Issue 17 - Dec 2021
FEATURING POEMS AND STORIES OF
Ivan de Monbrison
Jane Ellen Glasser
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 1
Issue 16—October 2021
Blue Jays & Cardinals ................ 17
A Winter Chill ............................ 18
In Pursuit of Happiness .............. 19
Winter’s Face ............................. 3
Jane Ellen Glasser
I’d Rather Be .............................. 6
The Man on the Ledge ............... 7
Ivan de Monbrison
The Harbor ................................. 14
Shadow Light .............................. 15
Down .......................................... 20
Complete System Shutdown ....... 21
An Old Poet’s Walk Through
An Old Graveyard ....................... 4
Quintessence of Dust ................. 5
The Agent .................................... 9
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.
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
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.
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.
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!
The Agent (p9) Being stunned at unexpected
reactions hit home with me.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 2
Shattered teeth shake in
They stare out over
across the lake now
Tears run half way
then stop in search
sun now no longer
freshidea | stock.adobe.com
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 3
An Old Poet’s Walk
Through An Old Graveyard
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
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 4
Quintessence Of Dust
[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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 5
I’d Rather Be
Jane Ellen Glasser
I’d rather be
than a pond
than a noun
than a rose garden
than a drizzle
than a limousine
than a clock
than an orchid
a lady bug
than a queen bee
than a diamond
than a peacock
than a period
than a yesterday
or a tomorrow
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 6
The Man on the Ledge
You see a man
on a tall building.
You want to cry out
But you only watch
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
You cannot imagine him
taking the elevator.
Mel Stoutsenberger | stock.adobe.com
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 7
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 8
EUGENI FOTO | stock.adobe.com
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
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.
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.
“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
“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
“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
“How come your cut is larger for the reproductions?”
“It’s simple. I’ll be arranging and paying for making
“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?”
“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?”
“I’ll have them framed and reproduced. Then we’ll be
“Sounds good to me!”
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 9
“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
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
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.
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
“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
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.”
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 10
“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
“So, you just tried to give him the time of his life.”
“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.”
“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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 11
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
frizza | stock.adobe.com
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 12
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
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.
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
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
“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.
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
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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 13
Ivan de Monbrison
The boat leaves the harbor.
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
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 14
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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 15
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!
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 16
Blue Jays & Cardinals
I noted one day
The dearth of any Blue Jay
To come within my view
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
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 17
A Winter Chill
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
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
Protecting sleeping children
Smileus | stock.adobe.com
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 18
In Pursuit of Happiness
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
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 19
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
M.Dorr & M.Frommherz | stock.adobe.com
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 20
Complete System Shutdown
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
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
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
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
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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 21
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
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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 22
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.
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 23
Issue 17 - Dec 2021
spending time with
Founder’s Favourites | December 2021—Issue 17 | 24