Nicola | stock.adobe.com

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The Book Lady

By Nolo Segundo She travels with grace through the caverns of books, searching for the neglected, the forgotten, the abandoned, then slowly, sadly, she pulls them off the shelves and places them in the box of fate, destined now either for adoption or a re-incarnation in some lesser form-perhaps as paper bags or toilet paper-- what once had been thoughts and poems and even magical words....

Simonetta | stock.adobe.com

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After The Rain

By Jerrice J. Baptiste I watch her encircling my wrist.

Black spotted red wings.

My eyes and heart in awe of a tiny creature—lady bug with power to bring good luck.

And the long deep breath she summons. Kissing delicate skin.

onepicnowords—Pixabay.com

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Cloudsky

By Jerrice J. Baptiste His brown hands & fingers extend as he kneels to feel soil.

And each object in his hand, a clam shell, a red mango, a white feather. Can I touch your face?

I want to know you better, he requests. He traces features of each one of his ten grandchildren, names them without a word exchanged. His hands always reach toward sky as if to touch clouds. He’s known as Cloudsky.

Nikita | stock.adobe.com

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Life is Brief

By Nancy Lou Henderson Budding and growing in early Spring, shaping, then becoming colors of green.

Rustling and holding tight, cooling, then shading in the sunlight.

Changing and turning brown in the Fall, floating, then bouncing like a ball.

Rolling and sailing in the wind, rising, then gliding once again.

Twirling and dancing in the air, landing, then resting somewhere.

Understanding and loving being a leaf, Accepting, then knowing life is brief.

Gundula Vogel—stock.adobe.com

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I Lost Me

By Nancy Lou Henderson I lost a deep desire, with a brightly burning fire.

I lost the will to be, the truth inside of me.

I lost a yearning to be much more, but then faith led me to a new door.

Opening the door to a beautiful sight, finding me in the glowing light.

I lost me, but now I can see, I was not lost; God was holding me.

He gently put my feet on the ground, but surprise-filled me once turning around.

Glowing embers burned brightly at my feet below.

God placed on new logs then gave them a blow.

The logs began to flame as a new fire grew, but beyond the flames, there was something new.

A path laid beyond with many bends in the road, and at each bend stood an angel ready to help carry the load.

Far in the distance shone a beautiful light that I knew it would be a magnificent sight.

I lost me but only for a little while.

My faith found me, and then God made me smile.

Jurgen Falchle | Adobe.stock.com

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Cats

By Jack D. Harvey Cats' philosophy.

Stay close to home.

Avoid people with cold hands; in plain sight hide all the time.

Walk alone.

Live at night.

Trust the moon.

Bessi | Pixabay.com

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Mother Bear

by Sarah Henry I found my den twelve years ago.

I amble there and fall asleep to pass the empty winter months mindlessly.

I don’t toss and turn, grind my teeth or have bad dreams.

My cubs are born while I sleep.

Life is easy for bears in winter.

Spring comes, and then my family crawls outside the den.

We travel through rivers, fields and leafy woods, Hunting for food, we’re a team.

The cubs get big and wander off at two years’ end.

In my den, winters stay calm again.

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Twister

By Stella Mazur Preda Twister

zigs and zags erratically through sycamores pines maples skips over shrubs crouched in hiding indiscriminately sucks up forest giants exposing black lesions leaving the wounded earth with gaping sores soil-encrusted tentacles tremble painfully subterranean inhabitants hurriedly scramble over each other seeking anonymity as if caught in compromising acts the spinning grayness swerves and accelerates taking a short cut tunnels through the Eldridge farmhouse spits out remnants of human existence like an old man chewing tobacco cattle juggled skilfully in mid-air dumped randomly bloated mounds littering the path of promiscuous rape dust clouds, pine trees and death a rancid perfume blending with the sweet smell of newly mown Kentucky bluegrass **published in Butterfly Dreams, 2003

tannujannu | stock.adobe.com

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only time I heard words from others was when my owner wore me after leaving his home.

The last time I heard my owner talk was as he placed what he called a key to secrets in my hidden pocket. The object felt light but had a strange shape, which was long, with one end feeling round, then my owner hung me on the hook in the hall. Later that evening, the phone rang, but I could not hear the conversation, then my owner ran out of the house, leaving me hanging on the hook. He never returned.

Soon a new person came into my owner's house, searched my pockets, but did not discover my secret pocket. I tried hard to keep my owner's key to secrets safe. Finding nothing in my other pockets, the stranger left. Not understanding what was going on, I continue to hang on my hook.

Days passed, then someone took me from the hook, folded me, and placed me in a container, but that same day, I was placed on a hanger then hung on a rack. There was lots of activity with many people talking around me. Soon a soft voice not as deep as my owners came close to me. A deeper voice asked the soft voice, "Young woman, may I help you?".

Taking me off of the hanger, the young woman answered, "I want to buy this trench coat."

Lightfield Studios | stock.adobe.com

The Trench Coat

By Nancy Lou Henderson

H

anging on a new hook now, but what the existence I have had.

My first owner was a man. After purchasing me, for some reason, the man took me to a tailor then instructed the tailor to add a secret pocket in my lining. At different times, strange items hid in this hidden pocket, some heavy and some lite. I held those items securely regardless of the weather conditions or the man's haste.

My new owner took me to a new place, then the young woman decided to go through my pockets, and she found the key to secrets. She seemed surprised startled, and questioning, as she exclaimed, "A key! What is it doing in my trench coat? It looks like a key to a bank safety deposit box!"

The next morning, the young woman took me off the hook, placed the key to secrets in my secret pocket, put me on her small body, then left her home. After a short stroll, she went into a building, asked to check her safety deposit box. Once inside another room, she took the key to secrets out of my hidden pocket. For a moment, the room was silent then I heard the young woman gasp as she exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! Is this real?"

Not being much of a talker, I heard very few words from this mysterious man. If he answered the phone, I would hang on the hook in the hall and listen to him say, "Yes, no, maybe, when, where, or what time." The rest of the time, he was silent. Although my owner listened to music, he never had visitors. The Founder’s Favourites | September 2020—Issue 12 | 21

Renee Gaudet | Pixabay.com

Vacuum

By Ed Ruzicka

The Blow

By Ed Ruzicka A hammer head is about the size of a heart, pounds and pounds. It is a fist made hard from forged steel that bangs a ten penny home.

Like many riveting rhythms, the tempo of my slams gets off set at times.

Blows fall in patterns, slack off, tap back up. Always my drumming comes from the muscles of men.

A circle saw shrieks. A concrete-drum churns.

My work is to marry two by four to two by six, set a frame in rectangles and squares, build a house and subdivision where only scrub and pine stood six months ago.

The nail itself has a pin prick point, gleams clean and thin as a streak of rain but can spike true through grains and flows of wood, hold for decades. Once all the nails are driven, I am set aside or slid into a leather holster.

The family moves in. Seasons are long.

There is outside and there is in.

There is safe respite and there is always work to be done in rough weather.

Both are good and both are needed.

The hammer’s heavy blow moves on.

I take it all in, do nothing but breath. until every grain, expanse, corner, fiber comes clean.

Bit by bit I lift, by steady breath raise.

I pack off what offends.

What is left behind is vivified, younger to the eye, better under tarsals, heels, soles.

With a tiny, controlled whirlwind, a toy tornado, I lift dust, scrap, hair off their landscape.

A vacuum glides, pivots, maneuvers with the thrust of an arm or subtle twist of a supple wrist.

A tornado breaks dying branches from the trees. Birds come back in, whistle bird songs. gunnar3000—stock.Adobe..com

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The Generosity of Cups

By Ed Ruzicka Formed of fired earth, glazed to love light, put down on dark shelves to rest stone silent.

I am a shape made to mimic the bell of cupped hands.

Contain, let well, meet thirst.

Picture the hands of the potter as they shape a cup, intense absorption in purpose, wheel’s spin, wet palms.

The freshness of water steamed, then steeped in ground black beans is what I offer today – what minerals coffee bushes could draw from mountain soil comes to you now in clay once gouged from along a creek bank, then baked.

Go ahead, bring me to your lips, drink long, slow and deep.

cstibi | Pixabay.com

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Boys’ Night Out Ken Wetherington

I

love the smell of my own urine, especially when spread over a mound of newly fallen pine needles. The mingling of scents is so distinctive—a definitive marker of my territory.

Barney must like it, too. He comes along and sticks his nose in it, but after a few seconds, he spoils it with his own discharge.

He looks at me with a wag of his tail and tilt of his head. I can’t stay mad at him. After all, he knows who the alpha male is.

We understand what’s expected when our humans put us out into the backyard just before bedtime. After peeing, we patrol the perimeter, sniffing along the chain link fence. It’s our duty to ensure the security of the household.

After dark on a crisp fall evening as I turned toward the backdoor, Barney howled. Something was up. I found him in the back corner, digging furiously at the base of the fence. A wild aroma floated lightly in the air. Barney’s got such a good nose. Better than mine, though I hate to admit it. He’s got that streak of hound in his genes.

I glanced toward the house. Could they not hear Barney’s racket?

It’s surprising how little humans are aware of the sights, sounds, and smells that surround them. And they underestimate us. We’ve learned a lot more from them than they have from us. I hear them say dogs can learn about six hundred words. Boy, if they only knew.

Barney’s excitement reached a fever pitch. He had identified his prey—possum! Those slow, dull-witted creatures inhabited the wooded area beyond our property. Their ugly, skeletal faces can haunt one’s nightmares. I’ve seen Barney chasing them in his dreams.

I shook off the creepy image. Barney had thrust his head and shoulders under the fence. He twisted, gave a push with his back legs, and was out. Arrrgh … I had to follow to keep him out of trouble. My body is rounder than his. It took a couple of minutes to wriggle through.

Even without tracking Barney’s scent, his baying led me right to him. He had trapped the possum in a hollow log, behind Old Man Winslow’s house. Thankfully, the opening didn’t provide enough room for him to reach the creature, but he sure created a fuss. All the dogs in the neighborhood heard him. A chain of canine gossip circled the block.

I nudged him, but he refused to budge. Then Old Man Winslow’s backdoor slammed. Trouble! The floodlight at the corner of his house outlined his lanky silhouette and the shotgun he carried. He spewed out a stream of curses. I pushed Barney again, just as a boom echoed through the night and buckshot jangled in the foliage. I think a pellet grazed Barney’s butt. He yowled and took off. We quickly distanced ourselves from the irrationally irate oldtimer.

The faint, desperate, callings of our humans reached my ears.

However, Barney had other ideas. He hustled across the street.

Before I could follow, a car with its blinding headlights zoomed by. Drat those infernal machines.

I knew where I would find Barney. Last time we got out, he discovered a feast in a trash can in the backyard of the house on the corner. When I got there, he was standing on his hind legs trying to pry loose the lid, oblivious to the humans’ pandemonium in the front yard. It took only a few seconds to understand that Coco, their French Poodle, had slipped out. I’d seen her when they took her for walks, but never off the leash.

After picking up a whiff of her essence, I yelped for Barney. He reluctantly left a partially eaten chicken breast and joined me for the hunt. We followed her trail up the cul-de-sac and through the woods, finding little patches of fur on prickly briars. Then her path circled back. Did she intend to return home or had she lost her bearings? I presumed the latter. We were gaining on her, though.

A loud, deep “woof” broke my concentration—Thor! What a big dufus. German Shepherds are supposed to be smart, but he obviously didn’t get his share of the breed’s usual genes. Thor—a stupid name for a stupid dog. What were his humans thinking?

They didn’t seem too bright, either.

His barking got louder and nearly drowned out yips from Coco.

We came upon an appalling scene near a mass of honeysuckle, its fragrance sweetening the night air. Thor strutted heroically, and Coco shimmied coquettishly.

This had to be stopped. Barney agreed. He dashed between them and into the honeysuckle. Thor, distracted from his quest, looked confused. His instinct to chase any moving object conflicted with his amorous desire. Barney bayed as if tracking prey. Thor started after him. Coco, clearly miffed, let out a summoning whine, but Thor’s short attention span had moved on.

I strode up to Coco, offering myself as an alternative to Thor’s brutish strength. She gave a haughty snort and turned her head.

How could she reject me? Maybe I didn’t have Thor’s muscles, but brains should count for something. She stuck her nose up in the air and sashayed away. Should I let her go or slink along behind, begging for a change of heart? I swallowed my pride and followed, though at a moderate distance.

Thor’s remote howls echoed. It sounded as though he had become tangled in a patch of briars. It would take a while to free himself.

Good riddance.

As we neared the woods behind my humans’ house, Coco halted.

Her body language indicated trouble. I sidled up beside her.

Before us stood a raccoon with glazed eyes and drool seeping from his mouth. It’s easy to outrun a rabid creature. They tend to move slowly and lack focus. But Coco stood frozen. Did she understand the danger?

I gave her a push, but she didn’t budge. The raccoon took an unsteady step toward us. I growled in Coco’s ear, yet she failed to move. I needed help. What had happened to Barney? His mournful outcry came from a couple of houses away. God, he was back at Old Man Wilcox’s, still after that damn possum. I called for him. Coco edged closer to me. I urged her to run, without result. Stupid dog! Common sense had apparently been bred out of her lineage.

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The raccoon stumbled. Now was our chance, but still she stood there. Then a rustling in the undergrowth drew my attention. What now? Barney emerged from the brush. A tall figure with a blinding flashlight followed.

When we hit the street, Coco’s humans found us and scooped her up, upsetting my desire for a romantic encounter. Wearily, we made our way home, where we first got a scolding, then tight hugs and some dog treats.

Blam! The sonic impact nearly knocked me over, but it spurred Coco from her stupor. She, Barney, and I sped away, but not before I caught a glimpse of the raccoon’s splattered remains. For the first time in my life, I was thankful for Old Man Wilcox and his shotgun.

The next day, we found that the fence breach had been blocked with cinder blocks. That would thwart our excursions for a while, but our humans’ vigilance will lapse. It always does. I’m already looking forward to our next night out.

Alice | stock.adobe.com

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Tests

By Morgan D. Bazilian And some days he gets furious thinking about the tests or the president or the elected officials or the epic lines at the supermarket or liquor stores.

Those days start bad start with some general anxiety and then a recognition of incompetence and malfeasance; move into fury or rage.

And then he recalls the days watching his son grow, slowly, as a blessing.

Nehul | stock.adobe.com

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Puppy

By Morgan D. Bazilian The kids are all getting puppies Pandemic puppies, as their moms say.

They are at home all the time and need projects and educational opportunities.

That are non-traditional, and yet able to show responsibility and engagement.

So, they get puppies from the rescues and the breeders in yellow, brown, or black.

The dogs seem perfectly oblivious to the pandemic helping reaffirm the position of the children.

Cecilia Malmlund | pixabay.com

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One Very Old Tree

by Stella Mazur Preda intruding on the Acadian Forest footsteps plot a cautious path respectful of every living organism inaudible heartbeat of the woodland then a fortuitous discovery towering among other red spruce stands the majesty of the ancient one four hundred and forty-five years sequestered as if in quarantine living breathing growing stories bound and stored in its trunk camouflaged in rough layers of bark inaccessibility on a steep slope its salvation its constant in the evolution of time and history

cortez13 | pixabay.com

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How to become a Founder’s Favourite

Content contains anything I find memorable, creative, unique, visual, or even simple. Accepted contributors will most likely write about things that are emotionally moving. Not sure I will like your submission? Take a chance! You have nothing to lose. And who knows? You may end up being among the founder's favourites!

Submit today! http://foundersfavourites.blogspot.com

Founder’s Favourites | September 2020—Issue 12 | 29

Contributor Bios Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music

and theatre professional. Over three hundred of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literary Yard; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual Coast Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. Six eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. A native Manhattanite, Bruce lives in New York with his dog, Gabi. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com

Raised beside creeks and cornfields not far from Chicago, Ed Ruzicka now lives with his wife, Renee, and their doddering bulldog, Tucker, in Baton Rouge. Ed’s second full length volume, My Life in Cars, is set for release in October. Ed’s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary and the New Millennium Review as well as many other literary journals and anthologies.

Gaiyle J. Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of them prize-winning. They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines, which she also illustrated, was published in 2015. Her background of several ethnicities, love of art and travel and devotion to social justice are reflected in her work. Her readership includes Canada, the United States, Mexico and India.

She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is at the moment working on her second book of poetry for which once again she will provide illustrations. As a change of pace, she is trying her hand at short story writing inspired by her childhood years spent in rural Quebec.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Dwarf-Jack-D-Harvey-ebook/dp/B019KGW0F2

Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet and author of eight books. She was the recipient of a residency for The Women's Leadership Program at The Omega Institute, NY, 2019. She has been published in The Yale Review; Shambhala Times; Kosmos Journal; The Caribbean Writer; Breathe Free Press; The Lake Poetry Journal; The Tulane Review; Autism Parenting Magazine; So Spoke the Earth: Anthology of Women Writers of Haitian Descent and many others. She also facilitates creative writing workshops. Her poems and collaborative songwriting are on the Grammy award winning album Many Hands: Family Music for Haiti. Jerrice is the host of Women of Note on WKZE, 98.1 FM in Red Hook, NY where enjoys playing Jazz & world music for her international audience. Visit her at Guanabanabooks.com to learn more about her work.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Morgan D. Bazilian is a poet and short story writer. He splits his time between Ireland and the US, where is a professor of applied physics.

Nancy Lou Henderson was born and raised in Texas, where she met and married her soulmate, Frank, when they

were both eighteen. Frank was in the Army,so they lived in Massachusetts then Okinawa before Frank went to Vietnam in 1971. After twenty-nine years of marriage, in 1997, Nancy became a forever widow and is still devoted to her soulmate. In 2015, she said a prayer to God for purpose. Her prayer was answered that night through a dream leading to a cedar chest that contained a box of letters. The box of letters through God’s inspiration led her to write a four book memoir including all of Frank's letters. Nancy has since branched out into writing Flash Fiction, Short Stories, and Poetry. One of her favorite things to do is bringing to life inanimate objects through poetry and writing.

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Contributor Bios cont’d Nolo Segundo is the pen name of a retired teacher, 73, who chose it for the way it rolls off the tongue. Though he wrote some poetry in his 20's as well as an unpublished novel inspired by the time he taught ESL in Phnom-Penh in 1973-74 (leaving a year before the time of the Killing Fields), for some reason he stopped writing altogether for over 30 years. For an equally obscure reason, 'they', the poems, began arriving in his conscious mind about 5 years ago. Since then he's had over 50 published online/in print by literary magazines in the U.S. Britain, and even one in India. Married for 40 years, the only other interesting aspect to his life besides his years teaching, including 3 years in the Far East, was an NDE he had at 24 whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river that shattered his former materialist world view [as in believing only matter is real]. For 1/2 a century he has known that beneath his conscious mind and its counterpart, the unconscious, lies an endless, eternal consciousness that has always existed, and that what we call the world, the Universe, is permeated by a far greater and largely unknowable Mystery.'

Sarah Henry studied with two former U.S. poet laureates at the University of Virginia. She is retired from a major newspaper. Her recent publications include Pure Slush, The Writers' Club, Rue Scribe, Lummox and The American Writers' Review. Sarah writes and lives quietly in a small Pennsylvania town without distractions.

Ken Wetherington lives in Durham, North Carolina with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Ginosko Literary Journal, The Fable Online, Borrowed Solace: A Journal of Literary Ramblings, The Remington Review and others. His first collection, Santa Abella and Other Stories was awarded the BRAG Medallion from the Book Readers Appreciation Group. When not writing, he is an avid film buff and teaches film courses for the OLLI program at Duke University. He may be reached through his website: https://kenwetherington.com Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada. Having retired from elementary teaching in Toronto, she is owner and publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press publishing company, located in the Hamilton area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press is now temporarily on hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian anthologies and some US, most notably the purchase of her poem My Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. Stella has released four previous books, Butterfly Dreams (Serengeti Press, 2003); Witness, Anthology of Poetry (Serengeti Press, 2004), edited by John B. Lee; From Rainbow Bridge to Catnip Fields (Serengeti Press, 2007) The Fourth Dimension, (Serengeti Press, 2012).

She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton, Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society. Stella is currently working on her fifth book, Tapestry, based on the life of her aunt and written completely in poetic form.

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Founder’s Favourites Issue 12—Sept 2020

Thanks for spending time with my favourites.

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