poet bios at http://www.poetryexpressed.com/p/poets.html
IF ONLY I COULD... by Grace Marie Grafton
Say thank you. What a prodigy of present.
I would be present to the croquet game
that gave me the delicious thunk! of wood on
wood, flat on round, color wheeling in its
little parade of turn and turn about. I would
be present to taking turns, to the paddles
that churn butter, to the royal gold congealing
milk fat makes, add salt, present to the bread.
I didn't learn to read 'til third grade but
then, present to everything the Word could
offer. I started with the Presidents' wives,
became present to how a wife can be in
her own book and so a woman has her own
mind even if it's hidden behind the hipbones
of a man. Now I could be present to the possibility
I could dance without music. I know the breath,
the inner beat that makes feet move and
shoulders roll, I see the kaleidoscope of
tree sky raven-wing circle and gather. My eye-
sight's keen, my mouth waters, my mind hears
the sound of wood on wood, I don't need
to travel around the globe to see the glass and
shoes of Istanbul or the games of Kathmandu.
HERE I WEEP by Laura Schulkind
We look straight ahead while I drive,
you next to me, curled into your coat
against the chill of summer.
You are always cold now.
And I remember, years ago,
giving driving lessons to your first grandchild.
How, looking straight ahead,
we could share the passing world.
So, I test the “how to talk to teens” advice
that had served us well--
to do it in cars, where eyes naturally do not meet.
What else do I know to do?
Eyes on the road,
I say there are options to weigh,
second opinions to seek,
factors to consider, steps to be taken.
You bristle,
and I remember my first disorienting look
up into my son’s face.
His first bending down to me.
I try again.
Find a new voice for this unmapped moment.
I drive and ask questions,
about what is next, what you want, what you fear,
while I focus on my well-timed lane changes,
gentle stops,
smooth merges,
and think, I can do this.
But on the plane home,
I am lost.
No driver’s illusions up here,
where all is surrender and faith.
We sit, looking straight ahead,
my row-mate and I,
busy with laptops and crosswords and page-flipping.
A stranger, but still,
I hope he does not notice
I am weeping.
THE SWING by Judy Wells
THE SWING
I am standing
in front of a famous Renoir—
“The Swing,” in French, “La Balançoire”
Young woman in white dress
stands on swing, seven
blue bows
adorn her dress
from
neck to hem
How the light dapples down her dress—
that Renoir
touch
Those red apples on her cheeks
She looks away from her admirer
Man in light-dappled yellow hat
away from
me, another admirer
A voice, calling my name,
awakes me
from my Renoir reverie
Amidst the crowd, a former student
“This is my favorite painting!
I came back through
the rooms to see it again.”
The crowd thickens around “La Balançoire”
We step
aside
“Did you hear about
the concert?
Last night.
At the winery.
A man committed
suicide.
He climbed on a roof
over the stage and jumped.
I was right up front.
I
saw everything.”
She has a wild look in her eye
“He was at the
concert.
The music was very
stirring, passionate.”
She waves
her arms
“He acted on it.
I have to go back to
my friend now.
We took off today to…”
she hesitates
I complete
her thought
“to see something beautiful.”
“Yes,” she says
I look back at Renoir’s “La Balançoire”
Someone came unbalanced last night
All over the world
people are struggling to survive
terrible
floods, fires, cancer
while
a young man
swings out over center stage
and lets go
plummeting,
plummeting
Stops a concert, traumatizes an audience
Ends his
life. Why?
I turn back to rooms
filled with
beautiful impressionistic paintings
to hundreds of viewers
struggling
to understand
how that white snow can shimmer so
how those
green strokes can compose a bridge
how those blue bows can fascinate
Judy Wells
Impressionism
Exhibit, de Young, San Francisco ,
2010
(I later learned the music was called “When Your Mind’s Made
Up”)
AMAZON WOMEN: A COUNTRY OF WARRIORS by Nadine Lockhart
His upper chest moves above me as if hung and swayed by a tether: This is no romance.
We come from mountains, formidable, a jumble of peaks and ranges and lower lands—
instability, a region of instability, lifetimes of it. Warriors on horseback, single-breasted
women, that would be us. This war is our peace, our meditation, how we balance to know
ourselves, our skills honed far beyond the lifting of an infant. I lift my bow.
We ride among the oak, the hornbeam, maple and ash, ever higher into birch and pine, rising
into spruce and fir until alpine replaces forest, and above that, snowline, glaciers like glass.
Sunlight glints off ice like a spirit strong with life. We wait, we thaw, we do our daily grind
and mill—until it arrives, they arrive, our time for mating the Gargareans. It was not always
this way, this methodical.
To be sure, this is no romance: Rape and murder still occur, though most pairing is willingly.
After all, we carry the child. We carry and birth, and birth and birth. Give them males,
keep the girls. Gargareans, better them than sex with slaves—where did that rumor begin?
A male brought by us into slavery, hands bound behind his back, not to be intermixed with—
it happens. Intermarriage happens. If you believe Herodotus.
The clang of swords against body armor, round shields, and helmets. The theory I put forth:
Tribes are nomadic, illusionary in nature. Amazons only appear to be without men, their men
fight and hunt—gone long periods. The women, independent, train for battle, farm, and wander
the wilderness, this geographic area now called Ukraine, or Russia. My people come from here,
we are Carpathian. Carpatho-Rus.
This is what I’m trying to say: It’s in my blood this waiting for you, it’s in my bones this
“not needing” you in the flesh, your attempts at intimate soul-bonding, your constant pull for
attention and more attention. I’ve enough to do: Soap your own hair, wash your own feet,
find your own mistress. I’m busy practicing my best form to steady the bow, draw the arrow
straight and across that flat plate where my right breast used to sit.
Dancing, Swarming by Nadine Lockhart
I, who have arrived in heaven, watch
from an advantaged angle,
you who are getting obliterated in the
dancing swarm of fireflies.1
(A falling angel, maybe two, enter my
vision as they pass by).
You radiate with lesser stars, a crescent
moon, or a gibbous,
which waxes and wanes as this is your
life on the earth, obsidian,
or lamp black and dark, lamp black and
coal dark. . .
I, however, am forced to follow my soul
which has headed northward
or inward—it’s difficult to know
directions—being bodiless and all
dimensions are everywhere at once.
Music, spheres of it, sends me packing
toward itself. And the lights,
you think your fireflies are something?
They are nothing—swirling
sunlit beads of a reflection of a
reflection . . . small ardors.
The light here—a thousand thousand
orgasms and then some and not
describable. The sound, the sound that
pulls up and in, that sound—
another thousand thousand orgasms.
You: Catch that firefly—the faint sound
of it, the dim light of it—
latch on until you are that sound, that
light, obliterated in the dancing
swarm, until you are the dancing swarm, until
you are . . . the dancing.
1 Yayoi
Kusama, “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies.”
Mixed Media Installation (2005).
NEANDERTHALS by Elana Levy
when i would hear neanderthals
the butt of jokes
implying ugly dumb lower being,
it felt like i was under attack
which i didn't understand.
now i know
that neanderthals can be found
in my family tree,
and i am so proud.
can you see my great great greats
to the thousandth degree
in the depth of my eyes
the breadth of my nose
the contour of my chin
your "yes" would so please me.
those of us with euro-asian ancestry
share 1-4% of genes
with neanderthals who resided
from europe to siberia.
and only disappeared
thirty thousand years ago
little question, that homo sapiens and
homo neanderthalensis did interbreed
after all we are first cousins
sharing homo heidelbergensis
as our immediate grandparents.
not only do we have genes and grandparents
in common, but modern brain size
and speech.
yes, none of that "ugh" stuff for us.
your diggers have dug up a neanderthal
hyoid bone, equipment needed, for vocals,
plus evidence we too had the "speech" gene.*
certainly, we talked with each other
those long winter nights.
the more the diggers uncover
the more similar we cousins are
to one another.
first traces of neanderthal's ancestors found
some 400,000 years ago
by 250,000 years, we were fully formed.
the last sites with our burials, ornaments, tools and bone
about 30,000 years old, lay along the mediterranean shores.
during our 200,000 plus years
we survived through several severe glaciations
perhaps our modern day cousins could
learn some strategies of accomodation
we knew how to keep on
keeping on.
who of us here, in this very room
were sitting together around a hearth
in the designated living area of our rock shelter
warmed by our fire and furs.
caring for our sick and elderly
singing chanting
planning, as the ice melted and the sun warmed,
whether it was time
to journey forward.
primary reference: neanderthals rediscovered,papagianni and morse,2013.
plus several articles from a homo neanderthalensis on line search.
FIRST CLASS MAIL by Elizabeth Alford
I wish I were the letter
that I sent you yesterday:
kiss-sealed inside an envelope
addressed to your address,
nestled safe inside your mailbox
where you’d notice me at last.
I wish you were the envelope
in our paper-thin embrace—
that you were folded close
around me, and wouldn’t
ever let me go.
But I know one thing for certain
(sure as stamps will see the world):
that I, your letter, the heart of this
great matter, will never see your face,
but be banished to the trash can,
still sealed tightly away.
THE LAW OF BRIDGES by Gary Turchin
Of bridges I know little,
Least of all the physics that hold them up—
often in such precarious poses & places
as to hint at a madness in them,
a beautiful madness.
Why connect this to that, here
now ?
above this
beside that ?
Aren’t we tempting fate ?
Can’t we just go around ?
Or not go at all ?
But we bridge,
like the beaver dams;
because we’re bridge builders
of the seen and un-seen
kind
Many have I crossed.
real, imagined,
Paid their tolls,
admired their reach,
suffered their traffic,
felt their sway in the wind,
been blown across their lanes like tumbleweed
threading the needle of fate
to arrive, on the other side, still safely stitched
thanks to no handiwork of my own,
But it’s the bridges I haven’t crossed,
that needle me,
will mark my time
like a cross marks a grave.
This is the Law of Bridges.
I knew a man
who jumped off a bridge
because he wanted to get
to the Other Side
before
he got
to the other side.
FOR THE YOUNG PEOPLE by Jan Dederick
They know the jig is up:
how the ocean is acid they learned it in school
beside Pythagoras’ theorem,
how Manhattan and Boston aspire to Atlantis
which also sank.
they know the jig is up:
how the web of debt like Black Widow’s spin
pins them, stuns them, entangles them,
strangles hopes of finding the edge of the box
let alone climbing out.
They know the jig is up:
how the behemoth careens,
how steep is the scarp,
how deep the rut,
how gravity yanks,
how Niagara’s brink is here,
how the barrel must be stove.
They know the jig is up:
how the future is tumors and thirst,
how the present is largely PR,
how the past has been air-brushed for TV,
how so-option trumps co-operation.
They know, and yet they love.
The cook from scratch, recipes old and new.
They know and yet they celebrate,
go to the sea, see sea lions’ shenanigans.
They know, and yet they laugh:
Better to laugh than rant.
They know the future’s a long long shot,
so they stay in the here, in the now,
to see what wants to happen.
they know the jig is up,
and yet they dance withal.
A phrase from a Gertrude Stein poem prompted this poem.
lESS LACED DIAMONDS —Nancy Schimmel, 2015
less laced bodice
come down, back and forth
edged in froth
diamonds down her front
watermelon dripping
on diamonds
on lace
on white dimity
and black laces
and rose red and snow white
snow in the winter
watermelon red in the summer
lace the diamond
lace edges
all around the back
green and not-green stripes
black eyes and susies
lazy susies
turn back and forth
lacy susie
turn back, turn back
to me here
at the bottom
of the garden
in the patch
in the pachouli
in the mouth of the kisses
in the unlacing
in the meander
in the wandering finger
running up the edge
around the dimple
through the eyelet
unlacing everything
that would be free
WINTER by Bruce Bagnell
We talked of traction
on the ice
at
speed
with studded tires singing
a song on the 8-track.
She was full of fast.
You could spin out,
crash,
hurt-burn against
skin,
the down blanket of her neck
too warm
even in this winter
of my want for the long
road.
It was the pistons of Marley
with her guitar
throat
singing
off the beat
capturing me,
until I was in the ditch,
upside down,
dazed,
and I swear she hugged me
as she crawled out from under,
vanished.
UNCLE BOB'S CENTURY-OLD PRACTICAL JOKE
by Jim Barnard
I
So I’m harvesting tomatoes
the end product of my labor
the precursor to a glorious meal
a source of pride and wellbeing.
Life is good.
Hey wait. What on earth is that?
A small, ripe tomato
with a huge, perfectly spherical bite
right out of the middle.
Not good.
I know my enemies.
Birds might peck a hole.
Slugs would leave a trail.
Sow bugs only eat tomatoes on the ground.
Paranoia strikes.
II
October 28th, 1915
my mom’s 6th birthday.
Big brother Bob has the perfect gift
for his favorite, tomboy sister.
He giggles diabolically.
He wraps it in a matchbox
pink paper, pink ribbon.
He can hardly wait
to see the expression on her face
and hear her scream.
Olive tears open the present
her heart full of love
for her mischievous brother.
She screams, but with delight.
“Oh! How beautiful!”
III
The hollowed out tomato’s
in a cluster of five.
Two of the others
like the first, half gone.
Panic grows.
My fingers probe the thick foliage
expect a thick, hard tomato stem
feel soft, responsive tissue
the size of my thumb.
I scream…. Loud.
I imagine Mom and Uncle Bob
in the hereafter
roaring with laughter
at their faint-hearted kin
and my monstrous, beautiful tomato worm.
- Paul Elias Taylor
ELIZABETH ALFORD
Elizabeth Alford has always had an on-again-off-again relationship with poetry; but in the wake of her graduation from CSU East Bay, she recently announced that they are now going steady (much to everyone’s relief). She lives in Hayward, CA with her loving fiancĂ©, mother, and two dopey dogs. Her favorite things include sushi, loud music on long drives, staring at the stars, and poetry. Her work has appeared in the student literary magazine Occam’s Razor and also online at Poetry Super Highway, Haikuniverse, Quatrain.Fish, and the blogs of Silver Birch Press and Creative Talents Unleashed.
JAN DEDERICK
ALSO NOMINATED
Unfortunately we did not recieve a poem, picture, and bio from Elizabeth Agans, Alice Templeton, or Joshua Curtis at the time of publication. Our apologies
I did not dream I saw
Joe Hill Last Night
By Chris Chandler
I did not dream I saw Joe Hill Last night…
I simply saw Joe Hill – Alive in you and me.
The work of Ceasar Chavez, and the work of Eugene Debs is not 75 or
even 25 years dead.
it will Never dies says, me.
For it will Never die IN me.
The Billy club of Ferguson, the tear gas streets in the streets of
Occupy
killed you joe?
They ran you out of town says some?
It takes more than that to shut us down,
Which is why, we’ll stay right here.
Which is why we will not die.
… and organize he did!
And standing there as big as life… is the work of United Students
Against
Sweatshops, The School for the America’s Watch, and the United Mountain
Defense, Nurses without Borders, Anonymous, Black Lives Matter.
Who struggle to organize a world in which all people live in freedom
from
oppression… valued as whole human beings… rather than exploited in a
quest for productivity under the rule of the wrong kind of profits.
THEY WENT ON to Organize!
Organizing as they fight police brutality. Organizing as they fight the prison
industrial complex. Organizing
as they fight to force queer and transgender
issues onto the agenda.
Joe Hill is ALIVE in those who went on to organize!... Went on to
organize
the unorganized.
From Johannesburg to Imokolee
From Zuccati Park to Ferguson
from Oakland to Baltimore
From Prauge to Side Bouzid
this is where you will find Joe Hill
that is where you will find you and me.
For I did not dream I saw Joe Hill Last night…
I AM JOE HILL TONIGHT!
I am Michael Brown
I am Victor Jara
Iam Rachel Corey
I am joe Hill
I am Joe Hill
I will never die, say, me
for I will never die IN me.
If Only I Were Light That Dances
“...You will
have to create the path by walking yourself; the path is not ready-made, lying
there and waiting for you. It is just like the sky: the birds fly, but they
don't leave any footprints. You cannot follow them; there are no footprints
left behind.”
―Osho
―Osho
I. Soledad
Barrio y Flamenca Noche
moved to tears
by high, raw cry
that rises
from half lit stage
man holds himself erect
in poised, rigid posture
tight vest over open collared
shirt
woman sheathed in red
wrapped tight
ruffled train behind
poised, cobra
ready to strike
eyes locked on one another
move intertwined
through restrained intricate
patterns
of impassioned fiery grace
staccato hand claps
percussive heel strikes
on hardwood floor
punctuate lattice work
of stately guitar arpeggios
rise and fall
of singer's voice
shreds edges of heart
to feel such depth
they moved
two candle flames
that cast light
into a dark room
their flicker
chased shadows
into the night
II. In
a Ballet Studio
my heart broke
that day
in the ballet studio
when I felt
I mastered my body
in complete control
of my physical instrument
down to smallest
muscular adjustment
en pointe:
developpe,
rond de jambe,
arabesque,
promenade
such ballon
grande jete gathers
itself
in feathery descent
then pas de bouree
comes to stately rest
at stage edge
only to begin again
stillness within
centered movement
yet I felt so far
from perfection of all
possibility
that moves across an open stage
to fill space and suspend time
such that indrawn breath
is held in moment
of wonder
III. Blues
in the night
an old black gentleman
came up to me and asked
where I learned to dance
like that
it seeps into the soul
first from radio
then TV dance parties
James Brown mashed potato
Hollywood jazz dance,
Fosse broadway
Kathryn Dunham afro-cuban
and everything else
in between
that fits body's need
to move
Guitar lines soar
electric bass pushes
thick volumes of air
cut by snap
of snare drum
mouth harp tears
melody to shreds
'...cause my baby
done took the train
and gone...'
but my baby
wants to slip, slide
bump, grind
grin an evil smile
in some dark, smokey bar
with blues through the night
work out that fever
work in that bone rhythm
feel heat burn inside
that causes men to shout,
women to moan
IV.
I would
I would dance
as birds fly
across skies
leave no footprint
behind
- Paul Elias Taylor
Poets
The full list of those elected by the Poetry Express Berkeley participants is:
Grace Grafton
Alice Templeton
Laura Schulkind
Joshua Curtis
Paul Taylor
Bruce Bagnell
Judy Wells
Nadine Lockhart
Gary Turchin
Elana Levy
Nancy Schimmel
Elizabeth Alford
Elizabeth Agans
David Erdreich
Jim Barnard
Chris Chandler
Jan Dederick
If you are listed and your poem, etc. is not in this issue it is because we do not have the material. Please email Bruce and we will add it in.
OUR PUBLISHED POETS :
JUDY WELLS
Grace Grafton
Alice Templeton
Laura Schulkind
Joshua Curtis
Paul Taylor
Bruce Bagnell
Judy Wells
Nadine Lockhart
Gary Turchin
Elana Levy
Nancy Schimmel
Elizabeth Alford
Elizabeth Agans
David Erdreich
Jim Barnard
Chris Chandler
Jan Dederick
If you are listed and your poem, etc. is not in this issue it is because we do not have the material. Please email Bruce and we will add it in.
OUR PUBLISHED POETS :
JUDY WELLS
JUDY WELLS was born in San Francisco and raised in Martinez, California. She received her
B.A. from Stanford University and her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from the University of
California, Berkeley. She has published ten books and chapbooks of poetry, from I Have
Berkeley to her latest, The Glass Ship (www.sugartownpublishing.com). She was a featured
reader in the Berkeley Poetry Festival, 2006, 2009, and 2011 and a featured reader in the 2015
Irish-American Crossroads Festival in San Francisco. She is also co-editor of The Berkeley
Literary Women’s Revolution: Essays from Marsha’s Salon (McFarland, 2005). Judy was an
academic counselor and faculty member at Saint Mary’s College of California, working with
adults returning to school. Now a full-time poet, she lives with her husband, avant-garde poet
Dale Jensen, in Berkeley.
GARY TURCHIN
is the author/illustrator of the wondrous, If I Were You (Simon DeWitt 2011, and the award-winning Ditty-Ditty Doggerel; A life From Bad to Verse (Simon DeWitt, 2012). His newest collection of poems, Falling Home, was published in 2013 by Sugartown Publications. See http://www.garyturchin.net for these offerings and more.
Gary is also performance artist, poet, and illustrator. His children’s poetry show, Gary T. & his PoetTree, has been performed in more than 300 schools and libraries throughout California.
To see/hear and learn more about Gary, see the documentary film about his life’s journey, The Healthiest Man On Earth at http://youtu.be/craVH8mzpuQ .
NADINE LOCKHART
Nadine Lockhart received her MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing with an
emphasis in Poetry from ASU; she is currently earning her PhD in Literature from the
same university. Along with Rosemarie Dombrowski, she founded and hosts the Phoenix
Poetry Series, a monthly featured reading showcasing award-winning poets; it’s in its
eighth year and won “Best of” page-poetry reading in Phoenix Magazine. Lockhart has
been awarded more than a baker’s dozen of fellowships and scholarships providing travel
and study in English, poetry, and languages to such places as India, Oaxaca, Prague, and
the UK. She presented several times at academic conferences over the last two years on
the ability of poetry to transform itself into continued relevancy through hybridity and
cultural relativism. Her dissertation explores Arizona poetry in the public sphere for
which she received the Lattie and Elva Coor Fellowship for Building Communities. She
recently published “Hidden Lives of the Black Cat Poets,” a five-part interview series
during April, the poetry month, for the Herald of Truth or Consequences, NM. Nadine
lives with Badger the Cat. They happily travel together throughout California and the
American Southwest in search of plays, poetry, and paintings.
GRACE MARIE GRAFTON
Grace Marie Grafton, an active community poet, has taught in the California Poets In The Schools program for over thirty years. She was awarded twelve CA Arts Council Artist-In-Residence grants for her work at Lakeshore Elementary School in San Francisco. Through her teaching, she became involved in US Poet Laureate (1997-99) Robert Hass’ annual River Of Words Youth Poetry and Art Contest.
After many years of seeing her poems widely published in literary magazines, her first book, Zero,won the 1999 Poetic Matrix Chapbook contest. In 2001, her book of poems inspired by the artwork of contemporary women, Visiting Sisters, was published by Coracle Books. Ms. Grafton’s most recent books are Other Clues (2010) from Latitude Press, and Whimsy, Reticence & Laud, unruly sonnets (2012) from Poetic Matrix Press. Other Clues is comprised of surreal prose poems. Whimsy, Reticence & Laud, as the subtitle indicates, is Grace’s experimentation with the sonnet form. Author Tobey Hiller writes, of this book, “In these lush sonnets by Grace Marie Grafton the wild and the cultivated often collide. Here the habit of observation and the outcome of wonder produce…the sensate pleasures of both language and being.”
Hermost recent book, Jester, was published in 2013 by Hip Pocket Press
Hermost recent book, Jester, was published in 2013 by Hip Pocket Press
Recent poems appear in Ambush Review, The Offending Adam, Talking/Writing, and Theodate. Ms. Grafton’s poems have won prizes from The Bellingham Review, the Soul Making contest (San Francisco PEN Women), The Sycamore Review, and Coracle.
Ms. Grafton grew up in the central valley of California, earned her BA from the University of California Berkeley and her MA from New York University. She currently resides in Oakland, CA, with her husband and extended family.
LAURA SCHULKIND
ELIZABETH ALFORD
Elizabeth Alford has always had an on-again-off-again relationship with poetry; but in the wake of her graduation from CSU East Bay, she recently announced that they are now going steady (much to everyone’s relief). She lives in Hayward, CA with her loving fiancĂ©, mother, and two dopey dogs. Her favorite things include sushi, loud music on long drives, staring at the stars, and poetry. Her work has appeared in the student literary magazine Occam’s Razor and also online at Poetry Super Highway, Haikuniverse, Quatrain.Fish, and the blogs of Silver Birch Press and Creative Talents Unleashed.
ELANA LEVY
Elana Levy is a recent transplant to the land of her daughter, of avocadoes and redwoods, from the northeast, of snow, lakes and green. She will read her latest poems, as well as poems from her recent collection, Legacies and Heresies with blessings. Elana will also read from her translations of much heralded 20th century German Jewish poet, Rose Ausländer, book available this fall. Elana taught math in community college for two decades. First photographed by FBI in 1959. Student and teacher of Jewish meditation and Kabbala; factory worker, social justice activist, radio producer, video director; embraces silence one month yearly. Still studying hard, knowing there's no easy answers.
NANCY SCHIMMEL
Nancy Schimmel has toured nationally as a singer and storyteller, and is well known in the Bay Area. Brought up in a household full of music and stories, Nancy has been sharing them with the world ever since, as well as adding many of her own inspired originals.
BRUCE BAGNELL
Bruce Bagnell has worked as a cook, mechanic, and college professor; held various management positions including running a car dealership; and was a USAF captain in Vietnam. Now retired, along with writing he is a Poetry Express Berkeley host, does the accounting for his Masters Swim Team, and is remodeling a 1930’s French Laundry into an art space. He also does occasional management consulting work. He has been published in OmniVerse, The Scribbler, The Round, Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine, Chaparrel, Oxford Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Studio1, Westview Magazine, Zone 3, the Griffin, The Burningwood Literary Journal, Poetalk, Tower Journal, and The Alembic.
BIO: If all the world’s a stage, I just auditioned for the role of Grandpa.
JAN DEDERICK
Jan lives in the East Bay and earns her keep doing homeopathic medicine and Kairos healing work. She lives with a wonderful poet, two cats, two ducks, a grand piano and a jungly garden. It’s hard to find time to do everything she loves. Poor thing.
CHRIS CHANDLER
Poet and storyteller Chris Chandler is as hilarious and entertaining as he is provocative and rabble-rousing, delivering vignettes about politics and modern culture with the fire of a Baptist Preacher. His appearances are insightful tales of a world gone slightly mad, accompanied by a wide variety of musical styles. He has performed on thousands of stages across North America, working with such legendary figures as Allen Ginsberg, Pete Seeger, Mojo Nixon and Ani DiFranco. The late great Utah Phillips called Chris "the best performance poet I have ever seen." see more at chrischandler.org
PAUL TAYLOR
Paul Elias Taylor wrote music journalism for the Kansas City Blues Society monthly publication and the now defunct online music website,theZone.org. His poetry is included in Milvia Street Journal 2014 and 2015. He published Carla Kandinsky's chapbook, Invasion and Amy Ballard Rich'scollection Thump. He studies with Sharon Coleman and participates in a number of writing workshops in the East Bay.
Unfortunately we did not recieve a poem, picture, and bio from Elizabeth Agans, Alice Templeton, or Joshua Curtis at the time of publication. Our apologies
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