FF17

Founder’s Favourites

Issue 17 - Dec 2021

FEATURING POEMS AND STORIES OF

Bruce Levine

Duane Anderson

Ivan de Monbrison

Ivanka Fear

Jane Ellen Glasser

John Grey

Nolo Segundo

Steve Slavin

Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 1


Issue 16—October 2021

Contributors

Bruce Levine

Blue Jays & Cardinals ................ 17

A Winter Chill ............................ 18

In Pursuit of Happiness .............. 19

Duane Anderson

Winter’s Face ............................. 3

Jane Ellen Glasser

I’d Rather Be .............................. 6

John Grey

The Man on the Ledge ............... 7

Ivan de Monbrison

The Harbor ................................. 14

Shadow Light .............................. 15

Ivanka Fear

Down .......................................... 20

Complete System Shutdown ....... 21

Nolo Segundo

An Old Poet’s Walk Through

An Old Graveyard ....................... 4

Quintessence of Dust ................. 5

Steve Slavin

The Agent .................................... 9

Founder’s Feedback

Bruce Levine

Blue Jays & Cardinals (p17) The sight of the bright

colors of these angelic creatures bring peace to my

mind. A Winter Chill (p18) The visuals made this a

favourite: a sunset igniting the light, and

constellations hovering like night-lights protecting

the children. In Pursuit of Happiness (p19) I was

drawn to the sentence “demons of the past can

devour the present” and “the past...wrapping itself

around future happiness”—so true.

Duane Anderson

Winter’s Face (p14) “Shattering teeth in the wind”

caught my attention.

Jane Ellen Glasser

I’d Rather Be (p6) I like options—choosing one’s

own perspective.

John Grey

The Man on the Ledge (p7) This poem tugged at

my heart strings as it speaks of the reality of mental

health and all the things people are going through. I

love open endings, too.

Ivan de Monbrison

The Harbor (p14) I love the sounds in this piece.

Shadow Light (p5) Oh, the flashbacks of bedroom

shadows flood my mind.

Ivanka Fear

Down (p20) This describes the feeling of the

pandemic perfectly: feet slipping from under you

and slamming you on your butt. Complete System

Shutdown (p21) Once I read the first three lines, I

knew it would hold a place as a favourite.

Nolo Segundo

An Old Poet’s Walk Though an Old Graveyard

(p14) This changed my mind about graveyards—not

scary at all. The old man is so respectful and full of

wonder. And I love memories being described as a

living library. Quintessence of Dust (p5) We are

living, dancing, laughing dust...awesome!

Steve Slavin

The Agent (p9) Being stunned at unexpected

reactions hit home with me.


Winter’s Face

Duane Anderson

Shattered teeth shake in

the wind.

They stare out over

the prairie

across the lake now

not moving,

frozen.

Tears run half way

down cheeks

then stop in search

of the

sun now no longer

moving but

hiding.

freshidea | stock.adobe.com


An Old Poet’s Walk

Through An Old Graveyard

Nolo Segundo

He always liked to walk among the dead—

for him is was a secret pleasure to imagine

the lives of once breathing, thinking beings.

He would stop at each tombstone, curious

perhaps more than reverent, for he had long

known the body was just a set of clothes

the soul wears in a world where appearances

matter more it seems than what lay inside…

The old man liked to compare his years to

those chalked on each stone, continually

amazed that so many had died with fewer

years on their belts, so to speak—not

that he thought his 74 winters was a lot:

yet seen backwards in time, all the summers

and all the snows and all the fallings of dried

out leaves dying dressed in color like kings,

all those memories wouldn’t fill a large

basket in that living library called memory.

There was a newish looking gravestone with

one of those weather resistant photos of a

handsome young man who died in his 24th

year—the old man always wondered how

the young die—by a rare illness, or suicide,

or was he doing something he should not

have been doing, and karma took notice?

In the years practicing his little lauded hobby

the old poet found old graveyards to be best,

for old graveyards have markers of lives that

turned to dust a long, long time ago: 100, 200

years for some—but for the old poet it was as

though they had died yesterday, because they

were new to him, and his mind’s eye could see

them all living life large again in their own slice

of time, in their own worlds, with beauty and

pain, with loss and joy, with grace and fear….

There were so many folks to visit: each one

whose little stone house he stopped by he

introduced himself to, said hello, wished

them well, and wondered about what sort

of life the woman who died at 36 had lead,

or the really old man of 98 with the funny,

old fashioned name—did he regret missing

the century mark, the old poet wondered.

Some graves he did not like to see, for

they were the graves of babes, who

left the world less than a year after

they had entered it with such promise—

some died within weeks or months,

a few died the day they were born—

all spoke in stone of hearts broken,

of hope stolen, of love taken away….

hnphotography | stock.adobe.com


Quintessence Of Dust

Nolo Segundo

[With a nod to the Bard]

We are the moving dust,

we are the breathing dust,

we are the seeing dust,

we are the living dust.

But how, you ask, and rightly

so, can dust fall asleep,

dreaming of places unknown

and lovers unmet—how can

dust imagine whole worlds

and love with one heart for

60 winters and 60 summers?

And do the notes that stir life

come also from dust, just a

little dust, and nothing more?

When the music is played

and dust dances with dust,

and dust laughs with dust,

and soon dust loves dust,

can dust ever understand

the paradox of its own

being, from dust to dust?

Not until the winds comes,

the warm winds of Eternity,

will dust be blown away,

leaving the unseen soul

alive, to walk and breathe

and dance and love, bathed

forever in the dustless Light.

Travis Aguilar—Pixabay.com

JEGAS RA—stock.adobe.com


I’d Rather Be

Jane Ellen Glasser

I’d rather be

a river

than a pond

a verb

than a noun

a savanna

than a rose garden

a rainstorm

than a drizzle

a bicycle

than a limousine

a compass

than a clock

a tickseed

than an orchid

a lady bug

than a queen bee

a geode

than a diamond

a slipper

than stilettos

a crow

than a peacock

an ellipsis

than a period

a now

than a yesterday

or a tomorrow

JasonGeorge—stock.adobe.com

Aviator70—stock. Adobe.com


The Man on the Ledge

John Grey

You see a man

high up

on a tall building.

You want to cry out

“Don’t jump.”

But you only watch

terrified

by the vision of him

face down on the pavement,

trying to crawl

like you try to speak,

attempting to breathe

that same air

that has your lungs paralyzed.

Then he climbs back

through a window,

out of sight.

You wonder where he goes

from here.

You cannot imagine him

taking the elevator.

Mel Stoutsenberger | stock.adobe.com

Алексей Голубев—stock.adobe.com



EUGENI FOTO | stock.adobe.com

The Agent

Steve Slavin

Michael had three things going for him. He hosted

great parties. He loved introducing people. And his

parents, who had been killed in an automobile

accident, left him a four-story townhouse on Fifth

Avenue, just a few blocks from the Metropolitan

Museum.

But Michael also had three things going against him.

Although an Ivy League graduate in his late twenties,

he had never held a full-time job. He slept most of the

day, and was up most of the night. He made friends

very easily, but he had trouble hanging on to them.

1

As his inheritance was rapidly being depleting, it

looked as if he would soon have to sell his townhouse

for a few million dollars, and try to live off the

proceeds for as long as he could. Meanwhile, the

economy was sinking into a deep recession, and

President Richard Nixon, who had taken office a few

months before, didn’t seem to have a clue about how to

restore our prosperity.

The one thing that Michael could still look forward to,

at least in the immediate future, were his parties. If

only he could figure out a way of turning them into

money-makers, he could at least put off having to

actually find a nine-to-five job.

There was a middle-aged woman who occasionally

attended his parties who always brought a sketch pad

and surreptitiously drew portraits of unsuspecting

attendees. Michael sometimes sneaked peeks and was

always impressed. One evening, he engaged the

woman in conversation, telling her that he greatly

admired her work.

She smiled.

“Do you ever sell your sketches?”

“Very rarely. They’re just a hobby. I’ve got a day job

and would probably starve if I ever tried to do this fulltime.”

At that very moment the wheels began turning in

Michael’s brain. Soon he was beaming at her.

“What?” she asked. Now she was smiling too.

“This might sound very crazy, but I have an idea that

could make us rich.”

“Does it involve robbing a bank?”

“Not at all! It involves selling your sketches to my

friends. Most of them are very rich.”

“You want me to sketch your friends and sell them the

sketches?”

“Actually, I’ve noticed that you’ve already done some

of their sketches. If you let me be your agent, I think

we will soon find out that we have a very lucrative

market.”

“Where do I sign up?”

“I can have a contract for you on Monday.”

When they next got together, Michael handed Yvonne

a single sheet of paper. He would get one third of the

selling price of each drawing and one-half for their

reproductions.

“How come your cut is larger for the reproductions?”

“It’s simple. I’ll be arranging and paying for making

the reproductions.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“I’ll be your exclusive agent. Our agreement can be

abrogated by either party with three months’ notice.”

“May I take on commissions on my own sales?”

2

“Yes, but not with any clients you met through me.

And you can even make reproductions on your own.

So, if I’m not involved, then I don’t get a commission.”

“I can live with that,” said Yvonne.

“So can I! Now, let me tell you what I’ll be doing to

earn my commission.”

“You’ll be introducing me to potential customers.”

“Exactly. By the way, do you happen to have five or

six charcoals that I can hang in my ballroom?”

“Of course!”

“I’ll have them framed and reproduced. Then we’ll be

in business.”

“Sounds good to me!”


“So essentially, we’ll have two types of customers.

Those who want to commission their own portraits –

or those of relatives – and those who want to buy

reproductions of portraits that they just happen to like.

Any more questions?”

She shook her head.

“OK, then! Let’s get this notarized, and then maybe we

can grab some dinner. “

“Great! A starving artist never turns down a meal!”

After the charcoals had been hung, Michael patiently

waited to see if anyone would approach him about

having a portrait done. He knew enough to restrain

himself from doing a hard sell – or to say anything at

all.

3

The guests at his parties were almost all either very

rich, or else worth at least a few million dollars. And

they assumed that he was quite wealthy as well. Sure

enough, a woman he had known for years asked him if

he knew the artist.

“Would you believe she’s actually here tonight? I’d be

happy to introduce you.”

Minutes later Yvonne had her first commission. The

customer didn’t even blink when she was told that the

price was $2,000.

Michael arranged to hold parties once a month. While

ostensibly by invitation only, his parties adopted the

velvet rope to keep out the riff-raff. He counted on the

doorman’s discretion about whom to let in. And

Michael didn’t mind when the doorman let in a few

well-heeled people without invitations who were

willing to slip him a twenty – or even a fifty.

Some of the people he introduced to Yvonne

commissioned originals, while others purchased

reproductions, that usually sold for about $500. A few

generous buyers would commission a drawing of

themselves, and then order several reproductions for

their friends and family.

Within a few months, Michael had begun to see the

light at the end of his own financial tunnel. And best of

all, he’d managed this trick without even holding a real

job.

He soon realized that they were making considerably

more on the reproductions than they were on the

originals. So, he upped the number of reproductions

for each charcoal to one hundred.

4

It eventually occurred to Michael that he barely knew

anything about Yvonne beyond that she had studied art

at Parsons, and had been teaching drawing at Music

and Art High School for the last fifteen years. She had

never married, but did have a six-year-old son who

lived with her.

One evening he invited her to have dinner in a French

Restaurant just a few blocks from his house. He smiled

when she conversed with the waitress in French.

Maybe the wine made her more talkative, but by the

time they left, he had learned much more about her

than he had learned during the five months they had

collaborated. She had lived a pretty wild life especially

during the last decade.

“Weren’t you afraid of catching anything or of getting

pregnant?”

“As a woman who had come of age in the early

nineteen-fifties, I had been thoroughly unprepared for

the sexual revolution that overtook the next decade.

But it was amazingly liberating. After a few years, I

began to think I was invincible. So, I stopped using

protection – at least on a regular basis.”

“And then you got pregnant.”

“Maybe it was inevitable that I would. Maybe I really

wanted to. But I’ll tell you this, Michael. It was still a

big shock.”

They sat quietly for a full minute.

“I met Peter at a loft party in SoHo. One of my friends

was having an opening. Peter was just twenty-one. He

had crashed the party with a couple of his army

buddies. They would be shipping out to Vietnam in

just ten days.”

“Was he drafted?”

“Of course! But he was fatalistic. If his time came,

then there wasn’t much he could do about it.”


“How did you feel, knowing that he could be dead just

weeks from then?”

“Well, I hardly knew him. I mean, of course, I felt

terrible about his going there. I hated the war, but like

almost everyone else, I felt powerless to do anything

about it.”

“So, you just tried to give him the time of his life.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever learn that you had gotten pregnant?”

“I don’t know. A few days after he left for Vietnam,

when I was late, I went to my gynecologist and soon

got the news. The next day I got a letter from Peter

telling me how much he missed me.”

“So, you wrote back and gave him the news.”

“Yes.” Michael noticed that she seemed to be staring

into the distance. He waited.

Finally, she added, “I never heard back from him.

Then, a month later, I received a letter from the

Defense Department informing me of Peter’s death.”

Michael waited.

“I’ll tell you something funny: I barely knew Peter. He

was really just a young boy. In fact, he was thirteen

years younger than I was. Who knows what he could

have been and what he could have done? What could I

tell my son about his father?”

She stopped again, perhaps thinking about what she

had just said.

“Had Peter survived the war and returned home, would

we have had a life together? Probably not. But I still

think about him more than any other man I’ve ever

been with.”

5

Yvonne and Michael would never have a conversation

nearly as intimate as they had had that evening. But he

soon began to realize that Yvonne had never once

regretted having a baby with Peter. Although thirtyfive

when she gave birth, she had instantly realized

how lucky she was to have this miraculous child in her

life.

Jimmy, like any other little boy, could be exasperating

at times. But she finally had someone to love, someone

who often required her full attention. He filled an

empty spot in her life that she never had even been

aware of.

But being a single mother on a schoolteacher’s salary

was no bed of roses. Michael was especially pleased

that he had helped lift that financial burden while

raising the quality of their lives. And, of course, he

was very grateful to Yvonne for alleviating his own

dismal financial prospects.

But Michael would never be a happy camper. In fact,

despite his polished social skills, he had always been

something of a hermit. Anyone who had known him

well would have been aware of this. But, of course,

hermits don’t have any close friends.

Michael rarely talked about himself or his life. He felt

acutely ashamed of never having held a real job, or

even having had an intimate relationship – whether

romantic, sexual, or even platonic. Although appearing

quite sociable, he was a true loner.

But he did enjoy hearing about other people’s lives,

their relationships, and even their hopes and dreams.

As for himself, he really didn’t have much to talk

about.

He fully appreciated that Yvonne was a real person

with a real life and real relationships, and even dreams

of her own. He also knew that he really needed her. In

fact, he needed her more than anyone else who had

ever been in his life – with the possible exception of

his parents.

For the last several months, however, he found that he

still wasn’t really enjoying himself. He knew people

whose happiness was directly related to how much

money they were making. But he found that even his

rising income did little to cheer him.

Still, running his business, if not completely enjoyable,

at least took his mind off how empty his life really

was. Well, at least he no longer had to worry about

ever finding a nine-to-five job, or even worse, having

to sell the townhouse.

6

It eventually dawned on Michael that he needed a fulltime

assistant to do the framing and shipping, and to

monitor the flow of reproductions. Then he realized


Two days later she took Michael to

dinner. She let him go on and on about

how business had been getting worse

and worse, how the recession was

hurting sales, and how they needed to

make adjustments.

frizza | stock.adobe.com


that he needed another assistant, basically a

bookkeeper, to do the billing and to pay the bills.

Although both assistants were quite competent,

Michael could not resist micromanaging, thereby

making their jobs a lot harder. Still, he knew that

Yvonne would always be his bread-and-butter, so he

did make an effort to keep her happy.

In the meanwhile, she was becoming increasingly

aware that everything depended on her. She was the

talent. She was the creator. She was the money-maker.

Still, she would be forever grateful to Michael for

having not only discovered her talent, but enabling her

to monetize it and becoming richer than she ever

dreamed possible.

Over the next two years, both assistants quit and

Michael hired two others. But when the replacements

were hired, it took time for them to get up to speed.

Sales began to decline as costs rose. And when both of

them quit, it finally began to dawn on Michael that

just maybe there might be a problem.

And then, the recession of 1973 soon made bad things

even worse. Michael finally realized that while

Yvonne was still earning a decent income, he was

barely breaking even. He suggested to Yvonne that he

wanted to renegotiate their contract. She asked for a

couple of days to think things over.

7

Two days later she took Michael to dinner. She let him

go on and on about how business had been getting

worse and worse, how the recession was hurting sales,

and how they needed to make adjustments.

He talked about how he had had to fire so many

assistants, how he knew he wasn’t perfect, but now

that his back was against the wall, he would need a

bigger commission.

Yvonne had not realized that things had gotten so bad,

but she did know who was largely to blame. Michael

had one valuable sales gift, which was to let her

drawings sell themselves. But otherwise, he was

almost a complete disaster. Nevertheless, she did owe

him for giving her start.

She decided to level with him. “Look Michael, I will

always be grateful to you for giving me my first

opportunity. But face it -- you have almost completely

mismanaged the business over the last couple of years.

Giving you a bigger cut would just be throwing good

money after bad.”

He was stunned. He never would have expected this

kind of reaction. But he began to realize that she was

right.

“Michael, for the good of both of us, we need to

dissolve our agreement. I’m really sorry, but that’s

what I’ve decided.

Then she summoned the waiter, paid the check, and

left. Michael didn’t say a word.

8

A year later, Michael was still living in the townhouse.

He was still giving monthly parties. But now they had

spread out to the lower three floors below his own

living quarters. He was representing four hot young

artists.

Michael had very painfully become aware of his most

glaring limitations, but he felt powerless to do

anything about them. Still, he also knew his greatest

strength: Never try to sell anything. Just sit back and

let the buyer approach you.

Although he was once again an agent, he had the four

artists hire assistants to arrange for reproductions,

billing, and all the other arcana of the business world.

He just sat back and earned his commissions.

Despite what had happened between them, he and

Yvonne stayed in touch. He even got to know her son,

who was now almost eight years old. In fact, he had

some of Jimmy’s drawings hanging in his townhouse.

Imagine Michael’s surprise when someone

approached him to ask if one of them was for sale.


The Harbor

Ivan de Monbrison

The boat leaves the harbor.

It’s morning.

I hear the screams of seagulls.

The bees that lived on the roof are gone.

There are mice on the ceiling, I hear them at night

in my room when everything is dark.

I have to leave tomorrow and leave this city by the sea.

But I can hear the turtle doves fighting on the terrace.

They are hungry.

I get up to give them food, one last time before winter.

Ramiro Calace Montu | pixabay.com


Shadow Light

Ivan de Monbrison

I play with a ball in the garden.

There are many children and their mothers.

The fathers are at work.

My mom is sitting on a bench.

I am a dirty and noisy child.

I am a crying child.

I have an animal head and no name.

And every night in bed I am scared

that a ghost comes in the room and eats me.

That his shadow takes my shadow.

The light of the lamp

opens up the darkness a bit

to finally allow me to sleep.

Kevin Risseeuw—pixabay.com


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


Blue Jays & Cardinals

Bruce Levine

I noted one day

The dearth of any Blue Jay

To come within my view

Nor Cardinals

That astonishing bird

Covered in a regal hue

Then as I watched

A Blue Jay came in sight

And landed on my balcony railing

For seconds few

And then it flew

Off without any warning

As it flew away

I did proclaim

Astonished as I was

As if on cue

Several more did fly near

More Blue Jays did appear

And then I asked

For a Cardinal to alight

One came directly into sight

And landed on the rail

But in seconds it did regale

Into lofty flight

I’ve been told with those red wings

A Cardinal is an angel

So when I asked to see that bird

My simple request seems to have been heard

Now I watch

For Blue Jays and for Cardinals

To come within my view

Each day I hope

The dearth be gone

And an angel comes anew

anthroputer | pixabay.com


A Winter Chill

Bruce Levine

A winter chill prevails

As the sunset ignites the evening

With a fire of light

Against the barren trees

Remnants of icicles

Casting prisms of light

Creating rainbows

On the frozen ground

A dog barks

The sound echoing

As it reverberates in the stillness

Of the winter air

The aroma of wood

Burning in fireplaces

Scattered among the landscape

Of a lonely village

In a valley etched in the terrain

Of a mountain range

Fires set against a winter chill

In preparation for the night

As a sky filled with stars

Outlining the zodiac

And constellations hovering

Like night-lights

Protecting sleeping children

Smileus | stock.adobe.com


In Pursuit of Happiness

Bruce Levine

Life changes whether we want it to or not

Happiness remains elusive

Often based on circumstances beyond our control

Perfection may never be possible

But close is good

Not just good enough

And when you get there

Sometimes it’s pulled out from under your feet

Sharing and caring seemed so close

And time ahead seemed so real

But demons of the past can devour the present

With unknown powers trapped within

Negating the future

And yet uncertainty prevails

The past rises

Intertwining itself like octopus tentacles

Wrapping around future happiness

And dragging it back to the depths

The darkness of the deep

Caverns of stalactites

Clinging to the ceiling

Clawing to break free

Grasping at happiness and yet afraid

Afraid of the unknown outside the cave

Where light transforms the depths into sunshine

And hope and happiness is the new reality

Shirley | stock.adobe.com


Down

Ivanka Fear

Feet slipping out from under you

when you least expect it

slamming you onto your butt

leaving you in shock.

How did I get here?

you ask yourself

as life throws a sheet of black ice

smack in front of you

didn’t see that coming…

checking for broken bones

bruised ego denying

don’t let them see the tears

nothing else to do

smile and say you’re fine

kick life back to the curb

lift yourself up gingerly

shake yourself off

carry your broken self

forward

M.Dorr & M.Frommherz | stock.adobe.com


Complete System Shutdown

Ivanka Fear

6:30 am radio alarm jolts us to back to life

after a night of howling lullabies promising

a day of hibernation cocooned in our dens

All bets were placed yesterday afternoon, the talk all around,

whether the weather would shut down the town. (again)

They may as well just shut the schools and the highways till spring,

some folks said, tired of winter, and it's only December.

Children hopeful as they were scurried off to bed, parents worried there'd be bus cancellations for the day ahead. (yet

again)

Weather alert - BLIZZARD WARNING - our attention glued to our screens, our kids screaming in glee, as we

contemplate whether to attempt the dangerous trek to work. A futile glance out the window pane encrusted with frost

and lined with snow, the wind tearing the door out of our grasp, and reality greets us in the form of a five foot tall snow

wall just off the front porch. The roaring of the snow monster, the silence of the empty street devoid of traffic and plows

assails us. Cars buried under waves of white, driveway denying escape, we come to an understanding as the white

enshrouds us.

SNOW DAY! shout the children and the youth.

No work, celebrate the salaried employees.

No pay day, lament the hourly workers.

A whole day stuck inside with the kids, worry the parents.

TRAPPED! realizes everyone.

(City people just don't get it, freaking out over a few stray pellets of ice hitting their concrete city, some unsightly

mounds of snow huddled by the curbs, declaring a state of emergency on their golden streets, as icy shards fall from

glass towers.)

It's just another ordinary winter's day in an ordinary small town north of the city...

schools shut down in all five area school boards

daycare unavailable

all events cancelled

medical centre and pharmacy closed

most businesses not open

county services not operating

plows pulled off the job

barricades up on the roads

stranded motorists waiting

emergency responders overworked

warming centres open at arenas

offers for lodging on Facebook

OPP warnings for no unnecessary travel

Stay at home, folks.

This is another complete system shutdown.

No way in, no way out.

BTW, take care heading out to Tim's for your coffee...

And LCBO's open

for those who can get there safely.


Contributor Bios

Bruce Levine has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre

professional. A 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry nominee, a 2021 Spillwords Press Awards winner,

the Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly Summer 2021 and his bio is featured in “Who’s Who

of Emerging Writers 2020.” Bruce has over three hundred works published on over twenty-five

on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Spillwords, The Drabble; nearly seventy print books

including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal; Halcyon Days and Founder’s

Favourites (on-line and print) and his shows have been produced in New York and around the

country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. A native

Manhattanite, Bruce now lives and writes in Maine. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com

Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine Lines,

Cholla Needles, and several other publications. He is the author of ‘Yes, I Must Admit We Are

Neighbors’ (Cyberwit.net - 2021) and ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk’ (Pacific Poetry

Press -2021).

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris,

and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published

in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian “Faceless” has just been released in

Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance, he does it as some kind of tribal ritual, he is

fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artisits, and tries to stay away from it as

much as possible. https://sites.google.com/view/ivan-de-monbrison/home

Ivanka Fear is a Canadian writer. Her poems and stories appear in numerous

publications, including The Sirens Call, Scarlet Leaf Review, Mystery Tribune,

October Hill, Close to the Bone, and elsewhere. The debut novel of her mystery

series is scheduled for release by Level Best Books in January 2023.

Jane Ellen Glasser’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals, such as The Hudson Review,

The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Georgia Review. In the past she

served as the poetry critic for The Virginian-Pilot, poetry editor for the Ghent Quarterly and Lady

Jane’s Miscellany, and co-founder of the nonprofit arts organization and journal New Virginia

Review. She won the Tampa Review Prize for Poetry for Light Persists (2006), and the Poetica

Publishing Chapbook Contest for The Long Life (2011). Jane Ellen Glasser: Selected Poems

(2019) and Staying Afloat during a Plague (2021) are her recent collections. To learn more about

the poet and her work, visit www.janeellenglasser.com.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry

Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside

TJohn Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry

Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside

The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International

Poetry Review. he Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and

International Poetry Review.


Contributor Bios cont’d

'Nolo Segundo is the pen name of retired teacher, L.J. Carber, 73, who in the past 4 years has

had poems published online/in print in over 30 literary magazines in the US, UK, Canada,

Romania, and India. A few months a trade publisher released a 118 pp. paperback book of 60 of

his poems under his pen name and the title, The Enormity of Existence-- a title chosen to reflect

his awareness for the past 50 years that he has a consciousness which predates birth and survives

death. He became aware of this, his immortal soul, when he had a near-death experience whilst

almost drowning in a Vermont river at 24. Before then he had been a nihilistic-materialist,

believing only matter is real in the Universe; now he knows the problem is not that life is

meaningless but that there is so much meaning that even at best we can only grasp a bit of the Great Mystery,

which some call God. Many of his poems seek out and try to express a sense of this endless 'More'.

A recovering economics professor, Steve Slavin earns a living writing math and economic books.

Five volumes of his short stories have been published over the last six years, but he expects that

the pace will slow.



Issue 17 - Dec 2021

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