Friday, April 30, 2010

Welcome to April


Volume  I * 2010

Publisher:  The Penny Blog 
Editor: Penny


Welcome to April.

Welcome to the first  issue of April magazine, meant to be an annual journal of internet poetry. Published by  The Penny Blog, edited by Penny herself, April brings a sample of what’s new on the Web, on usenet and groups, and in the blogosphere.

April is named for the month of April, which is National Poetry Month in Canada (established in 1999 by the League of Canadian Poets) and the United States (in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets). The poems of April are published on  The Penny Blog over the course of the month.

The idea of April was conceived this past January; the original goal was 15 poems, meaning publication of one every second day throughout April 2010. The response exceeded expectations, as the 27 poets and more than 30 poems in this volume attest. Some were poems requested from my or Penny’s favourites; others were from favourite authors, but chosen by the author; still others were submitted cold by authors I didn’t know.  Penny made a deliberate decision to publish as much of everything as possible.

No attempt was made to define or dictate what “poetry” is or should be. Rather, the goal was to show the diversity and variey of poetry on the internet. There is diversity in forms, from traditional forms to free verse to concrete verse and even prose; diversity in skill level, from professionals to hobbyists to beginners; and an absolute diversity of subjects and styles.

Because of this variety, my expectation is that no reader will like every poem in April. My hope is that every reader will like more than one, and will strongly like at least one. 

My long-term hope is that April will become a recurring annual event (and that eventually there will be a print version generating revenue and collecting royalties). For now, as in the future, the magazine can be read for free on  The Penny Blog: Volume I is now archived and future volumes will be treated similarly.  The poems are also available during the month of April to the blog’s RSS feed subscribers.

I hope you enjoyed 2010 National Poetry Month, and wish you many more of them to come. Penny and I hope that you make April an integral part of that annual celebration in the future.

George Dance
Publisher,  The Penny Blog 
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

To read Volume I, click here:

Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Masterpiece of Dawn / Leslie Moon

The Masterpiece of Dawn

Blues, grays, streaks of burgundy
Fine lines, broad strokes etch the sky
The artist's work in motion

Light infuses and excites the eye
Bold ochres, ambers, crimsons splash the canvas
The haughty orb rises into place

Satisfied the palette in repose
Another masterpiece hung
Behold the master's colorful array of splendor

Leslie Moon (moondustwriter)
California, U.S.A.

Moondustwriter's Blog:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

News / AE Reiff


He is coming.
The sky is clear.
But it was beginning to rain
When sun disappeared.

Time altered its shape.
First in the dark,
trees with somber trunks
rhymed within, lined the rim,
twisted with drought,
quarreled with rock.

For the city of heaven.
You had to have rain
before it got near.
Noah town was
beginning to set
when Moses said
Jesus was outside town
And Abraham and Angels
were flying around.

AE Reiff

Encouragements for Planting

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Nebula / Desi Di Nardo


Is it strange to find the hawks circling
The elder tree where the air lies in fragrance
Lush and musty and sensual

Would we contemplate a day in the country
If time is no longer of consequence
But a constant beat like a shorebird’s feathers

Is it vital to search for spaces
The contours of light
In the unnamed wilderness

Would we look instead of touch
The saplings and fruits and flowers
When faith is of no more substance

We strain for a mouthful of sound
A gulp of wisdom
Implanted by airborne insects

We stay up all night listening
With the ears of mindful animals
And learn to fly from one realm to another

Desi Di Nardo
Ontario, Canada
from The Cure is a Forest, 2011
Desi Di Nardo Online

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Desi di Nardo biography

Sunday, April 25, 2010

baguette / David Rutkowski


"Senegalese-origin baker wins coveted best baguette award"
                               Radio France Internationale, 23/03/10

tap on one end of a baguette
and you can hear the echo of conversations
the click of velvet wine glasses
a billion love affairs working themselves
into untenable textures which will fill
minds the way crust surrounding
the heart of a maiden is crushed
to provide something as basic as nourishment
something as frivolous as a companion for grapes

David Rutkowski

David Rutkowski on usenet:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Saturday, April 24, 2010

The Smoker / nounofme

The Smoker

She had one cigarette left
It was midnight

She was naked and warm
watching a movie
snacks and coke
there were winter storm warnings out
as she looked out the window
she could  see at least two inches down

She lit up the last one and walked back to bed
snuggling in as the commercial ended
she tamped out her last one
then walked to the dresser
and the coat pockets
the ash trays for a long butt

She put on her  pants and shirt
found the car keys and headed out

Quick trip

Five miles in heavy snow

Hello ..... Two packs of Camel shorts

She died of lung cancer during the trip home

No not really .....
She slid off the road and ran into a tree

No ......
She got home took off all her clothes and slid back into bed

No .......
She slipped on the snow going back to the house

But whatever she did she
lit up before she did it
like a true smoker


Clever, Missouri, U.S.A. 

nounofme on "Poems"

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Friday, April 23, 2010

Mars & Avril / George J. Dance

Mars & Avril

Mars the Brat marched in with the melting snow,
blew around town, whistling at all the chicks
and trying to lift up every second skirt;
Mars, that crazy, schizophrenic Brat,
one minute waterbombing us for kicks,
next minute grabbing some poor sucker's hat
to fling it like a gauntlet in the dirt
while in his eyes a killing cold would show.

Then Avril flew in like a vernal breeze
and though the Brat dissed that girl's style of bling –
her flowers, rainbows, birds in blossomed trees –
she made him laugh, and cry, and even sing,
and slowly, gently as a meadow breathes,
the Brat went down, disarmed by love in spring.

George J. Dance, 2007
Ontario, Canada
from Doggerel, and other doggerel, 2015

[All rights reserved - Used with permission]

Thursday, April 22, 2010

A Meadow in Spring / Tom Bishop

A Meadow  in Spring

I love a meadow in spring.
The wildflowers press my eyes
Purple and yellow, the green
Is like a rare spice in my tea.

The sex and the wild flowers flow
With so many spring lilac stings.

The bees gather
Squaring a circle,
And pollen
Has clung to their feet.

The hive
Has a queen
Who is waiting
And dancing,
A pagan gig
Ready to eat.

The drones fly as high as she flies,
And they die in their droning;
To win
Is a minimal prize.

I love a meadow in spring.
The wildflowers press my eyes.

Tom Bishop, 2006 

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Sticky Sweaty / rickthecockroach

Sticky Sweaty

Sticky sweaty,
Trading hickies,
Getting naked,
Laying, laughing.

Up all night
Next to you:
Burning like
A Jesus candle.

Waking up
And kissing slowly,
Watching as
You drive away.

Oregon, U.S.A.

rickthecockroach on usenet:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Monday, April 19, 2010

4 poems / Tom Hendricks

Proud Words
(After Carl Sandberg's poem Primer Lesson)

Proud words,
wooden soldiers,
wound up tight,
can't stop marching,

trip and fall,
stiff and rigid,
can't get up,
can't stop marching,


He owned a jacket
with a thousand tears.
Each of his friends
sewed up a seam.
A jacket of friendship
that he'd wear
in good times or lean.

The Minister of Tea and Salt

I am the Minister of Tea and Salt.
You bow down to me or you get naught.
A potentate most exalted
with bags of tea and rocks, salted.
Bring your bland food and bring your water.
See if I'll grant you one or the other.
I am the Minister of Salt and Tea.
You want to advance you go through me!

The Master Physicist (Creation Myth)

The Master Physicist set down the ground rules,
3 pages of equations that looked like ant trails
etched on gold, hammered-thin paper.
He wadded it up. Threw it out and away
where it began to float, and inflate
until it blew out all sides of the box
an indescribable explosion
and the universe raced out into every void
and escaping night was overtaken by
the newly created, advancing, first light!

Tom Hendricks
Dallas, Texas, U.S.A.

(editor of the 17 year old zine Musea) (Musea, named as one of the best ZINES by UTNE magazine) (Music, 5 full CD's of free Post-Bands Music) (Blog for Musea, Art Contests, Weekly E-mail Messages)  (Myspace Page, New Friends welcome) (Youtube Page, features all 60 TH videos)

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Jumbo Park / Stuart Leichter

Jumbo Park
Poor Trait of the Artist Like a Young Man

I wanna joina band I said:
and so left home.
My friends & folks behind I headed
down to Zoobie's Pub to look
for barbecue in Jumbo Park
way outa town
and up the elephant's ass,
where something on the jukebox sounded mostly fast and bass
but congruous
among the puke and snatch
and peanut shells and stink of Zoobie's pits
and what's-this-here, beer?

Buyuh drink, you red bandancer
let me ask if jujuana
rock and roll the world tonight
unless they crush my own dick tracy
here in Zoobie's Pub
down in Jumbo Park
up the elephant's ass.

And then she told me:
I ain't got no jujuana
smoke or bleed or chew-um gum
I got for you my yellow eyes
my reign beaux babies
but for beer I'll make you sneeze.

I grabbed my life insteada snatch
and ran between my legs away
from Zoobie's babe, and Zoobie's pits
to try another rock and roll
or climb the poetree.


Stuart A. Leichter
North Carolina, U.S.A.

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Ganesha Girl on Rankin / Will Dockery

Ganesha Girl on Rankin

Jesus' consort
statuesque beauty blindfolded

labia lipped skyscraper built on the spot
built where Lady Katherine lived
the whorehouse grocery
at the edge of Linwood Cemetery.

Old money still spins well
spends well . . .

Northside skyline of many colored glass
Fort Darkness walled in
the giant Temple of Mars visible
from behind the walls, silvery, ancient.

The glittering war machines and masks
not so visible . . .

Ganesha Girl and silver skinned alien
sit with the projector.

Other worlds surround them.
Scattered money all over them.

A pyramid built from colored bells,
clocks and machinery
I can see from on high . . .

A giant housefly feeds on Green Island.

They stand and face West
as Jesus surveys Lee County
from on high.

Jesus' little sidekick
looks so lonely
dressed in Papal robes,
booklet of poems
and a big cross in his arms.

They're aware of the train wreck
near Goat Rock
instruments spilled from the boxcar.

Liquid bubble cube
ancient animal bones
other things, colored ceramic
at Jesus' feet . . .

Jesus prepares to start up
and operate the Holy Machine.

They've turned their backs
on Shadowville
with its bells and jars,
cars, cupid and crowns,
chains, old clocks, an hour glass . . .

Ganesha Girl, happy in her bathing suit
floating on a cloud.

Will Dockery
Shadowville, Georgia, U.S.A.

Poetry, music & art by Will Dockery:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Will Dockery biography

Friday, April 16, 2010

portrait / Shaun Hull


a world revolves around comfortable thoughts
words that have meanings only for you
pictures of reds and whites and
sometime blue
laugh past your painswept
unkept door

a portrait's face in patterns abound
names that come and leave
without a trace
to speak of
with you

remembering nothings but sometimes
walk within paint by numbers
grayed long ago

wave to the shadows
fading by
dance with melodies
you see them sing

memory washes clean with time
to not know why
or when

masquerades the same
in an opposite way
as the world creeps up
into you

swept into shelters behind frozen walls
grandfather's clock hands
a sentence

from time hello
until wave goodbye
a mind's instance

your sad and smiling
feigned repose


Shaun Hull

Soundclick: Shaun Hull

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Thursday, April 15, 2010

You Are My Thorn / Kasia Lachowska

You Are My Thorn

"Hope is the thing with feathers ... "
                    - EMILY DICKINSON
Do You Read

my intuition has always smelled
the birdlike origin of expectations
for their pneumatic bones that only fowl may have
now I have come to know the species
for being the lightest of all

I will have the albino humming-bird of hope
sit on my wrist as tenderly as your fingertip
as a reminder it is neither too late to obey
nor pray

hence I pray this sole grace of thee
the most egoistic take-away of fate
I forbid you to die ahead of me
since I carry you inside like a drip-feed
like a bushy living thorn

if you dare not to hear my plea
your boldness shall not be pardoned
so was not the courage of those
who have already vanished beneath

and thorns are hard to pull
leave wounds that will not heal
yet bleed as unceasingly as the gilt
marguerites of cemetery candles grow
on the friends' marble tombstones
unworldly common rooms' desks
not inciting anyone to chat

even though I stem them
with the best of brand new wicks
the Red Sea tides of my parting-phobic heart
will not step aside
so you might go through
and I might stay alive

its heartless clock will not cease to tick
and you will keep playing your dreadful tricks
on unfortunate me

Kasia Lachowska
Bydgoszcz, Poland

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Knowing / David W. Lewry


Know the voice which calls you

I am life and death when the wind changes,
I am your mother, when
I rid you of the need for her,
your father, when
I destroy your love for him,
I am your brother, once
I rid you of his attachment,
I am your sister, once
I burn your bridge to her,
I am your last friend, once
I've convinced you I am all you need,
when I am triggered -
when I am fed -

I am the noose around your neck,
the buzzing that burns in your veins,
the mask of strength and certainty you wear,
deception by definition,
stealth in every description,
when I am triggered -
when I am fed -

I am the voice which dumbfounds reason and logic, as
I am your reason, your logic,
I am more than I will share, as
I am your everything,
I am your lover,
when I am triggered -
when I am fed -

I let you think I've left you,
I let you imagine a world without me,
I give you time to forget, while
I hone my craft and sharpen knives, while
I grow stronger and train,
I wait for memories to fade, as
I know they will,
I know you can hardly wait, for the moment
when I am triggered -
when I'll be fed -

I am your life and death,
your will,
your desire,
your lust,
your depth,
I am your addiction.

David W. Lewry
Alberta, Canada

David W. Lewry reads "Knowing":

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

concrete / ray heinrich

< concrete >

a condominium on the 23rd floor

one with a balcony

is NOT the place

for a poet

or even someone who pretends to be

a poet

you see

there is a sliding glass door to the balcony

and you open it and walk six feet

to the railing which is three feet high

and look down

23 floors

ray heinrich
Texas, U.S.A.

Word Biscuit by ray heinrich

[Some rights reserved under Creative Commons U.S. License 3.0 (BY-NC-ND)]

Monday, April 12, 2010

Threat / R.K. Singh


We chase myths in self-made Amazon
fish turtles that change colour in new waters

we create landscape of nightmares and wade through
anacondas that threaten our confidence

lost in the jungles of our own making
we beat about the thorny grasses now

look for the twin flames for convenience
cloud judgment and reality for control

challenge the Republic and divide
the defence that could never be

Dhanbad, Jharkhand, India

Names in Smoke, by Ram Krishna Singh
R.K. Singh's blogs: and

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Sunday, April 11, 2010

The Weary Man / Crystal Matteau

The Weary Man

While beggars grieve you rise,
discarding anew their cries.
Caring only for your name,
renouncing compassion for fame.

Oppressing indifferent minds,
captured by whitewashed binds.
While fading hearts reminisce,
turn your eyes away from this.

Forsaking liberty unaware,
of burdens destiny may bare.
Avert your arctic gaze once more,
you disregard and ignore.

Stay your self-righteous plea,
pompous in privileged glee.
You enslave the defiant again,
casting aside the weary man.

Crystal Matteau 
Massachusetts, U.S.A.

Live, Write, Love:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Prison / Dave Holloway


I remember
Tijuana twinkling in the distant night,
guard towers, barbed wire and a harsh yellow light
dissolving shadows in every possible place,
exposing the dread on every new face
and a strong ocean scent blowing through the tension
the night I was sent to Donovan state prison.
And I remember
long days and longer nights,
degradations and savage sights.
Rivers of blood, thick and wide,
a black man staggering with a knife in his side.
A gentle man beaten down,
innocent and guilty dragged away bound.
Cruel dentists and doctors without heart,
rumor-spreading guards hoping to start
conflict and hate between one race and another,
snitches who’d rat on their own mother.
Set ups and pretenses to share
but most of all, my inability to care
and no one is spared this particular thing,
despite how they laugh and sometimes sing.
Despite the camaraderie within each race,
there’s a harder heart behind every hard face.
I remember it all
so perfectly clear
and though it’s all over,
it’ll always be here.


Dave Holloway
Washington, U.S.A.

Dave Holloway on "Poems":
Dave Holloway on Moondustwriter's Blog:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Friday, April 9, 2010

Hero / Maureen Dance


By the light of the refinery
In shades of light and dark
With burning youth still in his veins
The vision of a man

A lifetime filled with trials
From which his passion came
In search to find the answers
He couldn't find at home.


Maureen Dance
Ontario, Canada

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Who Was Here First? / David George

Who Was Here First?

First of all it was the moa
and after them the mighty toa
of Rapuwai and of Waitaha
strong amongst the hills so maha. 

The settlers brought the hipi
while the Maori dined on pipi; 
the miners tore out the maunga
too flat out to seek their taanga.

Seek again the hills so tapu
for every clan and hapu
seeking out your own maarama --
build a brand new Hiruhaarama.

R a w i r i.

moa - huge flightless bird.
toa - warrior
Rapuwai, Waitaha - early tribes
maha - many
hipi - sheep
pipi - shell fish
maunga - mountains
taanga - identity
tapu - sacred
hapu - clan
maarama - understanding
Hiruharaama - Jerusalem
Rawiri - David

David George 
Te Waipounamu [South Island],  New Zealand.

David George on usenet:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

White Sands Meet the Blue/Green Sea /
Jeanne Ames

White Sands Meet the Blue/Green Sea

I want to go where the blue/green waters flow
Under cloudless sunny skies, and warm winds blow,

Where white sands rush to meet caressing waves,
Crystal waters wed virgin sands in cathedral caves,

Palm trees look down to gaze into a turquoise sea;
There love is ripe, and Pandora’s Box has no key.

Brightly colored birds soar overhead calling to us,
Terrain dark with ferns under forests green and lush,

Waterfalls pour over rocky cliffs into mirror-like pools
Where bright colored flowers float sparkling like jewels.

Only in my dreams have I run on the white sands
That separate tepid seas from sun soaked lands.

I want to sail away to this paradise of my dreams.
Maybe my dreamland is not as far away as it seems,

One day I might reach this land that beckons me
Where the white sands meet the blue/green sea.

Jeanne Ames (Kitten)
Oregon, U.S.A.

Jeanne Ames on "Poets":

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Maui '70 / Matt E.

Maui '70

The full moon maniacal,
flecks of purple haze strato-casting,
slate cloud ready to rain, a mind malaised,
disinterested; a feckless fanatic
feeding off floundering dreams,
realizing the impossible, impassable
scope of a fading dusk.

When Hendrix drizzled, we,
90% water, turned to flowing tide
under glowing rock and rolled
by unknowing Kahuna Sentries guarding
a sacred lava now shot up
into a Star Spangled Spectacle,
and out the Haleakala.

The ancient dormant crater crested
multicolored leaflets upon the throng:

You can have them all but this one.

Matt E.
Arizona, U.S.A.

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Monday, April 5, 2010

Haiku & Triolet / R.S. Mallari


sun being born
between two cliffs
noon shall come


As I bid farewell to the yellow sun
I let the beach’s sand slip through my hand
With memories of the summer and its fun
As I bid farewell to the yellow sun
Glimpsed on the horizon, trees turn to brown
The leaves fall and rest on the solemn land
As I bid farewell to the yellow sun
I let the beach’s sand slip through my hand

R.S. Mallari

Poems about Life and Love:

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Principia Poetica / Obsidian Eagle

Principia Poetica

Poetry lacking piquancy is like a story without conflict: boring.

Prosody acts like a mirror, which reflects the soul of its reader
so the less that people understand themselves
the less they will understand this inner dimension of poetics.

The best poems touch upon powerful, universal themes
tapped from our collective unconscious;
themes that transcend these tautologies.

Some pieces are far greater than the sum of their words.

Whereas Poets are mere conduits,
trance-channelers reveling in ecstasy;
graced by a muse's embrace.

Obsidian Eagle (Itzquauhtli)

Obsidian Eagle's Blasphemous Bazaar

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]