“Yet America is
a poem in our eyes;
its ample
geography dazzles the imagination,
and it will not
wait long for metres.
-Ralph Waldo
Emerson
POEM OF THE MONTH
UNANSWERED QUESTION
by Joseph Wade
They asked why,
as if I knew why I turned left instead of right,
went to the hill instead of the sandy shore
where waves beat drums
and wind sung into bottles people emptied at a party.
On the hill, dead woods stood
wrapped in vines of fog
that circled it like an old man’s white hair,
leaving the top bald,
wet trunks exposed,
glistening in magic-hour sun,
everything ethereal,
ready to wisp with wind
cracking rotted trees,
blowing dried leaves to be carried,
crushed far from home.
From the top, I saw an ocean-soul wave,
one curl across the green roll of its lips
to share happiness, send the world spinning on its axis,
never expecting the crash, the splash, the water cracking,
droplets held together in such a powerful sheet
that each time it is expected—o
this time, I’ll not break upon the rocks—
and so the souls march into destruction eternally,
never an answer, just the curl of a smile—a crash, boom, shhh.
In the dead wood,
lead by magic hour’s gentle hand to nothing land
just to miss the party and watch the forest crash,
groan like a dog dying as the fog rose in wisps like spirits
silvered as edges of clouds under moonshine,
ring of mercurial air mixing with sunlight wine in my chalice eyes
pressed to the lips of my soul—drank deep—hangover
morning come—I lay stretched naked, twisted with time-
turned branches and trunks crisscrossed among the damned of the hill
when the question came with sunny fingers and windy breath, “Why?”
And, still, I have no answer, nor the waves that keep crashing.
JOSEPH WADE is an eight year veteran of the military. He currently attends Brooklyn College for Creative Writing where he is the Poet in Residence for Sex and Politics Radio. He has been published in multiple places including Grey Sparrow Press, Gloom Cupboard and Blue Lake Review. He has also been awarded the Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing, the Rosen Fellowship which published his first book of poetry, OF LIFE INFALLIBLE. For more information, please contact him at www.josephwade.com. Contact
PATRIOTISM BEGINS
by Floriana Hall
The start of the holiday parade
Music started, veterans marching -
Out of the stroller, she stood up
Put her hand over her heart
As the flag was displayed.
A wee lass of almost three years old
Respectfully waved red, white, and blue
While soldiers of different wars passed by.
She seemed to understand the significance
And importance of the day
Smiling at the heroes so true.
Patriotism starts early
Spruced up with a flag hair bow
A blue skirt and red shirt,
Love of country begins
Loyalty and good citizenship
She's beginning to know.
The parade was solemn but loud
Marching bands played our National Anthem
Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts stepped out,
Old cars rolled by honking their horns
Fire engines blared like bursts of fireworks
Soon it was noon and P.M.
The little girl walked back to her home
Quiet and seemingly thinking some
About the new experience
Of understanding what it's all about
Family, country, our flag -
Living in America means freedom.
~~~~~
ARRIVING
by Roger Singer
The breeze was a likable flavor.
I licked at it, pushing my fingers through
its twists, while swirls ran the length of me.
Winds of waves drove engines over my shirt,
lifting my collar, teasing the tails of my shirt
and buttons undone; in the summer of a day.
Pine trees whistle a song of air, sending my
senses onto a thought vacation.
I am fully arrived at the edge of a shoreline.
My ankles welcome the ocean. Green blue
waters blend into night.
~~~~~
AFTERNOON SUN
by Gloria Watts
There he is, beneath the shade
of the old apple tree.
Eyes closed, forehead eased
of those frowns that fill
his days, when pain surges,
snakes through that fragile frame.
Peace, a small respite, among
the greenery of a summer’s day.
of the old apple tree.
Eyes closed, forehead eased
of those frowns that fill
his days, when pain surges,
snakes through that fragile frame.
Peace, a small respite, among
the greenery of a summer’s day.
~~~~~
SUMMER TREAT
by Sarah Terzo
we laugh and grin with green lips.
Sticky faces smile.
~~~~~
THE LIMITS
by John Grey
I stared at the map.
I tried to move in, that stretch of green terrain,
that intriguingly named town,
but I stopped at the edge of the paper
and could go no further.
Then it was the sky’s turn,
a long lime gazing,
an unwillingness for the blue, the clouds,
to have me.
Nor was night of any use.
For all the moon and the stars,
I couldn’t get beyond
the rim of my eyes.
And so it is another day
rooted in where I am.
Can’t go back to Ancient Rome,
the American West,
for all the books I read.
Even tried memories, my own past,
but its roads were blocked,
its bridges down.
So here I am, in this contained world,
lord of nothing I survey.
I can only dream.
But only as far as dreams not coming true.
~~~~~
NECTAR
by Tami Richards
Along the forge; mango lingers,
Skin aching for more than a touch,
Euphoric; sweet yearning is such,
Smooth symphony calls low, earnest
Lighting a fire’s deep furnace,
Stoking long chords, eternal dreams,
Sealing a softly fissured seam,
Salted seabeds brimming fusion,
High tides pull in confusion,
Secrets clutch, excited union,
Low tide in ‘raptured communion,
‘Saltations of gelled embraces,
Exalting in mirrored faces,
Saints fell angels o’er such delight,
As lovers embracing a star’s night,
Seism’s rumbling can always quake,
When pounding earth, lovers do shake,
Seismologists may catch wonder
At what causes earthly thunder.
TAMI RICHARDS lives in the beautiful Willamette Valley of Oregon where she endures many months of rain in order to bask in the splendor of the Valley's well-watered beauty. Contact Website
~~~~~
SEA LIFE
by Amelia Abdullah
As I float on top of a new world.
Colorful life one hundred feet beneath me
Magnetically attracts my focus
Of serene magnificence.
Fishes of vibrant colors put the rainbow to shame
As they feed off the coral reefs
Which house fishes by the hundreds
In curvy cubbies protecting them from enemies.
Random flamboyant sea fans waving hello
With their thin mesh frame
Acting as a shade for some
Scattered starfishes who lie on the sea floor
Lethargic and stationary
Next to their slimy twin
The sea cucumber.
Slithering snakes moving fluidly
Towards their prey.
Bubble-like jellyfishes pump towards the sky
With their sensational long legs.
Admiring the hidden treasures of the sea
In a breathtaking moment.
Fascination of underwater life
Relaxing my every cell.
Thoughts of reality disappear
As I slowly become one with the sea.
AMELIA ABDULLAH is a current college student studying biology and Spanish. She enjoys writing about how she feels. It helps release stress, fear, anxiety, joy, anger, etc. that she may be feeling. Contact
STEVE CROISANT has no formal writing training or education, but has been writing semi-regularly since the early 2000's. He has been a member of Columbine Poets for five or six years, and reads semi-regularly at two or three open mics in the Denver metro area. Contact
~~~~~
CHAPTER 11 STYLE
by Stephanie Renae Johnson
paper lanterns in the skeleton bare trees,
tea lights and doilies on tables,
and bouquets sprouting fountains of film negatives.
Polaroid attended, flashy as always
in a shimmering gown that shook and
glowed at the edges;
Fuji politely declined the invitation.
Meanwhile, my childhood,
years away, got stolen from my mother’s purse—
a window smashed open to get to the trunk:
and in it, all our Kodak moments.
Our swimming lessons with yellow floaties
and school posed photographs
with flyaway hair.
A thief, somewhere, thumbs through them,
staring at children who mean nothing to them
before throwing them in a trash can,
watching them burn back to the negative
of reflected light.
STEPHANIE RENAE JOHNSON is a recent graduate of Flagler College and now works as a production artist at Xulon Press. Previously, Stephanie worked as an editor assistant for Jason Cook at Ampersand Books. Stephanie's work has been published by Prick of the Spindle, poeticdiversity, Danse Macabre, WritingRaw, Opium Poetry, Orlando Sentinel Online, and The Flagler Review. Contact
~~~~~
ANY SUMMER SQUASH
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
people ask how to cook
summer squash. She remembers
I have a favorite recipe,
would I write it down?
Charmed by her request
I set my basket on the floor.
Take the clipboard and pen
right there by the canned pop.
In front of the milk,
butchers chopping at the side,
I begin to write.
I picture myself in my kitchen
slicing zucchini, crushing garlic.
The smell as they sizzle
in olive oil.
I see them scraped into a bowl,
flecked with Italian herbs,
dusted with bread crumbs.
Mustn’t forget the Parmesan cheese,
slivered almonds, then a quick toss.
They taste so succulent in my mind
I almost moan
right there in the store.
Julie says thanks,
she’ll make copies if that’s OK.
I grin and say sure.
Twitching taste buds
send me back to produce,
I pick up my own summer squash
for dinner.
~~~~~
consider this
by Steve Croisant
we held court
in a porch-swing dusk
we drank our fill and then some
of an iced tea moon
we reminisced a picnic sky
festooned with matinee popcorn clouds
and a kite breeze
drew whispers from the leaves
that composed a wind chime tune
we brand-named affection
auditioned a bullfrog chorus and cricket band
small lover's laughter
trickled from your throat
and the featherweight of paramour sighs
syncopated to the fireworks of fireflies
we wore streetlamp grins
adorned with hide-n-seek romance
and a sprinkler game symphony
drew an audience of stars
and maestroed an a-la-mode heat wave
who would wrong these rites
nor who would interfere
while our winsome alloy moods
are catalyst to perfection
© Steve Croisant
2003
July 12, 2003
STEVE CROISANT has no formal writing training or education, but has been writing semi-regularly since the early 2000's. He has been a member of Columbine Poets for five or six years, and reads semi-regularly at two or three open mics in the Denver metro area. Contact
tea lights and doilies on tables,
and bouquets sprouting fountains of film negatives.
Polaroid attended, flashy as always
in a shimmering gown that shook and
glowed at the edges;
Fuji politely declined the invitation.
Meanwhile, my childhood,
years away, got stolen from my mother’s purse—
a window smashed open to get to the trunk:
and in it, all our Kodak moments.
Our swimming lessons with yellow floaties
and school posed photographs
with flyaway hair.
A thief, somewhere, thumbs through them,
staring at children who mean nothing to them
before throwing them in a trash can,
watching them burn back to the negative
of reflected light.
STEPHANIE RENAE JOHNSON is a recent graduate of Flagler College and now works as a production artist at Xulon Press. Previously, Stephanie worked as an editor assistant for Jason Cook at Ampersand Books. Stephanie's work has been published by Prick of the Spindle, poeticdiversity, Danse Macabre, WritingRaw, Opium Poetry, Orlando Sentinel Online, and The Flagler Review. Contact
people ask how to cook
summer squash. She remembers
I have a favorite recipe,
would I write it down?
Charmed by her request
I set my basket on the floor.
Take the clipboard and pen
right there by the canned pop.
In front of the milk,
butchers chopping at the side,
I begin to write.
I picture myself in my kitchen
slicing zucchini, crushing garlic.
The smell as they sizzle
in olive oil.
I see them scraped into a bowl,
flecked with Italian herbs,
dusted with bread crumbs.
Mustn’t forget the Parmesan cheese,
slivered almonds, then a quick toss.
They taste so succulent in my mind
I almost moan
right there in the store.
Julie says thanks,
she’ll make copies if that’s OK.
I grin and say sure.
Twitching taste buds
send me back to produce,
I pick up my own summer squash
for dinner.
~~~~~
by Elaine Kaye
Waves rolling in and out in symmetric rhythm.
A mighty ocean deep blue, dark and wide;
covering the Earth, blending into the sky.
The sun sets as a new moon peeks through,
making black that sea of blue.
stars filling the heavens like fireflies,
some fall and disappear while others get bigger and brighter.
Planets trailing the powerful sun;
a dot in a galaxy of our own.
One galaxy, then another, maybe millions;
in a universe that is never ending in our bright blue sky.
We see, as we raise our eyes, knowing but wondering-
Just what is out there?
Some things we cannot understand,
as we wiggle our toes,
catching a grain of sand.
~~~~~
by Nick Lewis
heals on wind, the mist pulsed
rumbling phrases from the surf
and the sun tickled the sand
We twisted, two leaves in a gust
striped shirts and bare feet
Birds left the billboard and it rained
in Hanalei and
snowed on Plymouth Rock
Two mountains converged in the park
throwing sparks and hot heat
A river met the ocean, mixing
salt algae salmon smoothed stones
and mud
~~~~~
INVISIBLE ANSWERS
by Cassandra Kemper
It’s beautiful in its mystery, yet anxiety is unrelenting against my pounding heart.
The haziness is gentle, flowing back and forth in a slow rhythm, but my thoughts are suspicious against the quiet calm.
What hides within the distance to forever?
What unseen event lurks in front of my very eyes?
The water is cool and relaxing, caressing my body with unspoken care.
I am tempted to let the water carry me in peace.
If only I would.
Instead, my muscles tense with apprehension, expecting a monster to expose itself from the invisible world beyond my grasp.
My flesh is vulnerable, obtaining the fragile essence of life.
The ocean is a monster in itself, being bigger than everything I have ever known.
Splashing doesn’t diminish it, nor does any violent kicking.
Besides, what would diminishing it do?
Turn it into a puddle?
A puddle is no future, as it contains no life and no mystery.
Waves graciously lift me higher towards the heavens, but I am too heavy and sink beneath them.
What is it that I want exactly?
Unsatisfied with too much and unsatisfied with not enough.
How can contentedness be found when the ocean is selfish in its unpredictability?
Floating at the ocean’s top, pondering question after question until my mind is numb from abuse, I find no answers
just acceptance.
~~~~~
by Linda B. Gamble
Up my dress, sweet summer air
arms and legs left freely bare
kissed by sun’s renewing light.
Clothing bright and airy light
loosely plays with breezy air
body free to dance near bare.
Lucky trees can strip-tease bare
come the autumn’s waning light
stifling “clothes” tossed to the air.
Cold air I can’t bear, crave warmth of summer’s light
arms and legs left freely bare
kissed by sun’s renewing light.
Clothing bright and airy light
loosely plays with breezy air
body free to dance near bare.
Lucky trees can strip-tease bare
come the autumn’s waning light
stifling “clothes” tossed to the air.
Cold air I can’t bear, crave warmth of summer’s light
LINDA B. GAMBLE is a retired reading specialist from New Jersey. She has been previously published online in Camel Saloon and Mused. She is also soon to be published in the print journal, Edison Literary Review. Contact
~~~~~
HARBOR SEQUENCE
by Patricia Crandall
I gaze
at the harbor –
picturesque
on weathered posts
seagulls –
spike-legs
Boston –
across the harbor
transmitting towers
hotel –
on the wharf
a boy skips stones
~~~~~
by Peter Franklin
No comfort from the slow fan…languidly singing in the dark…
Barely disturbing the air around it.
Sludge-like…thick and viscous…clinging heavily to everything.
I am draped in a heavy overcoat of cloying heat.
There is no breeze, no rescue, no comfortable spot to find.
Miserable. Thrashing at the covers…claustrophobic midnight epileptic fit.
Barely disturbing the air around me.
I smile. Ironic.
For in the morning, I know that the peach that I pluck off
The tree out back will be heat-warmed by the early morning sun, residual fire from
Tonight’s balmy opera…
Ripe and succulent,
The hedonism of the juices trickling from lips to shirt front…
Carnal sensuality,
And I’ve forgotten everything that plagued me in the night.
~~~~~
by Abigale Louise LeCavalier
to be the victim,
she stays away from
long conversations.
Apprehension;
she wields it like a storm
in crowded areas,
tasting the fever
of small relationships,
purring into the megaphone,
slipping in and out
of a warm smile.
Irritated by absurdity,
stubborn as a Sunburn,
she is the escape artist
in a room filled with
corn fed complacency.
Anger personified.
She is less than approachable
by best wishes
and balderdash,
concentrating little on words
and more on the actions.
A voyeur.
Easy in the realization
rationalization,
being bothered by butterflies
sequined gowns
and too much makeup.
She hums a Foo Fighters song
in shallow tones,
darting her eyes
in and out of perspectives.
Being fully aware
that alone,
she is incomplete.
~~~~~
by Joan Griffin
sway to and fro beneath the trees,
softly caressed by buzzing bees,
which the wasp sees, which the wasp sees.
Butterflies dart, flutter and fly
beneath a blue and cloudless sky
among the trees that grow so high;
and then they die, and then they die.
Butterflies, wasps, bees and bluebells,
fleeting lives that time so soon fells
with no one there to care or tell;
tears do not well, tears do not well.
JOAN GRIFFIN is a retired health worker and lives in a small Northamptonshire village with her husband. Contact
~~~~~
by Debbie Hilbish
like that
summer day floating down the river
when the water splashed and wind
caressed in shivers across my back.
I love it when your tongue teases flesh
like that
dragonfly faintly whispering across
the hairs on my arm so minutely,
goose bumps thrilled my flesh.
I love it when you brush my hair
like that
soft slow feel of a warm fall day
that tingles the air and allows
the sun to heat me from head to toe.
I love it when I see you sleeping
like that
magical moment just as the sun
wakes up and all the world is painted
in an ardent glow of splendor.
I love it when I feel your love
like that
first time.
~~~~~
by Steve Smallwood
in their concurrent circumferential tides;
indistinguishable but for their inundations
over the curvature of the Earth.
As that, seas remain an anomaly; depth
and breadth their only identity,
"ocean" their only nomenclature
until beaching onto continental borders
and reaching in their rush of waves
and foam their terrestrial shores.
~~~~~
by Farhan Kathawala
Weighted down by ages compounded
Of dew,
Which mystically vanishes by noon.
Wild uncut and thick it lies
In a field of millions all the same
In kind,
But not in stoicism or vigor.
Surely the bent to white sunlight
Which each one feels
Is unique,
But though presumed to live in peace
Alone, serene, the blade feels hot
Searing slashes on its face underfoot
Of prey or passerby which cut
The tight dark tips into sharpened
Geometric planes.
And though the life of grass
Fulfilled itself in pride
And hung its head in shame,
The wind must come and sweep
And steal the grass up from its roots.
It forsakes only the base,
Foundation which mounted the
Decades of anguish and accomplishment,
Then flutters away, forever, ends
As generations do.
~~~~~
by Michael Lee Johnson
my hand
out toward
the sea,
roll out my palm.
I offer a plank,
a trail for you.
Follow out into the water
and the salty stars.
When you stretch out
and give your heart
to the final moment
of the glass night sky,
draw me in-
sketch my face
on the edge
of our moon-
sad and lonely
over ages of celestial
moon sleep and dust.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My poem MOON SLEEP likely falls under the category of mystical
poetry: that which is without exact color or form but conveys a reality
within the images. Within the spirit of this poem I try to awaken a
remembrance, a yearning to reach out and touch.
 |
MOON SLEEP, Credit: Michael Lee Johnson
|
~~~~~
by Floriana Hall
Watching the parade of life pass by
On the Fourth of July
Not the usual parade
But poor souls who know not why or how they exist
Being pushed down the hallway
A random wheelchair and worker colliding
Or an aide tripping in her haste to help someone
Makes a case for appreciation
Of any blessings we may have
Walking, talking, making sense
Is a privilege we take for granted
In daily life with all its obligations
And confusing situations
Sometimes wondering if we make sense
Sometimes laughing at foibles
But grateful for what we have
Being kind to those who do need help
Greeting them with a smile
Like a beam of light they smile back
And feel that someone cares
About the person they used to be
Who is somewhere in the past
Glimpses of which will sometimes follow.
OUR LIBERTY
Climb to the top and stay there
Liberate and be carefree
Let the masses see that you can be
Who you were meant to be
It is embedded in our soul and spirit
Our climbing freedom
The oxygen we breathe
Our Liberty!
Liberty, we are destined to be free
Our liberty to know and to think
To move and to be creative
Give us our liberty at the high cost
That was paid for by so many
Our happiness, our peace, our life,
Our Liberty!
Thank God for our founders and our liberty
And our destiny in Him
Don't limit our liberty
And don't try to extinguish it
Deposit liberty in our lives
Liberty to do what we want
And liberty to do what we ought
There is no liberty in wrongdoing
Be liberated to do the right thing
Let liberty ring for all like a loud bell!
Our Liberty!
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" Our Sacrifices Our Heroes by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
____________________________________
Watching the parade of life pass by
On the Fourth of July
Not the usual parade
But poor souls who know not why or how they exist
Being pushed down the hallway
A random wheelchair and worker colliding
Or an aide tripping in her haste to help someone
Makes a case for appreciation
Of any blessings we may have
Walking, talking, making sense
Is a privilege we take for granted
In daily life with all its obligations
And confusing situations
Sometimes wondering if we make sense
Sometimes laughing at foibles
But grateful for what we have
Being kind to those who do need help
Greeting them with a smile
Like a beam of light they smile back
And feel that someone cares
About the person they used to be
Who is somewhere in the past
Glimpses of which will sometimes follow.
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. She and her husband have been married for 63 years and they have five children, nine grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. She has published two new books including MISS FLOSSIE'S WORLD- Coping with Adversity During The Great Depression Then and the Recession Now (2011) and POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL OHIO - Then and Now (2011) which she compiled for THE POET'S NOOK. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
by Shirley Securro
Liberate and be carefree
Let the masses see that you can be
Who you were meant to be
It is embedded in our soul and spirit
Our climbing freedom
The oxygen we breathe
Our Liberty!
Liberty, we are destined to be free
Our liberty to know and to think
To move and to be creative
Give us our liberty at the high cost
That was paid for by so many
Our happiness, our peace, our life,
Our Liberty!
Thank God for our founders and our liberty
And our destiny in Him
Don't limit our liberty
And don't try to extinguish it
Deposit liberty in our lives
Liberty to do what we want
And liberty to do what we ought
There is no liberty in wrongdoing
Be liberated to do the right thing
Let liberty ring for all like a loud bell!
Our Liberty!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was
previously published in Shirley Securro's chapbook AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" OUR
SACRIFICES OUR HEROES for Bear House
Publishing’s 2011 Chapbook Contest.
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in "Best Poems and Poets of 2005," "Who's Who In International Poetry," "Famous Poets of the Heartland," and more. She was a finalist in a chapbook contest with AMERICA "Let Freedom Reign" Our Sacrifices Our Heroes by Bear House Publishing. She has designed two book covers for other authors and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
july celebrity poet
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
nationality: american
 |
Ralph Waldo Emerson – Credit: Public
Domain
|
ODE
Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857
O TENDERLY the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;
One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.
The cannon booms from town to town,
Our pulses beat not less,
The joy-bells chime their tidings down,
Which children’s voices bless.
For He that flung the broad blue fold
O’er-mantling land and sea,
One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.
The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,—
To take the statute from the mind
And make of duty fate.
United States! the ages plead,—
Present and Past in under-song,—
Go put your creed into your deed,
Nor speak with double tongue.
For sea and land don’t understand
Nor skies without a frown
See rights for which the one hand fights
By the other cloven down.
Be just at home; then write your scroll
Of honor o’er the sea,
And bid the broad Atlantic roll
A ferry of the free.
And henceforth there shall be no chain,
Save underneath the sea
The wires shall murmur through the main
Sweet songs of liberty.
The conscious stars accord above,
The waters wild below,
And under, through the cable wove,
Her fiery errands go.
For He that worketh high and wise,
Nor pauses in his plan,
Will take the sun out of the skies
Ere freedom out of man.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted
for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
BACK TO
VOTED ONE OF WRITER'S DIGEST'S
101 BEST WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
FOR NINE CONSECUTIVE YEARS!
THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT!
