FF19

Founder’s Favourites

Issue 19 - June 2022

Author Spotlight: Nolo Segundo

Contributors

Bruce Levine

~

Carolyn Chilton Casas

~

Dr. William Waters

~

Gaiyle J. Connolly

~

Jane Briganti

~

Joan Mazza

~

Linda McCullough Moore

~

Nolen Price

~

Nolo Segundo

Peter Mladinic

~

Stella Mazur Preda

Founder’s Favourites | June 2022—Issue 19 | 1


Issue 19—June 2022

Author Spotlight

Nolo Segundo

The Enormity of Existence 3

Contributors

Bruce Levine

The Composer 7

Late Afternoon 8

The Process 20

Theoretical Sleep 21


Awareness 12

Dr William Waters

As Simply as I Know it 6

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Granny’s Housedress 15

Jane Briganti

A Woman’s Reflection 5

Moonlight 16

The Ink of Pen 24

Destiny 25

Joan Mazza

Archival Footage 22

What Did You Save? 23


For John Hodgen 17

Peter Mladinic

Sunbeams 4

Nolo Segundo

Fragments 18

The Walking Wounded 19

Nolen Price

Amarillo 8

A Mural of a Forest Floating in Space 22

Stella Mazur Preda

If Men Had Ears 4

At The End of the Day 26

Founder’s Feedback

Bruce Levine

The Composer (p7) I like the images in the first stanza of notes

floating in space waiting to be found. And the last two lines. Late

Afternoon (p10) I like the laziness of this entire poem. The Storm

(p11) I like the first two lines. The Process (p20) I like that he

hangs on to the see-saw process. Theoretical Sleep (p21) This

was accepted because I relate to this poem. Bruce did a good job

describing it with words.


Awareness (p12) The image of insights hovering in front of

one’s face is pretty cool!

Dr. William Waters

As Simply As I Know It (p6) I love the image of a piano wire

striking love in someone’s stomach!

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Granny’s Housedress (p15) Reading this poem brought lovely

memories of my grandmother. I would have liked to ask her the

thought-provoking question at the end of the poem. Well done,

Gaiyle.

Jane Briganti

A Woman’s Reflection (p5) Reflections are one of my favourite

themes. Moonlight (p16) I like the image of leaning my back

against a tree and wondering. The Ink of Pen (p24) I enjoyed

bathing in the peacefulness of Jane’s words. Destiny (p25) This

was so relaxing to read. My favourite line is I am surrendering,

just letting go of all expectations. Yes, indeed.

Joan Mazza

Archival Footage (p22) After reading the few lines and then the

first stanza, I knew I was in for a favourite. Well done, Joan!

What Did You Save? (p23) Wow, very emotional content and

relatable, too.


For John Hodgen (p17) These lines made it a favourite: the poet

might be sought and, sometimes, be imagined found, if only

briefly by mistake—I have found so many memorable poems by

mistake, and you live nearby, as though that place where words

start out might be visited one day. Awesome!

Nolen Price

Amarillo (p8) The last line made this a hit with me. A Mural of a

Forest Floating in Space (p9) Wow, such imagination stirs my

mind’s eye!

Nolo Segundo

Fragments (p18) This so rings true about my life. The Walking

Wounded (p8) I like the honesty relayed in this poem.

Peter Mladinic

Sunbeams (p13) I love the way Peter associates the lovely images

like flames, rivers, wooden paths and more with the girl.

Stella Mazur Preda

If Men Had Ears (p17) This will change how I experience my

nature walks! At The End of the Day (p26) I like the idea of the

moon appearing and igniting the sky.


Author Spotlight

Nolo Segundo

Nolo Segundo’s, first book The

Enormity of Existence,

publisher: Cyberwit.net, c. 2020

is available from Amazon.

Readers can buy copies through

Amazon The Enormity of

Existence: Segundo, Nolo:

9789390202980: Books -

Amazon.ca

You can find his full bio on page

27.

Is this your first book?

This is my first book.

How did these poems come about? Were they written for

other books or magazines, or just for yourself? Are they

based on real-life events or interests?

I wrote some poetry, a couple of children's stories, and a novel in

my 20's--all unpublished. I wanted to be a writer since my teens,

but when my novel was rejected, I just gave up writing. For some

unknown reason I began writing again in my 70's! In the past 5

years I've been published in over 80 literary magazines/

anthologies in 6 countries. Each poem comes to me in its own

time and many seem born out of the awareness I've had for over

50 years since having an NDE when I almost drowned at 24 in a

Vermont river. I went from believing only matter to be real to

knowing that I have, well, I am a consciousness that is eternal,

predating birth and surviving death--a soul. And everyone I see is

also an immortal being 'traveling' in a mortal shell for a time.

Were any poems published online or in print?

In this book 54 of the 60 poems have been published either by

online magazines or in print. I submit to both, and I know more

people will probably see them online, but being someone who can

remember always loving to hold and read a book, I get a special

joy out of seeing them in print.

What is the most surprising aspect/misconception of

having this book published?

The most surprising thing about getting the book published was

that someone wanted to! I had had poems published in

consecutive issues of Taj Mahal Review, a print magazine

published in English in India. I got an email from the magazine's

publisher, Cyberwit, saying they would like to publish a book of

my poems. This was 2 years ago: I was happy just getting my

poems published, though like any author I got many more nays

than yays, so I never really thought a book was in the cards.

How long did it take from the first page to the finished

product?

It took only about a week to select the poems and copy them onto

a single docx. Being retired, time is ample.

Who came up with the title and cover photo?

I came up with the title, The Enormity of Existence to reflect the

awareness I gained over half a century ago: We are not just mortal

creatures, sentient 'flukes of the Universe' destined only for

extinction as the materialists hold. The self is eternal: We always

exist. My publisher chose the cover photo, which I like and feel

rather apropos, as the next world is always unknown until we

cross over.

Describe your writer space.

Sometimes it's my bed! The poems always come to me

unexpected, flooding into my consciousness and if I don't write

them down quickly, I'll lose them--and they don't come back. I do

a bit of editing, if needed, at my laptop in my study. That's all

there is to it--of course, the problem is I must wait for them. I

couldn't sit down and write a worthwhile poem if my life

depended on it.

Are you currently working on anything?

Last year my publisher--again to my genuine surprise, asked to

put out a 2nd book, which we did titled 'The Enormity of

Existence'. Moreover, they asked for a 3rd book this year, which I

may try to put together if I can find 60 poems I and my publisher

might consider worthwhile.

Nolo Segundo threads the book with emotional honesty, and makes for a thought-provoking read. The wow poem for me was “The Leap.” If you would

like me to review your book, please email me at foundersfavouritesATgmail.com with the subject line “Author Spotlight Request—[Title].”


If Men Had Ears

Stella Mazur Preda

There’s music in the sighing of a reed;

There’s music in the gushing of a rill;

There’s music in all things, if men had ears;

Their earth is but an echo in the spheres.

— Lord Byron

Music echoes in the raindrops

beating rocks on the beach;

Waves roll in crash on the sand

with the dominance of a rock drummer;

Hear the music the rhythmic song of cicadas;

Flowers nod their heads gently

to the soft dance music only they can hear;

A white butterfly pirouettes and performs

as if dancing to Swan Lake;

There’s music in the tears of an infant

mother softly coos soothing songs;

Listen! Listen!

Your heart is touched!

There’s music in all things …

oli6790 | stock.adobe.com


A Woman's Reflection

Jane Briganti

Reflection in the mirror

Show me what is true

Am I the woman I see

The one I thought I knew


Am I all that I appear

Is there more to see

Not just each passing year


All alone I look at you

I've got that empty feeling

Once again it's dejavu


Let me see my naked soul

I know just being alive

Is not the same as being whole

Alta Oosthuizen | stock.adobe.com


As Simply As I Know it

Dr William Waters

To put it physically,

there is a piano wire coming from my stomach,

just below my belly-button;

You strike it with a hammer

and I shake.

Leonid | stock.adobe.com


The Composer

Bruce Levine

A blank sheet of music paper

Groups of five lines and four spaces

Black dots and circles floating in the air

Floating in space and yet to be found

Taking place in time rather than space

Elusive fragments of sound

Waiting to be combined into music

Are they down in the valley

Or over the next mountain

The composer asks

Will a bolt of lightning illuminate the enigma

Searching for meaningful combinations

In a sea as transparent as glass

Yet clouded over as a lump of coal

The intangible yearning to find the truth

The veritas of a single chord

A harmony pure and perfect as the moment

Consonant or dissonant

Refining itself with inevitable rightness

Holding time in the palm of its hand

And defining motion as the sun defines day and night

Sonorities chosen in complex permutations

By the dictates of forces unknown

Guiding the hand as well as the head and the heart

Hearing each instrument reveal its own needs

As an actor reveals its role in the totality of a play

Transformed on a palette of tonality

Into an everlasting reality unto itself

The finite being the infinite

As colors pass and fade

And reunite in a crescendo of splendor

Formed by the individual and blended together

As the scores of instruments and musicians

Interpret the black dots and circles

Filling the groups of five lines and four spaces

That once was a blank sheet of music paper

Hebi B | pixabay.com


Amarillo

Nolen Price

the Glassblower makes a vase

then a jar

he goes home to see his wife

-

the Glassblower wakes up and makes miracles

out of melted grains of sand and sings

George Straight on his drives home

-

the Glassblower makes a sculpture

then an ashtray

he smokes a cigarette and flicks its ashes into his creation

goldbug | Pixabay.com


A Mural of a Forest Floating in Space

Nolen Price

A mansion on the moon with a pool

in a crater and countertops made of meteor.

Proton powered chandeliers and

starlight shining though skylights in the roof.

A stove kept hot with

rays from the sun and robots flipping

pancakes in the kitchen.

Big bay windows with a view of the Earth

and a rover moving from room to room vacuuming up dust.

Photosvac | stock.adobe.com


Late Afternoon

Bruce Levine

The late afternoon

Changes the mood of the day

A cooling breeze

Erases the oppressive heat of the morning

A crystal blue sky

Without a single cloud

A tiny plane slips suddenly

Onto the horizon

Where it’s going – unknown

I watch my dog

As she stretches out on the grass

In the dog park that she truly believes is hers

And hers alone

She rolls and lays her head

In the softness

Smelling the sweat scent of the lawn

All of this I realize

From a bench nearby

I too have lain in the grass with her

On other days

Watching clouds changing shapes

And making formations

In the quietness

Broken only by birds

Momentarily talking to each other

And the swaying trees

The only movement

Intruding on the stillness

Of the late afternoon

Before the sun sets

And brings the night

Making way for a new dawn

Unpredictable

Yet with the hope

Of another late afternoon

Like today

vitpluz—stock.adobe..com


The Storm

Bruce Levine

Rain spattered on the window pane

Making patterns like geometric drawings

Before the droplets released their molecular hold

Forming abstract lines like a Pollack painting

Flashes of lightning illuminated the maze of water

Held against the glass as if by magic

And tinted into a rainbow of color

By the refraction of ionized air

Trees bowed to the newly born vision

Before the wind erased the storm’s creation

As if an artist applied gesso over a painting

To refresh a canvass and start anew

The lingering shadows over oceans turned to blackness

In the depths of historic graves

Of shipwrecks filled with treasure

In a hunter’s paradise and dreams of glory

‘Til dawn erased the mem’ries of fantasies

Like the waning of the storm erased the rain

And the wind decreased from miles per hour

As the new day moved forward in perpetuum ordained

babyboysosad | Pixabay.com


Awareness


Some insights come slicing

light-speed through the air

to hover in front of my face

like hummingbirds on our patio.

Shooing away all other thoughts,

the same way these winged

kamikaze pilots chase off

their cousins up over the oaks.

Small bodies of awareness

vibrating with such intensity,

their insistent whirring

not something to be ignored.

gene1970 | Pixabay.com


Sunbeams

Peter Mladinic

When the Sunbeams sing “Please Say

You’ll Be Mine” at the end they pause

a second then in harmony sing “you are

the one for me.” How I felt about you.

In my room the gray wallpaper’s campfire

patterns—you were the flame, the curve

in the river out my window, treetop’ green,

wooded paths, chimneys’ bricks, rusted

stones in the Revolutionary War graveyard

across the road from the Little League field,

south end of town. You were the circle

outside the tall columns of the high school

before men on scaffolds wrought a wing.

You were clouds above the river and light

in the morning, light in your eyes, light

in your long dark hair. Body and soul a girl.

The girl. In Glory you can’t hear me.

I look from glass at river’s sweeping curve,

and see your hair your face your body,

all of you beautiful, as you are, as you are.

shaifulzamri.com | stock.adobe.com


How to

become a

Founder’s

Favourite

Accepted contributors will most likely write

about things that are emotionally moving.

Content contains anything I find memorable,

creative, unique, visual, or even simple. If

you want your book in the next author

spotlight (page 3), email me at

foundersfavouritesATgmail.com with the

subject line “Author Spotlight—Title” and

tell me how I can get a pdf or physical copy.

Not sure I will like your submission or book?

Take a chance! You have nothing to lose.

You may end up being among the founder's

favourites!

Submit today!

http://foundersfavourites.blogspot.com


Granny’s Housedress

Gaiyle J. Connolly

Ranging in price from 80 cents to 3 dollars

the 40s housedress makes a statement.

Granny always wears one for

never-ending chores, service to others.

Over the head style, front and back the same

tied together with a sash, multi-functional.

Wrapped tightly, it can show an hour-glass figure;

loosely knotted, it’s a maternity frock.

Made of simple cotton that rations can allow,

it features tiny patterns – floral or geometric.

Seldom going out, she dons it almost every day.

Does she feel it is prison garb

or

does she wear it proudly

as a Badge of Honour?

Romea | stock.adobe.com


Moonlight

Jane Briganti

A luminous soft yellow glow

I sit beneath it

My back against a tree

I ponder

I wonder what could be

Harmless is this mellow moonlight

Protecting me from darkness

This is my time for reflection

Where have I been?

Where am I and where am I going?

I am comfortable here

until morning comes

When morning rises and it does,

my moonlight disappears

and once again I find myself

melancholy

Albrecht Fietz | Pixabay.com


For John Hodgen


I came upon you by the grace of God

today – as though we might imagine

things were sometimes come upon

some other way.

I found you in a literary journal.

Did you know that you were lost?

The poem didn’t say.

Then I looked you up. It is the

reason poetry is written: that the

poet might be sought and, sometimes,

be imagined found, if only briefly. If

only by mistake.

I liked your poetry and I like it

that it says here that you live nearby,

as though that place where words

start out might be visited one day.

Without a large amount of trouble.

Bees be heard there. Wasps? Perhaps.

A swarm. Something taken. Wine or

Lemonade, I think, with sprigs of green

described as planted by someone gone

now far away; stories told, made better

when talk turned to 1950: our one and

several childhoods, who we were

going to marry after we grew up, and

why it would have been a good idea.

Poetry done properly: a place we’d like

to visit. We do not want our poets far

away. Poets in their houses so like God,

at least in that one way.

Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works.

She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed

by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For

many years she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry, and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of

Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com

Albrecht Fietz | Pixabay.com


Fragments

Nolo Segundo

A bit here, a piece there,

that’s all we really have--

be it the tail end of a dream

as you awaken to a more

mundane world and feel it

slip away from you, and

knowing you will never see

that wondrous universe

again-- or the books you’ve

read over a lifetime, the

millions of words that

went through your brain

like cars speeding away into

the encroaching night….

You know you can keep

nothing really, nothing

whole, but still you want

to—you want life and yes,

love too, to be solid, sure,

unfading-- but sentience is

a melange and your mind

a bubble on a wave that

rolls in and out, in and out,

as time’s undercurrent pulls

you relentlessly into that

unfathomable ocean--

Eternity....

rolffimages | stock.adobe.com


The Walking Wounded

Nolo Segundo

I see us everywhere anymore,

at the supermarket or the mall,

moving slowly, often cane-less

(old folks can be vain too) along

a sidewalk like lost zombies, and

of course every time I visit one

of the plethora of doctors I rely

upon to keep my rusting body

and creaking heart working….

Why did I not see old people

when I was young?

They must have been there,

in my world of swiftness and

sex, of sprawling on a beach or

dancing under the boardwalk

or driving fast enough to

challenge death itself—but

when I saw old people—and it

seemed rare back then—it was

like watching a scene from an

old black-and-white movie,

not quite real, even quaint—

I liked old people and I loved

my Nana and Pop-pop, but only

now in my 8th decade do I know

how much they had to put up with

in living a long life, how time has

a tendency to whittle away your

strength and confidence and grace,

shrinking your bones, drying out

your joints, slowing your brain

and poking holes—oh, so many

holes in your memory….

I am not as fond of old people

now I am one—it is the young

I now see fondly—

but they can’t see me….

loganwengerphotos | Pixabay.com


The Process

Bruce Levine

He waits

Days go by

Weeks go by

Months go by

Years go by

Promises unresolved

Time passes

No fulfillment

New hopes

New rejections

Once remembered

Once forgotten

Trying again

Putting it out

Painful reminders

Past encounters

Understanding

Confusion

Resolution

Waiting

Goals

Goals forsaken

Timeless reminders

Forever hopeful

pepgooner | stock.adobe.com


Theoretical Sleep

Bruce Levine

My eyes were fading

I closed the book

And I’m wide awake

I finally fell into a fitful sleep

3:20 a.m.

I’m suddenly awake

I look at the digital clock

Next to the bed

3:20 a.m.

I lie in bed wide awake

Composing this poem

As it repeats in my head

I become more and more fixated

Over and over

The words that keep me awake

Until I get out of bed

And walk to my study

To write down the words

That keep me awake

And my eyes fade

I walk back to bed

And I’m wide awake

As it repeats in my head

Until I finally fall

Into theoretical sleep

Arek Socha | Pixabay.com


Archival Footage

Joan Mazza

Regret arrives at 3 AM, unpleasant relative

pounding on your door, expecting you to rise

and serve a meal. No phone call or email

to warn of his arrival, no way to get him

to leave, he reads from detailed notes

on the specifics of how you hurt your

mother by not returning her calls, not

replying to her worries. You dated the boy

she feared was a loser, spent two years

trying to rescue him, while he proved

Mother was right. You never told her.

At 4 AM, Regret squeezes your toes, sends

needles of numbness to make you leap

from bed to stamp your feet in the cold dark.

Lie down and wish for sleep, and Regret

plays a movie of the boss who called you

sloppy and scattered, and you took it in,

didn’t gesture toward his porn magazines

or the coffee cup with a floating mold colony.

You squeeze your eyes and say, Stop! but

the movies of coworkers replay—Julie,

who left the lounge when you entered,

whom you’d never talked to at any length,

but showed her disdain by not speaking

or looking at you. Thirty years later,

you still wonder at this mystery, try to push

the memory away, along with the wish

you’d said something, anything, to break

that enchantment of wordless confusion.

Regret carries the scent of rot, of nursing

homes painted beige and brown. Regret

forces you to get up and move on. No choice.

Past lessons released your voice.

Leka | stock.adobe.com


What Did You Save?

Joan Mazza

Two tiny porcelain deer and a chipmunk

from my father, saved in my jewelry box

with the ankle bracelet from my ex-husband—

statement that we were going steady. At sixteen,

I was unsure if this commitment was wise,

expressed my doubts and beheld his wrath.

I saved all his love letters from summer 1964,

held on to memories of camping, gathering

firewood together in New York State parks.

When mother died, I kept her Waterford crystal,

Noritaki china, Lenox swans to glide across

the glass top on my dining room table

until my home felt more like hers, shrine

to her tastes and secret purchases. I gave

them away and kept her one January teacup

with lily-of-the-valley and gold edges.

The birch bark canoe my sister bought me

when she went to Girl Scout camp I burned

when she told me to lose her address, but saved

her gift of lacy earrings of undetermined,

tarnished metal. My sister’s not the sentimental

kind. For my last visit, she’d put the trash out

with gifts I’d mailed her. She saves nothing

that might hold her back or bring her down

to earthy feelings. I’m the saver in the family,

taking photos, created the family tree on Ancestry,

who researched forebears from Sicily. It’s spring

in Virginia. My sister loved daffodils. I don’t

press them for her or send them to her.

pasja1000 | Pixabay.com


The Ink Of Pen

Jane Briganti

Is there reason to my rhyme

Will my words carry on in time

Might I write until I die

Continue never knowing why

The answers I have yet to find

Buried deep within my mind

Written with the ink of pen

Words become my solemn Zen

PublicDomainPictures | Pixabay.com


Destiny

Jane Briganti

A warm breeze

glides across my bare skin

blowing through my once auburn waves

Droplets of water sprinkle upon me

as the tide breaks against the rock-lined shore

where I rest alone

My eyes are open

My breathing is calm

and my mind at ease

I ruminate not about life or love,

but on the flow of my breath and

the beating of my heart

I am surrendering, just letting go

of all expectations

Right here on this beach

today, this day,

on this towel,

under this tree

which shades me

I surrender to the Universe

I trust it to lead me

wherever I need to be

To lead me to my destiny

Soonthorn | stock.adobe.com


At the End of the Day

Stella Mazur Preda

shadows eclipsed by the ensuing dark

mountains swallowed up

as night encroaches on daylight

fish cavorting can be heard from the lake

spirits materialize under the stars

frolic in the obscure darkness

animals who thrive in ebony nights

emerge to explore and feed

the moon appears and ignites the sky

from ebony blackness to a misty gray

at the end of the day

a new world unfurls

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. 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.

Gunther Schneider | Pixabay.com


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; in

over 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

Carolyn Chilton Casas lives on the central coast of California, the perfect landscape for a love of hiking and

playing beach volleyball. She is a Reiki master and teacher, whose favorite theme for writing is about ways to heal.

Her stories and poems have appeared in Braided Way, Energy, A Network for Grateful Living, Reiki News

Magazine, Touch, and in other publications. You can read more of Carolyn’s work on Facebook, on Instagram at

mindfulpoet_, or in her first collection of poems titled Our Shared Breath.

Dr. William Waters is an associate professor, in the Department of English at the University of Houston Downtown.

Along with Sonja Foss, he is coauthor of Destination Dissertation: A Traveler’s Guide to a Done Dissertation. His research

and teaching interests are in writing theory and modern grammar.

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.

Jane Briganti lives and works in Maine. Her poetry has been frequently published by Creations Magazine and has

appeared in journals including WestWard Quarterly, Better Than Starbucks, Spillwords and Leaves of Ink. She

believes poetry is the soul’s way of communicating with itself.

Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams

and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self. Her poetry

has appeared in Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Italian Americana, Poet Lore, Slant, The Nation,

and elsewhere. She lives in rural central Virginia.

Nolo Segundo pen name of L.J. Carber, 74, in his 8th decade became a published poet in over 70 online/in print

literary journals and anthologies in the US, UK, Canada, Romania, India and Italy. In 2020 a trade publisher released

a book length collection, THE ENORMITY OF EXISTENCE, and in 2021 a 2nd book, OF ETHER AND EARTH.

Both titles (as do many of his poems) reflect the awareness he's had for 50 years since having an NDE whilst almost

drowning that he has a consciousness that predates birth and survives the death of the body—what poets once called

the soul. He was also nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2022 by an online journal. A retired teacher (America, Japan,

Taiwan, Cambodia), he has been married 41 years to a smart and beautiful Taiwanese woman.

Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An

animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA. Readers can buy copies through Better Than Starbucks

Publications https://www.betterthanstarbucks.org/ and on Amazon.

Nolen Price is a first-year student at Susquehanna University pursuing a degree in creative writing. He has been

previously published in Rivercraft Magazine and Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press. He was born in Texas and now

resides in Pennsylvania. He mainly writes poetry and hopes to make writing into his career.



Issue 19 - June 2022

Thanks for spending time

with my favourites.


FF19

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